And when I read Looking for Alibrandi, I was so annoyed with Melina Marchetta. I wanted to write my life story someday and had always wanted to include this little Italian tradition. I thought if I included it in my novel, everyone would think it would be a replica of that book and I didn’t want it to be labelled as the try-hard Looking for Cassandra. I would want my book to be original and unique but just because it was an Italian-based family with Nonnas and rules, it might be compared to it. However, mine would be entirely different. First, Josephine was illegitimate and her father wanted nothing to do with her, whereas with me I had the opposite. I was born with parents who were married and I wished my father had nothing to do with me.
I lifted the garage door up, stepping inside. “Cilla?” I called. I paused, waiting to hear any movement. She wasn’t even wearing a bell on her collar. I put one on once, and then took it off within five minutes. It annoyed me more than frightened the birds. How I wished she had one now.
There was nothing. Panic filled me. I paced back and forth, calling her name. Dad just sat there, looking at me with a tiny smirk on his face.
“Cilla!” I yelled again.
I heard a faint pitter-patter across the concrete. I turned around, seeing her tiny black and white figure strolling towards me. She stopped suddenly, her body tensed, her tail swaying from left to right. Her eyes were glued in the one direction. She was looking ahead at Dad. He moved slightly, reaching for his stubby of VB. Cilla ran as fast as she could, towards the front yard, hiding underneath Dad’s cream Falcon. I followed her, crouching to the ground, beckoning her forward. She stared at me, her eyes wide with fear.
“It’s okay, he’s not doing anything. He’s in the back,” I said as I stroked her gently under her chin. She came out slowly. I grabbed one of her front paws and dragged her to me. I sat down on the ground, crossed my legs, putting Cilla in my lap.
“Merry Christmas, Cilla,” I said. I checked to see if Dad was watching me. He wasn’t, so I quickly kissed her head. Dad had caught me kissing Cilla once and told me off, saying it was disgusting. We had a big argument that night, resulting in a bruise on my head and me in tears. Now I made sure that whenever I kissed her, he wasn’t around. I didn’t understand what his problem was. Cats were the cleanest pets in the world. They groomed themselves and besides Mum and I tried to wash Cilla frequently.
Cilla finally relaxed, purring contently. Cilla and Dad’s relationship was similar to the one he and I shared. Cilla hated Dad because he was so rough with her. It wasn’t his fault. It was in his nature. He didn’t realise his own strength and he hurt her whenever he patted her. Well that is what Mum told me when he picked on me. Once Cilla bit him and he smacked her on the mouth. Since then, she avoided him. It was funny, considering Dad gave her to me for my birthday three years ago. My sisters teased me constantly, saying I brainwashed Cilla into hating him and I didn’t agree or disagree. The thing was, I didn’t hate Dad but I didn’t exactly like him either. I felt he was always picking on me. If it wasn’t about school or housework, it was always something. I just wanted him to treat me better and for his bitterness to disappear. He had always wanted a son but got stuck with four daughters instead.
I considered myself lucky though. I may not have the perfect relationship with my father but I had a fantastic one with my mum. I would never ever love anyone the way I loved her. She was my mother, father and best friend all rolled into one. She was the only person I could really confide in and she would never judge me, no matter the situation. I knew she would always be there for me, would do anything for me, just as I would for her.
I believed the way my parents treated me was a reflection on their own upbringing. Mum and Dad both had hard lives, yet they were raised with different values and lifestyles. My grandparents on both sides were strict; however, Mum’s parents showed her more love and affection, whereas Dad’s weren’t big on kisses and communication. They taught him to hide his true feelings with rules and regulations and Dad carried his knowledge over to me.
Sometimes, I felt sorry for him. Dad was a hard worker, though things constantly went wrong for him. The major-ity of it was his fault, however part of his bad luck was caused by the acts of others. When Dad was eighteen, he had a terrible motorcycle accident. A car smacked right into him and he fell off his bike, breaking his leg. Though he was fortunate it didn’t end his life, he couldn’t work due to his injury, relying on his parents for support. Then he met my mum, got married and fell into an assortment of jobs just to support his family. I didn’t know if Dad had any dreams to be someone but after the collision, he never fully recovered and still to this day, he walked with a slight limp.
I didn’t entirely believe money brought happiness but I was told that things were different before I was born. Dad had been different. He owned a café in Carlton and though he had always been strict, he stressed less and spent more time with my mum and sisters, taking them out or buying them whatever they wanted. Though Dad had a problem with gambling, my parents rarely worried about money.
The café was doing extremely well until the police started hassling him over a new crowd and because Dad wanted to protect his family, he sold the café, losing more than half of what it was actually worth. After that, our misfortune began and who knew how our lives would have turned out if the cops had minded their own business.
My parents were now both pensioners and though they both had jobs, they could only earn a certain amount before Social Security deducted them; therefore, we hardly had any spare cash lying around. Mum worked part-time as a machinist and Dad was a fisherman. He worked most days unless it was bad weather, then he stayed home. Those were the days I stayed away; it was when we fought the most. Most of the time, he came home tired, wet, smelling like fish and grumpy from the amount of pain he was in, due to his leg injury. Although I understood how difficult his job was, I didn’t appreciate him hitting me, kicking me or calling me into the kitchen while I was busy studying in my bedroom, just to get him a beer when he was already there. I wasn’t his slave nor was I his opponent in a boxing ring, I was his daughter and I only wished he would see me as one.
My stomach rumbled again. I woke Cilla up, nudging her nose with the tip of my finger. “Come on Cilla, wake up. It’s time for me to go inside.”
My family thought I was nuts when I spoke to Cilla. “She doesn’t understand you,” was a sentence I had heard over a million times. Well, I believed she did. I didn’t believe animals were stupid or incapable of communicating with their owners and I had this bizarre talent of being able to meow and sound exactly like a cat. When Cilla first arrived, she was afraid and hid behind our couch, refusing to eat or come near us. I shredded some salami and knelt beside her, meowing. When Cilla heard it, she came running to me and began eating from my hand. After that, we became inseparable. She knew how much I loved her and she loved me, though my sisters said her affection was only stemmed from hunger. That wasn’t true. When Mum fed her, Cilla still came to me, rubbed against my leg or jumped into my lap. My sisters were just jealous of our bond.
Cilla yawned and stretched, digging her claws into my trackies. I cried out in pain. Each dig felt like someone poking me with a needle.
“Naughty girl!” I muttered, pushing