Into My Arms (37 page)
‘Should we go now?’ Habib asked, and for a moment Zia was tempted. It was still all too complicated, this country, nothing was ever straightforward. He’d tried, that was the main thing. He could tell Ben later that he’d been there. Then he felt the pot in his arms, warm and heavy as a child, and squared his shoulders, setting off in search of the nurses’ station.
‘I came to see Ben in room seventeen, but he’s not there,’ he told a blonde woman behind the desk.
She disappeared for a moment into an office behind her, then quickly returned. ‘Apparently he’s been taken in to see his recipient—the person he gave his kidney to. She’s in the next room further along the corridor, number eighteen.’ The nurse saw him hesitate, and added, ‘You can go in, if you like. I’m sure he’d love to see you. And that smells fabulous. Be a shame to waste it.’ She smiled at him, and Zia smiled back. He could cook now. It had taken a while, but he could finally cook.
Zia made his way to room eighteen, Habib tagging along. The door was slightly ajar, so he peered in, not wanting to intrude. Ben was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, arms wrapped around something . . . around someone. Zia gradually realised that it was a woman, that they were asleep and holding each other. It took him a moment, but then he recognised her, remembered how she had sat with him and drawn him out in her art class when he could barely speak, how she’d praised his work and asked him questions about his country. Miss Holt. Skye. He watched them lying together, Ben’s cheek against Skye’s forehead. They were linked, he realised with a jolt, they were all joined somehow: Arran and Miss Holt and Ben, the only adults he felt connected to outside of his own family. He didn’t understand it, but it made him happy nonetheless, the pattern emerging from the fragments like the mosaics in the mosque at Shiraz.
Habib looked at him questioningly, and Zia shook his head. No, they weren’t going in. He backed out of the room quietly so as not to wake Ben and Skye, then left the curry at the nurses’ station with a note:
Get better and I will see you soon. Love, Zia.
In a sudden surge of joy he grabbed Habib’s hand and raced with him towards the lift, Habib laughing and protesting. They had to hurry, Zia thought. Back outside, back into the day. They needed to get home to their mother.
I thought that by novel number three I’d have this all under control and my list of acknowledgements would be getting shorter, not longer. I was wrong. With sincere thanks to those of you who helped bring
Into My Arms
into the world:
Jacqui and Andrew Mulvogue, for the throwaway line that inspired the book, for answering all my nosy questions, for the many drinks you’ve poured us over the years. Thanks, guys.
Dr Tim Mathew, Medical Director at Kidney Health Australia, and artist Nola Diamantopoulos, for speaking with me about dialysis, renal transplantation and how to make a wall mosaic. Any mistakes in the book are mine, not theirs.
Caz Coleman and Stephanie Mendis, who worked at the Hotham Mission Asylum Seeker Program in Melbourne at the time of writing—thank you for your insights into the life of asylum seekers living in the community. The ASP does amazing work with the most vulnerable asylum seekers living lawfully in the community while they await the outcome of their claims for protection, and are well worth supporting:
http://hothammission.org.au/
My publisher, Jane Palfreyman, who is an inspiration—thank you, Jane, for second chances; my agent Pippa Masson, for unfailing optimism, support, and just plain getting it; my editors Catherine Milne and Clara Finlay—I hope I’m older than you both, because I intend for you to edit my work for the rest of my life; and Siobhán Cantrill at Allen & Unwin for once again (fourth time!) tying everything together so seamlessly. I couldn’t ask for a better team.
Jodie Sier, for Tatong and the many happy times spent there—thank you, my dear friend; James (‘You can’t do THAT’) Griffin and Gab (‘Makes sense to me’) Wynne, for long, diametrically opposed plot discussions over pizza; Kerri Sackville, for only ever being a DM away, for making me laugh and keeping me sane; Charlotte Wood, for encouragement and empathy when most needed; and the Broome public library, for having air-conditioning and being a great place to work—thank you Rae and Sally, in particular, for making me so welcome.
And finally, this is a novel about families, how we make and find them, so it seems only right to finish by thanking mine. To Craig, for wonderful memories of Arran (the place, not my character), and for the year in Broome where much of
Into My Arms
was written . . . I’m so grateful for that, and for you. And to Declan and Cameron—my life, quite simply, wouldn’t be half as rich without you two in it. I love you both madly, and I’m so glad you came along.
