Breathing Room

Shortlisted: Wyndham Writing Awards 2023

Donna had no-one to pick her up, so the police dropped her home.

She’d have died before she let a cop in the house, and spent what felt like her last breath rejecting the young constable’s offer to help her inside. By the time she reached her chair, Donna’s fingernails were blue beneath their chipped layer of gold. 

There had been a time when Donna hated the sight of the oxygen machine in her living room, but tonight its bright blue case and four little wheels made her want to weep with relief. The television had been sold earlier that week, and now the machine and the chair were the only objects left in the room. The Everflo sat at Donna’s feet like a dog as she pressed the mask to her face and willed her stiff lungs to expand.

The irony of Donna’s situation had not been lost on the police: seventy-two years old, dying of emphysema, and caught flogging prescription vapes to school kids. She’d heard them laughing in the corridor when they went to fetch her a cup of water. Of all the people in town, they’d said. In spite of her predicament, Donna had felt touched; it had been years since she’d thought of herself as part of the town.

Back in her one-bedroom unit, Donna felt more alone than ever. Curled in the battered leather recliner, she pictured herself cupped in the fleshy folds of a giant hand: a baby bird plucked from the pavement. She wished she could stay that way forever, still and quiet and warm. But she had to know. Breathing through pursed lips the way the nurse had shown her, she rocked to her feet, took three quick steps across the carpet, and came to rest against the window. The Everflo trotted behind on its leash of plastic hose, sending out encouraging blinks of green light. 

Even by the town’s standards, it had been a scorcher. The glass was warm against Donna’s forehead as she searched for movement in the windows of the house next door. But the small brick unit — a mirror-opposite of her own — was flat and featureless in the dark. She forced herself to take a deep breath: in through the nose, out through the mouth. The cops had taken Tala in first; surely she should be home by now. 

Donna dug in her pocket for her phone. The lone conversation in her inbox was labelled 💗TALA 💗. Her neighbour had set it up for her that way when she gave Donna the phone. This way we can talk, she’d said. 

Donna refreshed the screen once, twice, but there were no new messages. 

Tala had been coming to Donna’s house after school for nearly a year when she asked about the vapes. Tala’s mother, Alma, worked at a nursing home one town over. Money was tight, so she left Tala with Donna whenever she was asked to work overtime. The arrangement suited both women: Alma gained a little breathing room with Tala’s private school fees, and Donna’s fridge was kept topped up with foil-wrapped nursing home dinners. Plus, Donna appreciated the company; living alone was one thing, but living alone with emphysema was, frankly, shithouse. 

Most afternoons, Tala collected Donna’s prescriptions on the way home from school, checked her mail, and made her a cup of tea: white, two sugars. Donna watched as Tala spooned loose leaf tea into the kettle, admiring her small, deft movements. The tremor in Donna’s hands had gotten worse recently, and she couldn’t even make herself a cuppa anymore without spilling tea leaves and sugar all over the laminex benchtop. Teabags just weren’t the same, and she relished Tala’s after-school brews. 

Don’t forget the biscuits, will you, love?

I won’t, opo.

They passed a packet of Scotch Fingers back and forth across the table as Tala worked through a small mountain of homework. She planned to study medicine when she finished school, and each afternoon she spent hours at Donna’s kitchen table, quietly balancing chemical equations and labelling cell diagrams behind her curtain of long, dark hair. The words Pag may tiyaga, may nilaga were etched into the lining of her pencil case. One evening, after Donna had read her Woman’s Day twice cover to cover, she asked Tala what they meant.

No pain, no gain, said Tala, capping her gel pen with a small smile.

Private school fees were a slog, but Tala’s steady string of scholarships and Alma’s tireless work ethic had almost got them over the line. Year Nine was a low point: Alma had worked evenings at the fish and chip shop for six months so Tala could attend ski camp. The shop owner was a creep, and Alma would return home reeking of hot oil and buried fury. But Tala was in Year Eleven now, and had just secured a scholarship that would see her through her final year of high school.

It was late in the year — Term Four — when Tala entered Donna’s kitchen one afternoon clutching a pair of envelopes. Addressed to THE RESIDENT(S), they were identical aside from the a and b in the address line, representing Donna’s and Alma’s units. Tala placed them in the centre of Donna’s dining table and stood silently under the weight of her school bag.  

What you got there, love? said Donna, glancing up from Millionaire.  

I don’t know, replied Tala, twisting the crucifix that hung on a chain around her neck. There’s one in every letter box. 

Donna’s eyes were back on Eddie. Read it for me, there’s a good girl.

Tala’s voice was so quiet as she read the Notice of Proposed Rent Increase that Donna had to mute the telly. The photocopied form was accompanied by a handwritten note: Times are tough — we appreciate your understanding! On the kitchen bench, the kettle sat cool and empty.

I don’t understand. $350… That’s got to be…

Twice what we pay now, said Tala. It’s double.

That can’t be right.

I don’t know, said Tala through gritted teeth. Times are tough, Donna.

Eyes down, they agreed on a cuppa. They had learned enough about one another’s lives to know there was no money to spare, and been raised well enough to know not to bang on about it. 

The next morning, for the first time in her life, Tala failed to hand in her English homework. She, Alma and Donna had spent the previous night composing a letter to Consumer Affairs requesting an investigation into the rent increase. The block contained six units, and over the course of the evening so many neighbours dropped by to add their signatures that Donna had to resort to teabags. Someone brought a tray of baklava, someone else a pot of chai. It was long after midnight when Alma dried the last mug, placed it in the cupboard, and kissed her daughter on the forehead. 

I’m proud of you, iha. We’ll work it out, you’ll see. 

But the next day, Alma dropped by the fish and chip shop. Just in case. 

It had started small. After their request for an investigation was rejected, Donna began to sell things. Tala helped her list them on Marketplace — whatever that was — and strangers came to collect them. 

The kitchen cupboards were emptied first. I can’t boil a bloody egg, joked Donna as she directed Tala towards a heavy Dutch oven, a wedding gift from her mother. She couldn’t watch as the framed Collingwood jerseys came down. Tala lifted them from the living room walls and hid their numbers inside black garbage bags. Donna tried not to think of body bags as they were carried out.

Tala was lifting china from the good cabinet when she came across the vapes. They were still in their packaging: long, narrow boxes with pharmacy stickers on the sides. Balanced on a kitchen chair, Tala cracked one open and examined the metallic tube within.

What have you got these for, Donna?

Donna scoffed. Silly bloody things. The doctor gave me a script when I was trying to quit. 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapping teacups in pages from Woman’s Day. 

You know what they taste like? she said, waving a page emblazoned with Prince Harry’s face. Bloody blueberries. 

Tala giggled. You know these are illegal now. Without a script, anyway. 

Are they? Well good, so they should be.  

Tala stepped down from the chair clutching a vape. Donna, she said. I think I can sell these for you. 

Sell them? To who?

Tala shrugged. Kids at school. They’re obsessed. And these nicotine ones are hard to get. 

Donna looked up at the near-empty china cabinet, then turned her attention back to Prince Harry. They’re all yours, love.

Tala was a shrewd businesswoman. She enforced a strict policy of only selling to senior students, and never parted with her product on school grounds. Cash only. No IOUs. She was equally strict with Donna, who soon had second thoughts. A Current Affair had done a segment on vaping in schools, and it didn’t sound good. When Tala placed the first crisp green banknote on the dining table next to Donna’s cup of tea, Donna’s cheeks flushed beneath her mask.

This feels wrong, she said.

Hmm? said Tala, opening her biology textbook.  

Donna pulled down her mask. I said this feels wrong, love. 

Tala shut her eyes. Donna, she said. We always do the right thing. You, me, Mum. And where does it get us, really? 

Donna said nothing. She hadn’t touched the Scotch Fingers. 

The girl who bought from me today, said Tala, snapping a biscuit in two, will own this block of units one day. And the one down the road. She’ll be right, po.  

Before long, Donna’s three-month supply of vapes had been sold. Word had gotten around that Tala could get the good shit. The doctor was bemused but compliant when Donna requested another prescription, then another. He knew from her latest respiratory function tests that she wouldn’t live past Christmas — he supposed the little  time she had left was hers to spend however she saw fit. 

With the exception of these doctor’s appointments, Tala and Donna’s routine remained the same. They swang in happy orbits between tea, telly and bickies, buoyed by the secret knowledge that — for now, at least — things were okay. Donna surprised Tala one afternoon with a packet of Tim Tams. I know where to get the good shit, she winked, licking chocolate from her fingers. 

Even Alma’s nights spent sweating over the fryer were made bearable by her pride in her daughter. Something about her seemed different, lately. She was calmer. Steelier. Watching Tala curled over her homework late into the night, she knew they would make it through the next year, and whatever came after that.

Term Four was winding down. Up and down the street, plastic reindeer on stakes were driven into yellowing nature strips. Donna spent long days stuck to the leather of her recliner, watching the Ashes. Truth be told, she’d never been mad about cricket. But she didn’t want Tala or Alma to notice that she was finding it harder and harder to get up from her chair. The feeling was hard to describe. It was as if there was no room for the air she tried to pull into her lungs. Like tipping water into an already-full bucket; there was nowhere for it to go. These days, the red lines etched into her face by the oxygen mask never completely faded.  

Tala heard Donna before she saw her. The sound was like a clogged vacuum hose. Donna lay face down on the carpet, gasping for air. Her oxygen mask was fitted, but the force of her fall had ripped the power cord from the wall. On the top panel of the Everflo, a red light blinked above the words ACTION REQUIRED. 

Tala sat with Donna’s head in her lap, straining to hear sirens over the murmur of the television. She’d turned it off when she called the ambulance, but once she’d hung up the sound of Donna’s high-pitched wheeze had felt terrifyingly loud. The skin around Donna’s collarbones was stretched tight as a drum, and her eyes were glassy and bulging. One of the paramedics pressed a tissue into Tala’s hand before the ambulance left. She’s lucky you found her, the paramedic said. Tala hadn’t realised she’d been crying.

Donna was discharged from hospital the evening of the street Christmas party. They’d decided to hold it at Donna’s place this year. Though not all the neighbours knew her well, they’d all heard the sirens. 

While Alma went to collect Donna, they swept through the unit like a summer storm. When they’d finished, paper snowflakes floated dreamily beneath the light fixtures and the empty china cabinet was strung with Christmas stockings. The oven was cranked despite the heat, churning out scalding trays of samosas and sausage rolls. Working on hands and knees, Tala twisted tinsel around the power cord that connected Donna’s oxygen machine to the wall. 

When Alma steered Donna through the kitchen doorway, the unit erupted into cheers. Donna’s oxygen mask had been swapped for a nasal cannula so that her face was visible beneath her sequined Santa hat. She sat like a queen in her chair as the neighbours took turns bringing her gifts and pulling Christmas crackers. Everyone turned to watch when Donna’s stocking was lifted from the china cabinet. With shaking hands, Donna unwrapped a bottle of gold nail polish and a brand new mobile phone. 

This way we can talk, said Tala, typing in her number. Whenever you want. I might not be able to reply right away, but you’ll always have someone to talk to. 

Later that night, Donna reclined in her chair as Tala painted her nails. Laughter spilled from the kitchen where Alma was entertaining the remaining guests with tales from the nursing home. A slip of paper reading DARTH VADER was stuck in the fold of Donna’s Santa hat, shyly deposited by a neighbour’s child during a game of Celebrity Heads. 

Listen, breathed Donna. I need you to sell the telly. 

What? said Tala, looking up. Why?

Donna repeated the doctor’s explanation, pausing occasionally for breath. The palliative care specialist could give her something called Ordine: liquid morphine. It wouldn’t help her breathe, nor change the fact that she would soon die. But it meant that, during the time she had left, she would be able to think of something other than securing her next breath.

I just need enough for the consult, love. 

Tala protested, but Donna was firm. Don’t cry, she whispered, squeezing Tala’s hand. It’s only the cricket.

Tala heard the ambulance half-way through her end-of-year biology exam. A hundred Year Elevens looked up from their papers as she sprinted to the front of the hall, ignoring the shocked protestations of the invigilator. She upended the plastic tub containing the students’ mobile phones, sending them spilling over the sides of the desk. As soon as her fingers closed around her phone, she was running. 

It wasn’t until they arrived at the police station that Donna and Tala learned what had happened. The eleven-year-old sibling of a Year Twelve student had stolen her sister’s vape and somehow swallowed the nicotine liquid. When she complained of nausea, her parents let her stay home from school; when she vomited a third time, they called an ambulance. It wasn’t long before the doctors figured out what had happened. The police pulled up outside the block of units as Tala was beating down Donna’s front door. They were driven  in separate cars to the station.

The sun set blood-red that night. Curled in her chair, Donna stared at a tiny fleck of gold nail polish that had dripped and set on the leather, now set ablaze by the sinking sun. She watched as the light faded, then disappeared completely.

         

The police interview hadn’t lasted long. Donna was too shocked to tell them anything but the truth, in as few words as possible. She hadn’t left the house without oxygen in well over a year, and found it increasingly difficult to follow the sergeant’s meaning: minor… thousand… okay? She pieced together the rest from the slip of paper he handed her, listing the charges and the date of her court appearance. 

Alone again in her unit, Donna thought only of Tala. She tried texting, then calling, but there was no answer. All night she crossed the carpet between her chair and the window, until she fell into a restless sleep. Donna dreamed of a baby bird calling helplessly for its mother. 

Around midnight, Donna was awoken by the sound of the kettle juddering in its cradle. Her heart swelled at the sight of Tala spooning leaves into the water.

Tala, she croaked. Love. 

I’m sorry, said Tala, tears leaking from her eyes. This is my fault. 

No, said Donna. No. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, they talked. Tala was suspended from school, but her spotless record meant the police had let her off with a warning. The eleven-year-old girl’s sister had texted Tala to say she was okay. But her mother led the school council, and had made it clear that Tala would not be welcome back in the new year. 

Year Twelve at a public school, murmured Donna. They’ll tear you apart.

Tala gave a watery smile. I’ve got street cred now, don’t forget. 

Ha, said Donna. Pag ti yagga… ti yagga…

Tala snorted into her tea. 

Pag may tiyaga, may nilaga, she corrected, wiping her face on her sleeve. 

Just before daybreak, they saw a light flick on in the kitchen next door. Through the window, Donna and Tala watched Alma fill the kettle at the sink, the shoulders of her nurse’s uniform damp from her shower-wet hair. She rested a long moment with her hands on the benchtop before she set the water boiling.