You Don't Even Know (12 page)

Physios Brent and Carmen are working Mackie's limbs when I come out of the shower. Jenny peels away plastic taped over my plastered arm and bandage on my head. I climb up onto the bed.

“Need anything?” she asks.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

The moment she leaves, Carmen goes back to chatting – flirting would be a better word for it – about a new dress. She lowers Mackie's arm and runs her hands down her own sides, accentuating her shape.

“Mackie's into dresses. The ones with the full skirts and fitted tops.”

“The fifties style?” asks Carmen.

I shrug. “I dunno.”

“You and Mackie been talking?” asks Brent, a strange expression on his face.

“Yeah, Mackie never shuts up. Talk, talk, talk.” I shake my head. “It's in her scrapbook.”

A look passes between Carmen and Brent. I point to the book lying on Mackie's overbed table. “I'm not being creepy or anything. Her mum showed me.” Which, in my defence, wasn't a complete lie.

Carmen breathes out. “Oh, right.”

Brent laughs. “Had us worried for a minute, mate.”

My face feels hot. “I thought … well, you could talk to her, not over her.”

This time Carmen flushes. She carries the scrapbook to my bed. “Show me the dresses she – Mackie – likes.”

I flip to the page.

“Oh, wow. They are beautiful,” says Carmen, running her fingers over the collage, as though she can feel the fabric of the dresses.

I thumb back two pages to the “Completed Projects” page. “She makes stuff too.”

“Look at this, Brent. She's amazing.”

I move the scrapbook so they both can see Mackie's work. I hope maybe Mackie can hear what they are saying.

“On the left. The one with the brick fence and iron gates,” I said, pointing. Our place wasn't hard to spot. The rest of the houses in our street had wooden or metal picket fences with clipped shrubs and mown lawn you could see from the road.

Benny slowed the car. “Bloody hell. Fort Knox.”

“Fort what?”

“Fort Knox. It's where the American government keep all the gold and stuff.” He parked the car. “What treasures lurk behind your walls?”

“Just egos.” I unbuckled the seatbelt and opened the door. “Want to come in for coffee or something?”

Benny yawned. “Thanks, but I'm buggered, Buzz. I'll head straight home.”

I heaved my bag from the back seat and walked around to the driver's door. My whole body ached, but not in a bad way.

Every day for the past week, along with Smurf and twenty guys from the eastern states, I'd been up at six and in the pool by seven. We started with fitness work – laps, sprints, treading water – then moved on to land and water drills, gym sessions and position and technique theory classes. We watched replays of international games and played practice matches, trialling different positions. Turned out, I had the speed in the water to be a driver, something I thought was way beyond me.

If there was a best thing about the week, it would have been doing it all with the Sharks, the Australian men's water polo team. Man, are they tough, fit dudes.

Before I went away, I loved water polo, really loved it, but after the camp, it was as much a part of me as my arms or legs. And the thing was, the people were even cooler than the game. Sure they pushed and hassled me, but nothing like Dad and Ethan. The water polo guys laughed
with
me, encouraged me and kept me grounded. I belonged.

“Thanks, Benny. For everything. Canberra was sick.”

Benny grinned. “Pleasure mate. Work on that speed whenever you can. You'll be a gun driver.”

I patted the car roof. “Training Sunday?”

“You bet.”

I watched Benny drive away before punching the code into the gate. In the foyer voices tumbled from the family room.

“Daddy, play properly,” said Mia.

“I am, Poss, but I'm not very good at this.”

“Yeah, you suck, Dad,” said Harvey.

From the family room doorway I stared at the scene before me. It was like watching a documentary about a foreign culture. Harvey was bent over a piece of paper on the coffee table. Mia, snuggled on Dad's lap, held a notepad and pencil. They sat next to Ethan on the sofa, facing the TV. A black and white sketch of Nemo filled the screen. Mum trimmed chicken thighs at the kitchen bench, but kept glancing up, smiling.

After a moment, my brain started functioning again and I realised they were playing the Pictionary DVD game someone gave Harvey for his birthday.

“Whose turn is it?” asked Dad.

“Ethan's.” Harvey and Mia answered together.

“Alex!” squealed Mia. “You're home.”

I jumped as though I'd been caught doing something wrong.

She leaped off Dad's knee and bear-hugged my thighs. I dropped my bag and bent to hug her.

“How was it?” asked Dad.

“Good.” I straightened up. “The best, actually.”

Mi skipped back to Dad.

Mum wiped her hands and walked around the bench. Still holding the tea towel, she kissed my cheek. “Welcome back. You look well.”

“I am.” I tried to find words, but my brain was still digesting the happy family scene. “Stuffed though.”

Dad looked up, his face relaxed. “But worth it?”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Thanks. For letting me go. And for paying.”

“No worries, mate.”

Ethan scowled.

“Moroccan chicken for dinner.” Mum smiled. “Your favourite.”

Ethan's favourite. Mine was lasagne. “Great.”

Mum, looking pleased with herself, headed back to the kitchen.

“Play with us, Alex,” said Mia.

From beside her on the sofa, Ethan's eyes simmered with anger.

“I'll take my stuff upstairs first.” But I knew I wouldn't come back.

There was no room for me.

If you'd told me a few weeks ago that shuffling around a hospital room, doing leg exercises in a chair or on a bed would leave me totally stuffed, I'd have laughed. Sure my fitness had dropped off since I quit water polo, after everything went to hell, but I wasn't useless like I am now.

“One more leg raise, Alex. Little more. Yeah, that's it, good man.” Brent claps. “Great session. Do those couple of times a day and walk whenever you can.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“And I want you to move that hand,” He taps my plastered right arm. “Squeeze and hold, that sort of thing. I'll bring in a stress ball for you tomorrow.”

“Great.” I wish I could feel as fired up as he sounds.

“Righto, back onto the bed and rest, okay?”

“Am I interrupting?” The guy in the cardigan who'd asked me questions this morning when Mr Dobson and his gang visited stands at the end of my bed.

“My work's done here for the day, Paul,” says Brent. “See you tomorrow, champ.”

As Brent leaves, Paul pulls the curtain around the bed.

“Don't bother,” I say.

Paul frowns.

“It's not like the curtains are soundproof or anything.” Yesterday two nurses drew the curtains around Mackie so they could wash her and change the sheets. The whole time they discussed a nurse on leave whom they were sure was doing drugs. Kind of interesting, but it proved my theory that nothing was private in hospital.

“Well, if it's okay with you, closing them stops people from interrupting.”

I shrug.

Paul pulls a chair closer to the bed. “I'm Paul Shannon, Alex, from psych.”

Psych – psychology. A quiver ripples through me.

He reaches out to shake my left hand, which feels kind of awkward.

Paul watches while I take my time to manoeuvre and wiggle onto the bed. I raise the bedhead and fluff around with the pillows. The whole time we're both checking each other out. He looks like a normal bloke. Probably in his late thirties with brown hair, a pierced ear and a tatt on his wrist. He's kind of rangy – all arms and legs. He has a calm air about him, nothing like Melinda – everything about her screamed psycho, not psych.

I settle back against the pillows.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“I guess.”

“Cool.” Alarm bells ring. Cool? If he's one of those old people who think they can relate to teenagers by saying cool, he can shove his questions.

“How's it going with Brent?”

This isn't what I'm expecting. “Brent?”

“The physio.”

Great first impression, Alex! “Yeah, Brent, sorry. Good. I'm pretty unfit though.”

“Don't you play sport?”

“I used to play water polo, but I stopped.” I cringe. I've led him straight to where I don't want to go.

“Play anything else?”

“Polo and swimming.” Again! I fold my arms.

“Swimming's like meditation for me,” says Paul. “I get into that breaststroke rhythm and I forget everything.”

“Breaststroke? Really? I feel like an emu or something when I do breaststroke. That stroke's all jerky and weird. I love …” My mouth clamps shut. How did that happen?

“Let me guess. You're a freestyler.”

I nod.

“Do you compete?”

“Not good enough. Just love cutting laps.” Endless laps – stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Nothing to focus on but that black line.

The noise in my brain is swallowed by the sound of my breathing and the splash of the water. Sometimes I don't breathe – just swim until I swear my lungs will splatter like a water balloon against a brick wall. So I can feel what it's like.

“You should ask Brent about hydrotherapy. You know, exercise in the water. Great for recovery.”

“I've heard of it.”

Paul stands and strolls to the windows. “Good view, isn't it?”

“Not bad. You can see the gardens, government house and the ocean. Be good to go out onto the balcony. For fresh air and stuff.” I expect Paul to launch into a thousand questions about why I want to go onto the balcony.

“Yeah, but because of health and safety regs, the doors and windows have to stay locked.” He strolls back to his chair. “The caf has tables outside. I'll take you for a …” He looks me up and down. “Not a cappuccino man I'd say. Maybe an iced coffee or a chocolate milkshake?”

“Close – chocolate thickshake.”

And just like that we start talking about the perils of fast-food thickshakes, the best burgers in the city and a shop in a place called Warrnambool that Paul reckons has the best hamburgers in the world.

“Good beaches around there too.” He glances at his watch. “Gotta fly, Alex. I have a department meeting. Mind if I drop in tomorrow?”

“I guess not.” The truth is I kind of want him to come back. Talking to him was easy.

Walking all the way from the tram stop to the pool near the city on a stinking hot day wasn't my smartest move. By the time I reached the pool entrance, sweat trickled down my spine.

Since the funeral, I'd pretty much stayed in my room, but Mum had insisted I “do something”.

“Visit Tilly. Or Cooper and Bashir,” she'd snapped, flinging open my window. “What about water polo practice? Go for a swim …” She chocked on the word. “Bloody well do something.” She stormed from the room, tears glittering in her eyes.

Not that me leaving the room was her idea. Like everything she thought, said or did, Dad was behind it. I'd overheard him ranting last night that I needed fresh air. She was only the messenger.

I hadn't played or practised water polo since Mia.

In fact, I hadn't seen the team since the funeral, where they had stood up the back with Benny, awkward in ties and ironed shirts.

I wasn't ready to face them yet.

The logical thing to do, seeing as I had no one to visit, was to cut laps, and the bonus of that was, no one could talk to me while I swam. I decided against the rec centre, even though it was closer to home because there were too many people I knew and too many memories lurking in the humid air. Instead I caught the tram to a pool in the city.

Changed into boardies, not my usual swimming gear, I walked onto the pool deck. A lifeguard leaned against the back wall, fiddling with a walkie-talkie. There were only a handful of people about – mums with kids and a few old people. Soft gig if you were on duty.

The voices and splashes merged into that familiar pool sound. Normally, that noise and the feel of the chlorinated air on my skin was enough to chill me out. But today it was a weight that pressed against me.

Medium or fast lap lane?

An old guy, wearing pink speedos and matching swim cap, churned up the medium lane, head out of the water, kickboard in front of him. An even older man waded until the water reached his ribs, then he turned back and jogged to the wall. His skin was creased and saggy like an elephant's.

I lowered myself into the empty fast lane. The water lapping against my hips was soothing. I pulled on my goggles, took a deep breath and launched forwards. Eyes fixed on the black line beneath me, I fell into the familiar freestyle rhythm.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Despite not having exercised for a couple of weeks, my kicks were powerful and my hands cut the water, angled and strong. Stroke by stroke, the crap clinging to my skin dissolved.

For the first time since everything went to shit, I felt normal. At the start of my third lap, I misjudged my breath and gulped a mouthful of water. It surged straight to my lungs. All that calm was snuffed out. I coughed and spluttered to the lane rope.

“Oi, off there,” yelled the lifeguard.

In waist-deep water, I clung to the plastic buoys, spluttering.