Free The Mimosa Tree by Antonella Preto

place.
    â€˜Move it,’ says Via, shoving me along the path towards the house.
    Next door a sprinkler goes off across a bed of bursting white roses. This, for some reason, makes Mum nervous. ‘It’s watering time,’ she whispers.
    â€˜We could come back later,’ I suggest.
    Via gives us both a warning glare. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
    â€˜I’m just saying it’s very quiet here,’ says Mum, hugging herself as she looks around the street. ‘Maybe they are all sleeping?’
    â€˜I DON'T CARE IF THEY ARE DEAD! ’
    â€˜For God’s sake, keep it down!’ I say, sure that all around us eyes are watching from behind gold roped curtains. ‘You’re drawing attention.’
    Via eyes us both with contempt. ‘The problem with you two,’ she says with a quick adjustment to her breasts, ‘is that you’re easily impressed. ’ Then she turns and leads the way to what might be Siena’s house. Mum and I follow sheepishly.
    At the end of the path, white steps lead up to a breezy, white porch. Flanking a great mahogany door are two dead ferns, the only flaw in an otherwise perfect entrance. Mum seems to take this as a bad omen, and makes the sign of the cross as if to ward off the evil that killed the poor plants. Via presses the doorbell but it fails to emit the expected chime. She pushes again, waits a second, and then pushes again. I shuffle my feet. Mum looks like she is going to say something, but changes her mind and looks down at her shoes. Via clears her throat and puts her hands on her hips, staring forcefully at the door as if to threaten it open. She begins to raise her hand in a knock when there is a small click. The door glides open to reveal a dusty marble-tiled entrance scattered with packing boxes and loose clothing.
    Then Siena steps out from behind the door.
    For a moment we are frozen in place, our mouths gaping uselessly as our brains try to process the necessary information: cross-referencing, ticking boxes and double-checking, until we are all sure we are looking at the right person.
    â€˜Hello,’ says Siena. ‘Thanks for coming.’
    â€˜Siena!’ I say, pushing past Via and Mum to throw my armsaround her waist. The force of me makes her step back a little, and for a moment we are gasping and trying to keep our balance by grabbing at each other.
    â€˜My God, Mira! Look at you!’ she says, pushing me away to get a better look. It gives me a chance to look at her too, and I am a little shocked by what I see. It’s Siena all right, but not how I remember her. This is a Siena outline, a skeletal version of my usually trim but shapely aunt. Through her loose silk top I can see the outline of ribs and two dumpling-sized breasts. I try to hide my shock by smiling politely, which after my more enthusiastic greeting now seems a little awkward. Typically, Via gets straight to the point. ‘Jesus!’ she says. ‘Where are your breasts? ’
    Siena runs her hands down her bony hips. ‘I’ve lost a bit of weight since I last saw you.’
    â€˜A bit? Are you so broke you can’t afford food? ’
    Mum pushes past Via to take her turn. She stares at Siena, her face crumpled in sorrow. ‘Are you sick?’
    â€˜No, I’m fine.’
    â€˜Are you hungry? You want me to get you something to eat?’ she says as though she could materialise a plate of pasta from the air.
    â€˜That’s not necessary, Sofia.’
    â€˜But you look like one of those poor children in Africa.’
    â€˜You look terrible,’ agrees Via.
    â€˜You both look well,’ says Siena. She hold’s Via’s gaze steadily, her body frail but unflinching. ‘I see you’re not starving.’
    â€˜I take care of myself,’ says Via, catching her reflection in a distant mirror. She smiles, clearly satisfied with what she sees.
    â€˜Oh Siena,’ says Mum,