AMELIA ARATANGI
my mother’s loving arms
Heartbeat to heartbeat
The first time my mother heard my heartbeat, she knew that I was hers: that I was her child and only hers and that if nobody wanted me, it would not matter because she did. On the night of 11 January 2008, a girl was born, but more importantly, a woman was reborn. With my little hand in hers, both of our cries filling the room, she made her promise to me, and that promise would shape my entire life. My mother was unrelenting in her efforts to keep me afloat, to instil good morals within me. ‘You are going to be different, and you are going to be better,’ she assured me every time I lay in her arms, sobbing my little heart out. ‘But what if I’m not?’ A simple shake of my mother’s head and the tightening of her arms around me told me that I would be okay. We would be okay. ‘You are a special little girl, and you were born to do great things.’ Her chin would rest on top of my head, and I would snuggle myself further into her. ‘How do you know, Mum?’ She would smile down at me as she wiped the tears running down my cheeks. ‘I just know, Amelia.’
‘Tell me the story again.’ I plead with my mum for probably the hundredth time as we sit down for dinner. ‘Again?’ She laughs, and I nod eagerly. ‘Okay, fine. When your brother was born everyone was there. Your nan, your papa, and your aunties and uncles.’ I listen closely, my head resting on my hands. ‘When your brother was born your auntie was so excited to see him that when her car broke down a block away from the hospital, she put her shoes on and sprinted the rest of the way.’ I giggle, and knowing how this story ends, I wait for the best part. ‘And she left your cousin in the car in the middle of road.’ I laugh out loud now. This story never gets old. My mum laughs, too. Once the laughter dies down, I can’t help but ask, ‘What happened when I was born?’ The dinner has gone cold by now, the atmosphere with it. ‘Mum?’ I whisper, and silence ensues. Nobody was there, I soon discovered. I did not have the courage to ask her why. I felt that my heart simply could not take it if I did not like the answer. It would have to wait.
The giving hands of a mother
I was always told I was a rather strange child. Unlike most children, I acted much older than I was in terms of the responsibilities and roles I took on at a young age. Growing up, my mother was hardly around. Not because she did not want to be, but because she had to sacrifice seeing her children grow up to provide for us financially. With my mother absent most of the time, I’d come home after school to an empty house, which as a child felt like the ultimate freedom. My routine was the same every day: turn on my cartoons and the stove and raid the cupboards for anything edible. With Nickelodeon cartoons playing in the background, I’d make enough food for me and my brother – which I would set aside in a bowl covered in plastic wrap for when he got home from Intermediate. I was only in Primary at the time, yet I made it my own responsibility to take care of a child I didn’t create. When he got home, we’d sit in front of the TV in silence while we ate. ‘What time do you think Mum will come home tonight?’ I asked him, to which he responded with a shrug, ‘Probably when we’re sleeping. Like always.’ He despised our mother for not being there. He never understood that she was not there because we had to eat. The very show we were watching was only available because she made it so. Being an opinionated kid, I voiced this to him. ‘She has to work so we can have a roof over our heads,’ I said, which I realise now is unusually perceptive for a child only nine years old. ‘I’d rather have her here,’ he said, and for the first time in the conversation I agreed with him. I wanted her there too.
It's not unusual for a person to say that the weekends are their favourite time of the week, but for me, it was for a completely different reason. The weekends were usually the only time I ever saw my mother. Even if she spent the entire weekend catching up on the sleep she missed during the week, it was still nice to have her presence in the house. I’d wake up on Saturday mornings, hoping that I’d feel her body next to me. When I realised she was home, I would check the clock to make sure it was after 8am. That meant she had no work that day. Every time the clock showed it was past 8am, I’d smile, move closer to my mum and hold onto her tight, almost afraid that if I let go, she’d disappear. This routine would continue, and I had almost mastered it until the night that changed everything. Uncle came home late like usual, lugging two boxes of Steinlager up the stairs. He laid the second box on the kitchen table and grabbed a bottle from the first box – which was open like always. He sat down, lit cigarette in his mouth, and he took off his work boots. ‘Come turn on the TV,’ he demanded, acting as if I was put on this earth to serve him. Nonetheless, out of fear, I turned the TV on and handed him the remote. ‘Where’s your brother?’ he asked, chugging the rest of his bottle before I even had the chance to answer. ‘He’s sleeping.’ I replied. He told me to go to sleep, too, which I didn’t refuse. Before I went to bed, I called my mum while she was at work. She, of course, did not pick up. As I fell asleep, I repeated the story in my head. It had become a comfort story of mine. This would soon change.
Even in this closet
‘Where are we going, Mum?’ I ask as I come home from school and see her in our black Nissan Primera, a bit of what we own packed in the back. I hop in the car and put on my seatbelt. ‘Are we going on a trip, Mum?’ The feeling of excitement rises inside of me, and I can hardly sit still in my seat. She does not answer me, but I smile anyway, looking out the window and wondering about all the new and colourful places I was going to see. My brother comes up the driveway, and I see a look of confusion on his face, too. He doesn’t ask any questions; curiosity was never his thing. The engine of the car fills the uncomfortable silence as my mum puts the key into the ignition and turns it. As we drive down the street I turn to the large back window, pushing my way through our possessions and watching as my nan's house gets further and further away. Everything I once knew is gone, and I have never felt more at ease. No more clinking of bottles or eggshells beneath my feet.
Once the car finally stops outside of a two-storey house, I stare up at it. ‘Let’s go,’ Mum says quietly, grabbing some of the boxes at the back and heading in. ‘Is this all ours?’ I ask, grabbing the first box I see and quickly following her inside. She doesn’t answer. Not then, not when I ask her who all the people in this house are and why we must share a house with strangers and why I kept hearing the words ‘abused’ and ‘violence’ thrown around and why why why why why. Was my uncle so bad that we had to move to a home like this? I lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling from the bunk bed my family and I are sharing in a room with barely enough space to do a cartwheel. My brother is asleep, but Mum is awake. She attempts to cry into her pillow; she tries to hide her pain from me. But she forgets that I was born from her, and her pain is my pain. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I reassure her. I open my arms. She pulls me close. ‘I’m so sorry; there was nowhere else to go.’ I wrap my arms tight around her and cry with her. ‘As long as I have you.’ ‘Even in this closet?’ she asks, laughing at her own humour. ‘Even in this closet.’
In the span of two months, my mother lost her income, and we moved into a women’s refuge. After another two months, we were removed from the women’s refuge because we had stayed there too long. We slept in our tiny car in a New World parking lot for two days before moving into a halfway house down the road (which had a room big enough to do a full cartwheel) from the women’s refuge. One night, Mum and I are staring out of the window at the passing cars. ‘Do you ever think we’ll get out of here?’ Mum asks. I lean my head against her shoulder. ‘Nope,’ my brother answers from the top bunk. ‘Don’t listen to him, Mum. He’s being an idiot like usual.’ Mum chuckles and ruffles my hair. ‘I love you both. Goodnight.’ She turns around and tries to sleep, but I stay still, staring out of the window at the passersby. A question burns in my mind. I’m itching to ask. I curl into Mum’s side, the only place in this world that feels truly safe. ‘Mum?’ She grunts in acknowledgement. ‘Can you tell me the story again?’
The truth of the story
Over the years, my curiosity grew. I was determined to find out why my mother had not wanted anyone to support her at the time of my birth. She had refused to answer for years, and I was never sure why. Was she embarrassed?
‘Can you tell me the story?’ I ask again. However, she seems irritated by what I’ve asked. ‘Why do you keep asking me to tell this story?’ After a moment of silence, I tell her the truth. ‘I want to know the real reason why you didn’t want anyone around during my birth.’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘Your curiosity is going to be the death of you, Amelia.’ I should have heeded the warning, but I kept pushing. ‘Tell me. I can handle it.’ Being a persistent child, my mum knew I’d never stop pressing her for the truth. What I hadn’t expected was for her to begin tearing up. ‘I didn’t want anyone around because the last person I had mentioned my pregnancy to was your father.’ I frown at her, what did he have to do with anything? I wait for her to continue with her story between her own sobs. ‘He didn’t want you. He claimed you weren’t his.’
So that was the story. I haven’t asked about it since, and I’m sure I never will. A story that had comforted me through my childhood had eventually brought insecurity to my life. My own father did not want to be a part of my life, because he simply did not want to. I still remember the feeling of seeing him visit for the first time in months. A maroon car that sounded like it had five engines sat in the driveway. He beeped the horn and revved the engine, calling for my brother. Not me, only my brother. As I closed the door and watched my brother and father speed off down the road, Mum put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Do you want me to tell you the story again?’ I politely declined. We sat down. She wrapped her arms around me, and I leant into her embrace. ‘I don’t care much for that story anymore.’ She sighed: ‘He’s a bum, anyway.’ I laughed and sniffled. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, kissing my head. She searched my eyes for any sign of tears. They didn’t come. She’s the only one I have ever needed.
Amelia Aratangi is 18 years old and lives and works in South Auckland. She first found her spark for writing during her Year 11 English class, and this passion helped her achieve various awards in English, writing, and social activism, including the H Gallot Cup. Previously published by the Michael King Writers Centre (2023), Amelia enjoys the challenge of weaving words together to express the thoughts she cannot say out loud.