You Don't Even Know (18 page)

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Visit the

Visit the what? Why did she stop? Was she too tired? Too sick?

I read the next list, which is written in blue, pressed so deep into the page that there are holes in the paper. Across the page are splodges of smudged ink and shadowy, transparent letters.

I
WISH
I'
D
…

*
Driven a car
.

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Ridden a horse along a beach
.

*
Gone paintballing, zip lining, abseiling, skydiving, skinny-dipping
.

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Kissed a boy
.

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Grown old with someone I love and who loves me
.

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Been to a pool party
.

*
Wagged school
.

*
Been to a strawberry farm and eaten berries straight from the bush
.

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Been normal. Healthy
.

*
Been able to fight harder
.

Something thick and hard lodges in my chest. I cough and clear my throat and slap that flat place above my heart, but I can't dislodge whatever it is. All I manage to do is stir up the pain in my ribs.

I take Mackie's scrapbook back to her table then shuffle around the room for a bit, still coughing and hawking.

“Do you have a cold?” asks Paul, strolling through the door.

“Nah, there's something stuck in my chest.” I rub my sternum with my left fist and head back to my side of the room.

Paul drags a chair closer to the bed. “How'd you enjoy the surf magazine?”

“Yeah, good.” I pour a glass of water and gulp it down before sliding onto the bed.

“Let me know if you want to look up any of those sites. I can bring in my iPad.”

“Thanks.” I know I'm being weird, but I can't help it. I feel disjointed or something.

“How's physio?”

“Okay.” What else can I say? “Lots of walking, tiptoeing and squeezing my hand into a fist.” I hold out my right arm to demonstrate.

“Happy with your progress?”

“I guess.”

Paul clears his throat. When I look up, he's gazing past me, out the window. “Can you believe it's nearly spring? The almond tree in our front yard is in blossom.”

“Yeah? We have an almond tree in our backyard. It's a huge old thing and has this cubbyhouse that the people who lived there before us built. The cubbyhouse not the tree.” I can see the forked lightning splitting the air either side of the almond tree.

“Did you play in it?”

“The cubbyhouse? Not really. I used to, but then Dad told me that cubbyhouses were gay … I kind of stopped.” I realise what I've said. “Not that, I mean …”

Paul laughs. “Relax, Alex. It takes more than that to offend me.”

My face burns. “Well, I'm sorry. I don't care about that stuff. Dad's the one with the issue. He's always crapping on about being a real man.”

“So what's a real man to your father?”

“Not me.” I look at my knees. “Sorry, that sounds tragic. I mean I don't measure up.” I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the crappy feeling that digs its claws into my skin. “Look, Paul, I don't mean to sound like I feel sorry for myself or anything. I feel weird today. You know?”

Paul nods. “Physically weird, or …”

“As though I have something stuck here.” I slap my chest again. “Something I need to cough up. And it's like there's something digging into my back.”

“Can I run something by you?” He says each word with care.

My eyes narrow. “What?”

“It's a theory. One I've heard about a billion times, and I think, well, it seems relevant to you.” His chinos squeak against the vinyl as he shifts position. “People – psychologists – reckon that when emotional pain becomes too much to bear, we hurt ourselves – you know bump our head, cut a finger – because the physical pain relieves the emotional pain.”

“I'm not one of those psycho cutters, if that's what you're getting at.”

“Nice overreaction.” He leans forwards, elbows on his knees. “Look, Alex, that thing in your chest, your accident – they're all to do with Mia and how much you're hurting.”

I stare at the cast on my arm.

“Have you ever talked about it? Properly? Cried? Really cried, since she died?”

I swallow.

“Did you know you never say her name?”

Panic soars through my veins. “That's not …” My words fade away, because I know he's right. “Can we not?”

“Because you can't or won't?”

Anger explodes in my head as white shards. “Look, you don't even know, no one does, I …” A nurse enters the room – it's Dimity. She looks at me then Paul.

“Rolling Mackie. Mind if I draw these curtains?”

“No problem,” says Paul, standing. “I'll do it.”

Paul whips the curtains surrounding the bed closed. My brain swirls and twirls, so many thoughts and fears packed into such a tiny space it hurts.

Paul sits back down. “Alex, I'm not going to force you to talk about Mia, I promise. But I do believe if you can, doesn't matter who to, it will help.” He leans back and pats his knees. “I hope this hasn't been too full-on, mate. Okay if I come back?”

“What the hell is the point of ‘refreshments' after a funeral?” I stare at my feet, resting against the end of the bed. “It's a shit idea.”

I can feel Paul's stillness.

“And what kind of twat thinks having ‘refreshments' at their home is a good thing?” My lip curls. “Oh, I know. My father, that's who. School offered the hall, but Dad said it was too shabby and that the caterers needed a better kitchen. Caterers. For funeral refreshments? That's stuffed.”

If Paul speaks, I'll stop. But he doesn't, so I keep going like that Shakespearean character who wanders around talking to a skull.

“As if you want to be social, you know, eat and drink and stuff, after a shitful funeral. Especially with Dad's plastic mates.” My right arm is itchy. “Dad started issuing orders, dealing them out like they were cards, as he drove out the crematorium gate.” I imitate his voice. “Harvey, you're in charge of the children's food and drinks. Ethan, Alex, you will mingle, clear plates and glasses. Make people feel welcome.” I snort. “Dickhead. Welcome to the house of pain. Would you like a poke in the eye or your heart ripped out with that red wine?”

I draw my legs up. “I wanted to tell Dad to shove his welcome right up his fat arse. But I didn't. I was completely and utterly numb. And not only because of the tablet I snuck from the bottle the doctor left Mum. The whole thing – the service, the small white coffin, the stupid pictures of her – they left me dazed. Like none of it was real.”

“But it was real, wasn't it?” Paul's voice seems far away.

I nod. My chest is even more jammed up than it was before. I cough to dislodge the sensation, stretch my arms to the side and behind me, but that tight, heavy feeling won't budge.

“Alex?” asks Paul. “Do you need me to call Dimity?”

I'm frowning so hard my forehead aches. “People on reality shows, the hospital ones, reckon they had a bad feeling on the day something horrible went down.” I look up at Paul. “But I didn't. I felt hot. And lazy, you know?” I shake my head. “Yeah, hot and lazy. No premonition. It was just another day.”

The air presses against my shoulders. Paul watches with gentle eyes.

A huge yawn racks my body. When it passes, my head starts to throb. I rub my left temple.

Paul leans forwards. “You okay?”

I nod. “A headache.”

“Rest up, mate. I'll drop back tomorrow.”

I lower the bed and close my eyes.

I closed my eyes and stretched out on the family room sofa, listening to the ceiling fan struggling to move through the heavy air. The forecast was for thirty-nine degrees. Felt more like forty-eight and it hadn't gone midday. Lucky for me, St James, and about every other private school nearby, had a pupil-free day for report writing. Being crammed into classrooms having to think in this heat would have been the worst.

The floor-to-ceiling windows leading onto the barbecue area and pool deck were folded right back, but the curtains hung limp. I opened my eyes, reached for the remote and flicked through TV stations. Cricket, a black-and-white movie, a current affairs show and endless repeats of American sitcoms. As I moved to go for a swim, Mia burst into the room, dragging a piece of butcher's paper behind her.

“Alex, I painted us at playgroup, look.” She laid it on my lap. “That's you.” She tapped the smaller of the two heads sprouting legs and arms. “See, you're wearing your red boardies.” She pointed to the larger pink head. “And that's me in my Barbie swimmers. We're floating.”

“Cool painting, Mia.”

“I know,” she said, looking around. “It's for you.”

Mum entered the kitchen and dumped supermarket bags on the bench.

Mia skipped to her. “Can I have my icy pole nooow, Mum?”

Mum rifled through the bags. “Sure. Alex – come put away the shopping.”

I sighed. “Why can't Harvey or Ethan do it?”

Mum placed her hands palm down on the bench. “Don't start with me, Alex. Harvey is getting his stuff together to take to Angelo's place and Ethan is with your father, I believe. And it's my turn to sell raffle tickets at the shopping centre and I'm late. Put this away and look after Mia.”

“Yeah, but me and Tilly–”

“Too bad, Alex. I need your help.”

“Mum, Tilly and I were going to a movie when she finishes work.”

Mum smiled. “Fine. Take Mia with you.”

“It's not a film for little kids.”

“Then you're not going, are you?” Mum ripped open the box of icy poles and handed one to Mia. “Be a good girl for Alex.” She kissed Mia on the head and ran her hands over her cheeks. “I'll be home about six. I have my mobile.” Mum scooped up her keys. “You're in charge, Alex.”

In the kitchen doorway she bellowed. “Harvey, if you want a ride to Angelo's, I'm going now.”

Harvey thundered down the stairs, dragging his backpack behind him.

“See you later.” Mum left a cloud of busyness and perfume behind her.

Mia sat at the kitchen bench, eating her icy pole, while I unpacked the shopping. When I was done, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Tilly.

Mia tugged my boardies. “Can we go swimming, Alex?” Her lips were covered in blue icy pole.

A rumble of noise rolled in from the hallway. Girls' giggles weaved through boys' voices.

Ethan led Stav, Felicity, Ginny and other guys and girls I didn't know into the family room. Some had towels tossed over their shoulders, others held cardboard boxes and bags filled with alcohol and junk food.

“Wow!” said a blond girl with a pierced nose. “This place is awesome.”

“Ginny'll show you where to change.” Ethan patted his girlfriend's bum. She giggled. I felt my lip curl.

“What's up your arse?” asked Ethan, glaring.

“Alex and me are going swimming,” said Mia.

“Nah. You're not. We're chilling down here. And we don't want to be disturbed.”

“But Mum said Alex is the boss.” Mia folded her arms across her chest.

Ethan snorted. “Tough luck for you, Mia. We're having an ‘end of exams' pool party.”

Outside, one of the guys cracked open a can of scotch and cola, which sprayed all over the outdoor setting. The others cheered.

“Did you check this with Mum or Dad?” I asked.

“They trust me.”

Mia stamped her foot. “But I want to swim!”

“Too bad. Go upstairs and watch a movie.”

Mia's chin wobbled. I squatted so I was at her eye level. “We'll go upstairs and watch anything you want and turn the aircon on high.”

“Too humid for that,” said Ethan.

“Shut up, smart-arse.” I snapped at him. “And, Mi, we'll swim as soon as they've gone. I promise. Anyway, swimming will be more fun when it's cooler.”

“Huddo,” called Stav from the pool fence. “How do you open the dumb gate?”

“Coming.” Ethan turned back to me. “Stay out of my face, Lexie boy.”

After lunch, Brent takes me to the physio department on the first floor. The huge room with its wooden benches, crash mats, handrails and weights reminds me of a gym from one of those World War II movies.

“High-tech,” I say, leaning against a bench with ropes.

“The latest equipment. That baby is our new Pilates reformer.”

“Cool!” What else do you say to someone who is buzzed about a wooden bench with springs and black padding?

Brent rubs his hands together and we're into it. After an hour of balancing and testing my hand and leg strength, Brent adds to my list of daily exercises and walks me back to the neurosurgery ward.

He stops at the nurses' station. “You know, Alex, you're very lucky. There doesn't seem to be any permanent damage, not even to your arm.”

Maybe not, but it feels like I've done permanent damage in that gym. My ribs ache and my legs burn. Back in my room, Vicky is sitting by Mackie's bed.

“Hello, Alex. How's she been?” She nods at her daughter.

“Doesn't shut up.”

Vicky smiles. “That's how she used to be – talked nonstop. Even in her sleep.” She fusses around Mackie, applying lip balm and wiping her face. “Her lips aren't as dry.”

My face feels hot. After that first time I applied the balm, I made sure I did it a couple of times a day, so Mackie would feel more comfortable.

“Thanks, Alex.” She turns back to Mackie.