Free Number 8 by Anna Fienberg Page A

things you can’t fix.
    Mom annoys me, often, but I worry—often—about losing her. I don’t know why. I mean, she’s always been there for me. Trying. But sometimes I imagine her just taking off somewhere or, oh, I don’t know, disappearing. Andsometimes she’s there too much, like an octopus with all these arms and words and advice, like ten mothers at once. Well, at least I know Mom will never get lost at sea. That’s how Dad died—he was a fisherman and his boat went down in a freak storm. Mom suffers from seasickness; she can’t even go on a ferry without throwing up. Which maybe is a good thing, if you see what I mean.
    â€œDo you mind if I use your telephone?” asks Asim. “I’d better tell Dad that I’m staying at your place for dinner.”
    â€œSure, will he be at work?”
    â€œYes, he’s doing Thursday nights at Franklins. He tries to get any extra shifts he can.”
    Asim’s dad worked as an engineer in Iraq. His qualifications aren’t recognized here, and the government has only given him a temporary visa. Asim doesn’t know if they’ll be able to stay here when the visa expires. He says his dad thinks about this all the time and the two lines between his eyebrows have grown heavier. His frown lines are actually the first thing I noticed—so dark and creased they look like someone drew them on with pen. Mom says what she can’t understand is how Australia can go to war against a country, and then not help the people they were supposed to be fighting for. I don’t get it either.
    I listen as Asim slips into Kurdish with his dad. He looks so comfortable, standing there, his voice burbling along like a river. He must be describing something funny to his dad, because he’s starting to laugh and making wide swooping gestures with his hands. Funny how people do that on the phone, forgetting that the other person can’t see them.
    When he hangs up he turns to me and says, “Dad thinks the possum house is a great idea. And he says do we think the possums would like some curtains, too, for privacy, andwhat about a little table and chairs for them to sit at while they eat their mangoes?” He grins. “Just joking. He must be getting very bored at Franklins.”
    I take Mom in her cup of tea and we go outside again and sit out on the porch. The shade is good here—the afternoon seems to be getting hotter instead of cooling down before night. Cicadas boom and the air seems swollen, throbbing. I’m thinking how good it will be to make something with my own hands.
    â€œDid you build a lot of things with your dad, back in Iraq?”
    Asim nods. “Yes, Dad had to build again our house when we returned from Turkey. Some friends helped, and the kids did, too—we used to have, how do you call them, working groups? I liked to bang in the nails. I got very strong! And afterwards, we’d cook up a big meal and eat it all together.”
    â€œI’d really like to learn how to use a saw and stuff. I think my dad used to do that kind of thing, when we lived up north. Mom says he was always either out sailing, hauling in bait, or tinkering around the house, fixing things.”
    When Mom talks about Dad she gets this faraway look, wistful, like when you smell next door’s dinner wafting on the breeze.
    â€œYou boys got any homework?” Mom’s voice comes crashing in.
    â€œA bit,” I call back.
    We go and get our books. There’s just two pages of math—fractions into decimals, problems using percentages. We both do the problems in ten minutes, timing each other. We enjoy doing them, although neither of us would admit it to anyone else. Asim has always been good at math. I haven’t, and the feeling of success instead of failure is still a surprise. It’s still like an unexpected gift when my answer comes out right.
    We’re packing up our books when I hear