Riggs Crossing (6 page)

Chapter 16

No sooner do I get over the food poisoning and convince Lyyssa not to take away my MyMulti pass than I manage to get into trouble over Scott the physio.

Scott clips the ultrasound film onto a light box and points at it with his pen. ‘See that bit there? That’s fluid in the sub deltoid bursa. You also have some inflammation in the tissue around the rotator cuff joint.’ Scott yanks down the ultrasound, puts up another, and points at a fuzzy patch with his pen.

My left shoulder was starting to hurt even when I wasn’t swimming. I couldn’t even pick up a glass of water with my left hand. When I rolled onto my left shoulder at night, the pain would wake me up.

Scott stuffs the ultrasound films back into their envelope and looks at me, his mouth pursed into a line. ‘Your condition is known as Swimmer’s Shoulder. It’s an overuse injury that can be caused by poor technique or overtraining. It appears that you deliberately pushed yourself too hard in the pool, in spite of my instructions to start out slowly.’

Scott’s getting angry with me is starting to make me angry. I’m the one in pain, after all.

‘Why can’t you just tell me what to do about it and skip the lecture?’

Scott looks even more annoyed than he was before. ‘Len, in addition to your physical problems, you have a serious attitude problem. If you’d followed my instructions in the first place, you wouldn’t have a new injury that might well be permanent.’

Scott sighs and starts writing on a notepad. ‘I conferred with Dr Mengers and he agreed that prescription anti-inflammatories are not appropriate. You can take Nurofen for the pain. The medication will be dispensed by Lyyssa or other Resident Counsellors.’

‘I think I’m old enough to take it myself.’

Scott doesn’t look up from his notepad. ‘Serious athletes, especially stubborn ones like you, often exceed the recommended dosage in order to mask the pain and continue training at an inappropriate pace.’

Scott keeps writing. I look around the room. There’s an anatomy chart of the human muscular system on the wall.

‘Can I have a copy of that chart?’

‘No,’ Scott says sourly. He purses his mouth some more and keeps writing on his notepad.

I look at his strawberry blond hair, his pale eyelashes. He’s wearing khaki trousers, a pink polo shirt, and white New Balance cross-trainers without a single scuff mark on them.

‘Are you gay?’

Scott smacks his pen down on the desk and rips the page from the notepad.

Ha. I knew he was gay.

‘I want you to follow this regimen exactly. Swimming three times a week, max, supervised by Kelly or another qualified instructor. She can design a workout to maintain the strength in your legs without aggravating your shoulder. Stuff like aqua jogging and treading water with leg weights. Do
not
strain yourself. Ice your shoulder for twenty minutes afterwards.’ Scott hands me the page of instructions, his hand shaking just a little. ‘Make an appointment at the desk to come see me in a month. And when you come back, leave the ’tude at home.’

’Tude.
That’s American. Scott probably heard it on TV.

Chapter 17

Progress Report

Len Russell (AKA Samantha Patterson)

Len presented a subdued and quiet demeanour in the days following her recovery from a probable case of food poisoning. She seemed to deliberately avoid conflict with her fellow IWYR residents, and this non–confrontational attitude was reciprocated.

Approximately two weeks after Len’s illness, she requested an appointment with physiotherapist Scott Nelson. Scott, in concert with Dr Mengers of St Stephen’s Hospital, has developed a program to help Len recover from her injuries and maintain a healthy level of flexibility and muscle development. Since her first consultation with Scott, Len has shown extraordinary motivation to improve her fitness and achieved excellent results.

Len reported pain in her left shoulder and elbow. It is unusual for Len to admit pain. Len has never faked illness and is loath to admit any weakness. I immediately arranged an appointment with Scott at St Stephen’s physiotherapy unit.

Before Len had returned to the shelter after her scheduled appointment, I received a phone call from Scott, who reported that Len had questioned his professional judgment and taunted him about his sexuality. Scott is married, but currently identifies as bisexual and has recently separated from his wife. Scott reported that as a result of Len’s comments, he is taking two weeks stress leave.

I invited Len to my office for a conference as soon as she returned to IWYR. I explained that Scott had complained of her being rude, and emphasised that such behaviour jeopardises the arrangement in which IWYR residents get priority, high–level medical care from St Stephen’s. Len seemed surprised at Scott’s complaint and became indignant. Len produced the list of instructions that Scott had given her, and showed me that she had copied the instructions into her spiral notebook on the bus. I accepted this as an indicator that Len values Scott’s professional judgment and plans to follow his instructions.

Len was considerably less cooperative in acknowledging that she had made unacceptable comments that caused offence to Scott. Len refused to address the issue of her own behaviour, and repeatedly tried to change the subject to times when she had felt offended by others. Len claimed to have been offended by the conduct of young Lebanese men, and said she had nightmares about them. Len’s explanation was fractured and emotional, but she seemed to be referring to a well–publicised pack rape in which the alleged perpetrators were of Lebanese origin.

Len agreed to write a short note of apology to Scott, but flatly refused to participate in an exercise examining her negative stereotypes about ethnic people.

It is likely that Len is suffering confusion about her own sexual orientation. Len prefers unisex clothing and disdains cosmetics. Perhaps labelling Scott as ‘gay’ and lashing out at ethnic men for alleged sexual misconduct is Len’s way of masking confusion about her own sexuality.

To prevent Len’s prejudices toward people of ethnic background from becoming entrenched, I have arranged for next month’s IWYR outing to be a dinner at a Lebanese restaurant in the suburb where the pack-rape occurred.

Chapter 18

A fortnight after I write an apology to Scott, I get a reply.

Dear Len,

I was very pleased to get your letter. I do accept your apology, and it means a lot to me that you offered it. As a result of personal stress, I was impatient with you during our consultation. I apologise for this.

My new partner and I have decided to relocate to Melbourne, where I have accepted a new job. I hope you will continue practising your swimming and tennis, but at a reasonable pace, please! Enclosed are some diagrams of exercises to improve the range of movement in your shoulders.

With best wishes,

Scott

After I’ve finished putting the diagrams up on my wall, I get a blue icepack for my shoulder from the freezer, then head into the lounge room. I’m in a good mood tonight. My homework is finished, so I can watch TV. And it’s a Mrs Rowles weekend.

Twice a month, Lyyssa goes away for the weekend and a part-time social worker, Mrs Rowles, looks after us. She’s not like Sky Morningstar or Jo. Mrs Rowles is about fifty-five, short and wiry. Mrs Rowles runs a newsagency with her husband, and just does the two weekends a month with us for the extra income. Mrs Rowles views herself as our custodian, not as our psychologist/parent/saviour. She pretty much leaves us alone, knitting and drinking tea in front of the small television set in the guest room, keeping her door open in case we need anything.

Tonight, the house is quiet, almost peaceful. Karen and Shane are asleep. Cinnamon and Bindi are upstairs trying on clothes and doing stuff with their hair. I’ve got the lounge room to myself.

I switch on the TV. On the 8:30 news bulletin, there’s more about Lucy Grubb. They show a picture of her at a Hollywood party looking sexy and wild, then a snap of her walking down the street in New York City in a black jumper and trousers, her blonde hair blowing in the wind. I’m torn between feeling admiration for her glamorous lifestyle, and hatred that she can squash you like a bug if you piss her off.

Then they show a snippet from a press conference. Lucy is standing between two serious-looking men wearing dark suits. Lucy looks pale and upset, and cries as she says she wants the people who were hurt to know how
sorry
she is, how
awful
she feels.

In one
Clarissa Hobbs
episode, one of Clarissa’s clients was moaning about how sorry he was for embezzling money and how terrible he felt and how he’d give back the money in a second if he hadn’t already spent it. Clarissa told him to cut the crap.

I wonder if Lucy Grubb’s lawyers are going to tell her to ‘cut the crap’.

I flick the TV to another channel. A horror movie is just starting. You can tell it’s going to be a horror movie from the music.

I don’t really like horror movies. I can’t decide whether to watch it or not. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because Bindi and Cinnamon pick this moment to do something stupid and interrupt my TV viewing. They come down the stairs wearing trampy-looking clothes and loads of makeup and try to head out the front door. Mrs Rowles is in front of them like a flash.

‘And just where do you two think you’re going, dressed like that?’ Mrs Rowles demands.

‘We’re going to a party,’ Bindi says rudely, trying to stare Mrs Rowles down.

‘You’re not going anywhere!’ Mrs Rowles barks. ‘You’re both under curfew and you know it. Now go upstairs, wash that crap off your face, and don’t come back downstairs until tomorrow morning.’

Bindi turns back, but just has to say ‘Bitch!’ over her shoulder. Cinnamon giggles and starts to follow Bindi. Mrs Rowles grabs Bindi’s wrist and expertly yanks her off balance. Bindi totters on her high heels and falls backwards against the wall. Mrs Rowles stares at Bindi. ‘You ever call me that again, miss, and I’ll telephone your mother and tell her to come get you,’ she says in a low voice. Then she lets Bindi go. Bindi, suddenly looking crumpled and cheap instead of flashy and seductive like she did half a minute ago, jerks away and stomps up the stairs. Cinnamon follows her without a word.

Mrs Rowles watches them go upstairs with her arms folded across her chest. Then she looks into the lounge room, gives me a half-smile and a wink, then goes back to the guestroom and picks up her knitting.

I look at the TV. The movie is one of those where they make it hard for you to tell what’s real and what’s an illusion. Since I’ve missed the first five minutes of it, I’ve got no chance of understanding it. I switch off the TV, say goodnight to Mrs Rowles, and head upstairs to my room with my icepack.

I bet Lucy Grubb has a TV that tapes everything automatically, so she never misses anything she wants to watch.

Chapter 19

I finally take
The Story of a Piece of Coal
out of the Refuge library. I’ve convinced myself that I’ll be cursed if I don’t read it. Also, I feel sorry for that tattered little book. Edward A Martin, FGS, went to all that trouble to write a book about coal, and now he’s dead (he must be; if he were alive he’d be about a hundred-and-fifty years old) and maybe this copy is the only one left in the whole world. To be honest, I don’t exactly read it. I just look at the drawings and run my eyes over the text before I go to bed. It helps me get to sleep.

At the end of my next lesson with Miss Dunn, I finally ask her.

‘What does FGS mean?’

Miss Dunn narrows her eyes and frowns a little. She had just asked me if I had any questions, but since the lesson was about Australia’s contribution to the Second World War, the question sounds totally irrelevant. ‘FGS? In what context? I mean, where did you read or hear that?’

I tell her about
The Story of a Piece of Coal
, written by Edward A Martin, FGS.

Miss Dunn thinks for a second. ‘FGS . . . Ah, Fellow of the Geological Society, I’d say. That means your Mr Martin was a scholar, and he’d been recognised for having made significant contributions to his field.’ Miss Dunn looks at me for a moment with that half-amused look she sometimes gets. ‘Probably a fascinating book for someone who lived in dreary turn-of-the-century London, but what made you pick it up?’

I tell her about the library at the Refuge, about the Saddle Club books and
Too Rich, Too Famous
and
Bessie Bunton Joins the Circus
and the historical romance with the pirate pashing the Cinnamon clone on the cover.

Miss Dunn has been chuckling at my description of all the stupid books we’ve got, but at the mention of the historical romance, her mouth falls open and she flushes with anger. ‘They’ve got
bodice-rippers
in the library of a
children’s
refuge?’ Miss Dunn rises from her desk and paces the room. ‘That IDIOT Lyyssa!’ she hisses under her breath, then clamps her hand over her mouth. ‘You didn’t hear that,’ she says. I nod. Miss Dunn takes a deep breath to calm herself, then picks up her handbag and keys. ‘Len, come with me. I’m going to show you a real library. You can leave your backpack here.’

When I leave Miss Dunn’s office that day, I have a card that lets me take books out of the University library. In my backpack are two books that have to be returned in a fortnight, or I’ll be in trouble. I’ll have to hide them carefully so no one at the Refuge steals them or pours Coke on them or smears poo in between the pages just for the sake of being vile.

On the bus home I look at my library card. I imagine the books at the Refuge library crying, humiliated now that their shabbiness has been exposed. ‘You’ll never read me now,’ sobs
The Story of a Piece of Coal.
‘My pages will never be turned again,’ wails
Memoirs of a Midget.
‘No one will ever love me!’

‘I still love you,’ I say in my head to the Refuge books. ‘I’ll read you someday.’

I hope they believe me.