A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (inspirational books for students .txt) 📗

Tara’s waist. ‘Daddy bought us fairy floss.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

She glanced over Clementine’s head and saw Jon walking towards her, the change in his gait so very obvious to her since his diagnosis. Fiza was walking beside him, her height a close match for his. It seemed odd to see her dressed sedately in navy hospital scrubs. The dark colour didn’t really suit her and Tara suddenly realised why she always wore such bright colours—they made her sparkle. Flynn and the twins bounced behind them on similar sugar highs to Clementine.

‘Who’s for a sausage?’ Jon asked the kids.

‘Me! Me!’ four voices called.

Tara’s heart sank, remembering what she’d read on Wikipedia. ‘Jon, I don’t think the twins are allowed to eat sausages.’

‘These are halal beef snags, Tara,’ Bob said. ‘They suit everyone except the vegos. We’ve got vegan burgers for them.’

‘My children love to eat a sausage in bread.’ Fiza fished out some coins from her purse.

‘Put that away,’ Jon said. ‘My treat.’

‘Thank you, but that’s not nec—’

‘Fiza, if you hadn’t taken one for the team by going on the Whizzer with the boys, I’d still be lying on the ground with the world spinning.’

‘Taken one for the team?’

‘Done something you didn’t want to do to help everyone else,’ Tara said. ‘And if you went on the Whizzer you deserve a lot more than a two-dollar sausage.’

‘It was fun.’ Fiza’s smile dimmed. ‘I am fortunate to have the chance to do these things with my children.’

A shiver ran up Tara’s spine as it did every time she thought of Fiza alone in the refugee camp with twin babies, a nine year old, and grieving for a husband who’d been murdered in front of her.

She shoved a twenty-dollar bill at Bob. ‘Seven, please. Keep the change.’

‘Thank you.’ He shot her a silver fox smile. ‘Can I tempt you with some fresh herbs or some cucumbers?’

‘No, thanks. My garden’s generously giving me more cucumbers and rhubarb than I need. Oh! Would you like some to give to people in need?’

‘That’s a kind thought, but cooking’s a challenge when you’re homeless,’ Helen said. ‘However, if you’re able to make a rhubarb crumble or rhubarb bars, they’d be very much appreciated.’

‘Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.’ Her cheeks burned that she hadn’t thought about how a homeless person would cook.

While Bob was handing off sausages in bread to the kids and Fiza and Jon were supervising sauce, Helen tilted her head to the side and took a step. Tara followed.

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed about the food offer, Tara. It’s not until we’re in the thick of something that it even crosses our radar.’

Helen’s words unlocked a barrage of emotions that spilled out fast. ‘I’m learning that. Most people don’t understand what Jon having Parkinson’s means to us. If he’d been diagnosed with cancer, the footy club would hold a fundraiser. If he’d died, our friends would rally around, bring over casseroles, offer childminding, and give me a spa day, knowing I’d eventually get back on my feet and there’d be an end date.

‘But no one knows how to handle a chronic illness that will partner Jon for another thirty to forty years. No one wants to look at us or ask us how we are in case we tell them. These days I get “ask and answer” questions like, “How are you, all good, yeah?”. It leaves me no place to go. But if I say, “Well, no actually, I’m not all good,” they feel trapped and embarrassed because really, they didn’t want to know in the first place.

‘Part of me understands that Jon’s shakes and trembles make them uncomfortable. They’re terrified it might happen to them, even though we’ve explained Parkinson’s isn’t like the flu—you can’t catch it from someone. I hate that they only see the tremors, because it means they’re remembering how he was rather than seeing the man he is right now. He’s not even bad at the moment and they’re staying away. How will it be when he’s worse? Don’t answer that.’

Tara sighed. ‘The awful thing is, I wonder if I was in their shoes, would I have behaved the same way? Outside of Jon’s father, the one person who’s helped us is the person with the least reason.’ Her voice broke and she pulled a tissue from her pocket. ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.’

Helen gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. Don’t waste your precious energy whipping yourself about what you might or might not have done in the past. You’ve got enough to deal with now. Instead, appreciate that in the midst of chaos you’ve taken the time to reflect and grow.’

Gratitude poured through her, stilling some of the agitation that was now a permanent part of her. ‘How did you get so wise?’

Helen gave a wry smile. ‘I’m hardly wise. I tend to jump in feet first so I think it’s more to do with experience. My daughter was severely disabled so I understand how people drop away when they find it all too hard.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tara returned the arm squeeze. ‘Are you ever free for coffee?’

‘Absolutely! We have a regular group lunch with the women on Thursdays so bring some lunch to share and join in. You might enjoy it.’

‘Thanks, but I work across lunch so Jon can grab a rest.’

‘No problem. I’m in the garden all day Thursdays. Call in when it suits, but if you’re not fond of instant coffee, bring your own.’

‘Around eleven? Can I bring you one too?’

‘A latte would be lovely.’

When Tara turned around, Fiza must have left for work and Jon was fifteen metres away. He pointed to the kids and the stage, indicating he was taking them closer to hear the Wacky Warblers, Boolanga’s version of the Mik Maks.

Tara was making her way towards them when she passed Jade and Fatima, who were still deep in conversation.

‘Hi, Tara,’ Jade said, looking over. ‘Thanks for those