Lane Cove Library - Lane Cove Literary Awards 2018 An Anthology

Karina Young and mother

So that was Wednesday, right? Yes.

At 3:30.

Yes. There is a flicker of irritation in the receptionists voice this time. I dont care though, I like to double-check things. Its so easy to hear them wrong. Or for a typo to be made when theyre entered into short-term memory. Would you like me to write that down for you?

Yes please. I smile gratefully, even though the sarcasm in her offer was blatant. I put the appointment in my phone calendar too, but something in writing is much more concrete. Especially when written by someone else.

The moment I leave the cool, air-conditioned building, Im swamped by hot, sticky air. Its another 38-degree day, and I walk home darting between the shadows of new buildings. Apartment blocks are sprouting up everywhere. Mama says theyre like mushrooms in autumn, but I wouldnt know, Ive never been mushroom picking. There are no forests like the one she played in as a child here.

In the gaps where you can see the sky, the sun burns down furiously. Beads of sweat form on the bridge of my nose, making my sunglasses slip and light hit my eyes at a painful angle. Its with relief that I finally reach the shady sanctuary of our buildings garden.

As I round the bend in the stairs, I try to ignore the shadow cast by one of the trees out the window. The shape of it is strangelong and contorted. From the corner of your eye, you could almost mistake it for a person lying there at the bottom. A person lying deadly-still.

Before I can make it to our front door, my eyes automatically flick towards 12b. I used to think I was part of the Hunter family. That our two apartments across the hall were simply the two wings of our house. That Natalia was my sister as much as she was Sebastians. Back then, it didnt seem to matter which apartment we were in, as long as we were all together. To go between them was to step through the looking glassand find the same room, inverted. The same lace cloth on an identical wooden table, the same kitchen, stacked with bottled water and too many jars of pickles. Two brown leather couches, two shoe cupboards by the door, and walls hung with our school portraits and photos of the family on the farm back home. It was only later that the corridor seemed to widen, that our two front doors became more solid. Tangible barriers that couldnt be crossed.

I was always a little wary of Uncle John, I didnt like to walk past him when he sat there on the couch, reading the paper. Out of nowhere, he could ask you a strange question. Whats the French word for stop? or What was the oldest city in history? It made me nervous, like he was conducting some kind of test I had no hope of passing. I didnt find out until later, but he wasnt reading the paper. He was doing the cryptic crossword. You see? Its so easy for your own memories to be completely wrong. Maybe you dont realise you were too young to really understand things. Or maybe the memory was never real to begin with.

We studied false memories in Psychology l0l last year. After watching a video of a crime taking place, we were asked questions like, what colour was the offenders hat?

Black. I had written with absolute certainty. But he hadnt even been wearing a hat. I could remember one perfectly, a black cap with a white logo; some mesh at the back. It was a perfect memory, of something that had never existed. How is a person supposed to trust their own mind after that?

So, I dont trust my memories. Not even of the day we stopped going to 12a. Even though I can see us there with vivid clarity; me, Sebastian, and Natalia helping Mama and Ciocia make golabki. I can smell the boiling cabbage, feel the cold mince squishing between my fingers and the sting of onions pricking tears in my eyes. I remember John walking into the kitchen. He looked haggard and drained in his crinkled work-suit, and a mangled moan escaped from his lips. For gods sake, not this shit again! Have you people never heard of meat and three veg?

The huge pot that Ciocia had been about to drain into the sink crashed to the floor. We all screamed and danced around hysterically as boiling water scalded our bare feet. Ciocia let out a string of expletives, and Mama dragged me out of the kitchen. I just managed to catch a glimpse of John dodging the soggy leaf of cabbage Ciocia flung in his direction before Mama slammed the door. It is this same door that I now open to find Mama laying rye bread and kabanosy on the table. She looks up as I walk in.

Jedz. Her command is the only greeting I receive, and I obediently sit down to eat. Sometimes I wonder if Id even remember to feed myself without her constantly shoving food in front of me. I glance outside to the balcony, where Mama has slowly cultivated her herb garden. It took longer than the last one. Theres less sunlight on this side, and even now the dill droops sadly. I still find it strange to view the street from this angle. Weve been living in l2a almost as long as we lived in l2b now, but theres something not quite right about itlike were on the wrong side of a mirror.

The swap had been abrupt. John had decided that he preferred the aspect of 12b. And that was that. We all had to pack up and move. At first, I didnt understand why he got to decide. Until then, I hadnt really known how things worked. I hadnt known that John owned both the apartments, and we owned nothing. That any spare money we had was being sent home by Mama and Ciocia in secret. I didnt understand that they came from a world where you didnt marry for love. You married to escape the Iron Curtain.

When they started seeing lawyers, it was me that always got dragged along. Id been translating for Mama since kindergarten, so I was best at it. Ringing the bank, going with her to the doctor, paying at the supermarket. I knew more big words than I could understand the meaning of. Normally it was just Ciocia I went with. But that day John was there for negotiations.

They were still arguing when we got back. Not so much with each other, but at each other; shouting incompatible words in different languages. I hurried into l2a as fast as I could, using my key because Mama was out.

When I try to recall the moment now, the memory is all wrong. Im standing in the hall, and I can see the kitchen to my right. But that makes no senseI was in l2a, where the kitchen is on the left. And those words I hear, the three little words that go round and round in my head all day, that ring in my ears like tinnitustheyre in English.

After it happened, I tried to tell Mama what I heard. But she just shushed me and said to tell the police exactly what I saw. Him lying there lifeless at the bottom of the stairs. And Ciocia standing at the top screaming.

But being a witness had embellished me with a childish sense of self- importance. It was with great excitement, not trepidation that I waited to talk to the policelady. Talking to adults was what I was good at. In fact, I was probably better at it than talking to any other twelve-year-olds. The thing is, I dont know any more if I really heard it. How can I trust a memory of something that happened years ago? But I do know what I told the police. That I heard the crash of him falling. And just before thatI heard Ciocia shout something.

What did she say? The police lady had smiled at me encouragingly. Now that I think about it, she cant have been much older than I am now, her eyes full of an eagerness that had yet to be dimmed by the realities of her job. To a younger me though, there were only two kinds of people, and she fell into the adult kind. The kind who knew everything, whos attention made you important; worth more than just a dumb kid. And I felt obliged to fulfil my duty as translator . I didnt think about what it meant, what might happen the moment I spoke those words out loud. Because thats not what you do when you translate, you dont stop and think about what you hear. You just repeat it.