The Mimosa Tree Read Online Free PDF Page A

and her?
    â€˜See, now that’s stupid,’ I say, trying as always, to show her that dreams are just nonsense and not messages from the dead as she imagines. ‘Why would she want you to eat something poisonous?’
    â€˜She said it would make you better.’
    â€˜Me? Well what is that supposed to mean?’
    Mum shrugs, but I can tell she’s still thinking about it. It’s pointless trying to talk to her. The more ridiculous the dream, the more important the message. That’s how she sees things and no one is going to convince her otherwise.
    â€˜Go on. Get the coffee on. Via will be here soon.’ She’s trying to push me out of bed, but I am holding my place and smiling smugly about the fact that she’s not strong enough to move me. Then she lets out another fart and it’s so bad I leap off the bed and into the hallway. I hear her laughing, complaining about her own smell, as I run away gagging into the kitchen.
    Via arrives soon after the coffee pot starts bubbling. She is wearing her best navy dress and just a hint of shimmering pink lipstick, a rare sight usually reserved for her infrequent attendances at church or the doctor’s. The dress is suffocatingly tight and it makes her look flat and firm except where she spills out of the arm and neck holes like toothpaste from a tube.
    Mum and I are sitting at the table. I’m eating toast with Vegemite and she is sipping on her first brandied coffee for the morning.
    â€˜You look very nice today, Via,’ says Mum and Via pushes at her hair like she’s moulding clay into shape.
    â€˜Thank you, Sofia.’ Then she looks at me for a compliment.
    I take a bite out of my toast, munch loudly with my mouth open.
    â€˜Disgusting,’ she says, because a day cannot go by without one of them shrieking in horror at my taste for Vegemite. I munch louder; make ‘mmmmm’ noises until she’s so disgusted she’s forgotten about fishing for compliments. She sits down and pours herself a coffee, lights up a cigarette. She looks at me over the rim of her coffee cup.
    â€˜ That what you’re wearing?’ she says, smoke lapping at her face.
    I am wearing a skull print T-shirt and faded blue jeans tucked into my calf-high stomper boots. There is a rip on myleft knee, and I have pulled the seams on my collar so that it falls off my shoulder. I have wrapped a thick buckled belt loosely around my hips.
    I don’t bother answering her.
    Mum, still in her nightie, wispy greying hair upright where she has slept on it, studies the front page of the newspaper. Not that she can read English. She thinks she can work everything out by looking at the pictures. As a result, she has her own version of world events. Years ago, after seeing his face in the papers every morning she said, ‘It must be a good film that Ronald Reagan has made.’ She didn’t realise he had just been elected president of the United States. I glance over to check out the headline, and see a picture of Reagan sitting at a table between two suited men and looking very worried. The headline reads ‘Tower Report: Reagan Policy Encouraged Hostage Taking’. Good, I think. Maybe they will finally get rid of him. I lean on the table beside Mum and start to read the article, but because it’s killing her that something is more interesting than she is, Via drags it away from us. She makes a big show of it, looks at the paper a long time, traces her fingers down the page like she’s reading, even turns her head to the side like she’s thinking about it. And after all that, what does she have to say?
    â€˜Ronald Reagan is still so handsome for his age, don’t you think Sofia?’
    â€˜I never liked him,’ says Mum, shaking her head. ‘He’s ugly. What do you think, Mira?’
    I gape at them. ‘He’s the antichrist. He’s going to destroy this entire planet.’
    Via ignores me,