You Don't Even Know (8 page)

“Tough.” He took a swig of coffee.

I hit the cereal box and stormed out of the kitchen.

The tube is out. I haven't turned into a mouse. Everything works when it's supposed to.

I'm supposed to be studying after doing the dishes, but the warm evening drew me outside. I'd spent the day avoiding Dad, playing computer games with Harvey and fairies with Mia. She changed the rules so often, I ended up mucking around until she went off and banished me. No doubt about it, Mia would end up a TV or movie director.

I lay on one of the two reclining chairs on the lawn.

“Brought you a beer.”

I jumped at the sound of Dad's voice. “I'm underage.”

“Yeah, but the law says you can have a drink at home if you're supervised.” Dad placed two stubbies of Italian beer on the table between the chairs and settled in. “Can't wait for summer.”

“I reckon.” I reached for the bottle and took a sip, at the same time checking Dad from the corner of my eye.

He chugged beer, legs crossed at the ankle.

Bugs whirred and the distant traffic droned.

“Looking forward to the beach this summer, Alex?”

“Yeah, be good.”

We'd spent every summer at the beach for as long as I could remember. At first we stayed in holiday units, but after Mi was born, Mum and Dad bought a house with views from the top storey. When we were there, I spent most days at the surf or bay beach, depending on the conditions. Sometimes Mum let me ask Bash and Coop to come and stay. Hope she didn't this year.

The silence stretched between Dad and I until it felt taut.

Dad spoke first. “So I've been looking into buying the family a jet ski for Christmas. What do you reckon?”

That would be amazing! “Okay, I guess.”

Dad uncrossed and crossed his legs. “It'd come with rules. Safety rules.”

“Fair enough.”

The air between us prickled.

“Alex, yesterday …”

My whole body tensed.

“… the grounding stands. You can't treat your mum like that. But training and work, well, they're commitments. You are still to do both. But straight there and back home. Okay?”

“Yeah.” I traced the beer label with my finger.

“Good.” Dad drained his beer. “Well, I better tuck Mia in.” He wriggled off the chair. “Bloody awkward thing.”

“Thanks for the beer.”

I stared at the green hedge and wondered what the hell had just happened.

Mum sits on the chair Jenny brought in for Melinda. When was that? Ten minutes ago? An hour ago? A day ago? The painkillers make everything wispy, like trails of a spider's web on the wind.

“Harvey sends his love. He's trying out for the school cricket team. Isn't that terrific?”

Cricket? What about basketball? Harv loves it. But then cricket is what Dad did and Ethan does, so I guess he had no choice. “Hmmm.”

“He can't decide if he'd rather be a bowler or a wicketkeeper. I suggested he do both, but he and Ethan howled me down.”

Maybe if I close my eyes, she'll stop.

“Dad wants to know if you need anything.”

As far as I can remember, Dad hadn't been in to see me – maybe once.

“A book? Special food? That chocolate bar you love … what is it again?”

“I hate chocolate.”

“Yes, that's right. Ethan has the sweet tooth.”

“When's Dad coming in?” Who'd have thought I'd want him to visit? But for some weird reason I need to see him and Harvey and even Ethan.

Mum folds her hands in her lap. “He's very busy at work, Alex. He has a new site manager and …”

“Right. He's avoiding me.”

She won't look at my face. “That's crazy, Alex. Why on earth would he be avoiding you?”

I pat the bed, feeling for the control switch.

“What do you need?” Mum leaps to her feet.

My fingers close around the cord. I tug the control to my hand. “Nothing.” I press the button to lower the bed.

Mum moves to inspect the flowers scattered on the shelf, cabinet and floor by the windows. “Aren't people thoughtful?”

I groan. Yeah, like flowers fix everything.

“What can I do? Do you need something?”

“Sleep.” I close my eyes …

My eyes still heavy from sleep, I dumped my toast and Vegemite on the kitchen table and sat opposite Mia. She held a spoonful of honey above her bowl of Weet-Bix. Face a mask of concentration, she watched the honey drizzle onto the cereal in a thin stream. She lowered the spoon and the stream thickened. She raised her eyebrows as though she'd discovered something.

Mum bustled into the room, all clanking jewellery and rustling clothes, blanketed by the cloud of her spicy perfume.

“Mia,” snapped Mum. “Don't play with your food.” She shot me a “you're older, you should have stopped her” look. She pulled tissues from the box and shoved them into her handbag.

“Meeting?”

“Two today.” She was oblivious to the bitterness dripping from my words. “The Sudanese Resettlement Committee morning tea and a luncheon for the Tibetan orphanage.” She tucked her bag under her arm and kissed Mia on her chubby cheek.

“You or Sally-Anne driving?”

She glared. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Mum knew exactly what I meant. After last month's Tibetan orphanage luncheon, Sally-Anne was picked up and charged for drink-driving while taking Mum home. Dad had to pick them up on the freeway. She was as hammered as her friend. Great help to the Tibetan orphans.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot Sally-Anne got busted for drink-driving.” I bit my toast.

Mum glared at me and smoothed Mia's tussled hair. “Make sure Mia brushes her hair. And if you're going anywhere, that she wears matching clothes.”

“'Cos that matters.”

Mum's eyes narrowed. “As a matter of fact, Alex, it does. A great deal. We can't have people thinking Mia is an unloved street urchin, can we?”

“That would be the worst.”

She frowned then snatched the keys from the hook by the fridge. “I should be home by four.”

Mia looked up from her cereal, which she was now breaking into pieces with her spoon. “Alex is taking me swimming again today, aren't you, Alex?”

“Sure am, Mi.”

“I thought you told your father you'd finish that essay Mr Anderson emailed him.”

Dad had arranged for Anderson to “keep him abreast of my progress” which meant Anderson sent Dad every piece of work we had the day he gave it to us in class. Dad didn't bother looking at due dates, he just demanded I finish the work before school the next day. At least Anderson had given us the latest essay Friday, which gave me two days to do it.

I concentrated on the swirl of Vegemite and margarine on my toast. “I can do both.”

“I don't see why you can't teach Mia in our pool.”

Yeah, and I don't see why you haven't booked her in for lessons before now. “Better equipment at the rec centre.”

Mum reached into her bag. “Take my credit card and buy what you need.”

“Buy it” was Mum's answer to everything. “It's not the stuff, Mum. The rec centre pools have different depths, which are better for Mia.”

Mum tapped the bench with one finger. “All right then. Take good care of her, Alex.”

“Mum.” I rolled my eyes.

I heard the smack of her lips and the puff of air that comes with the kiss I know she had blown.

Time moves at sloth-like speed in hospital. You actually look forward to meals. The arrival of food, even bland, rubbery food, somehow proves that time isn't frozen. All I seem to do here is sleep, eat, sit, lie or think. I can't listen to music or play games because my iPod was smashed in the accident and watching TV makes me feel nauseous. Reading, even flicking through the magazines Mum brought in, makes my head hurt and eyes blur. The magazines are piled abandoned, on the overbed table.

I asked Mr Dobson about the blurring and concentration yesterday when he and his loyal subjects visited. He reckons it will improve with time. Well, I have plenty of that.

“Aren't these gorgeous?” A nurse appears in the doorway. At least I figure there's a nurse behind the huge box of lilies, irises and green stuff. All I can see are her hands holding the box, navy trousers and shoes. She rests the arrangement on the table and with her free hand, passes me an envelope. “Where shall we put them?”

I read the card. Mark and June Zimmerman. Dad's friends. I toss it into the cabinet drawer. “Actually, why don't you put them where the nurses hang out?”

The nurse looks from me to the garden she's holding. “But …”

“Come on, look at this place.” I smile. “I'll make sure Mum sees the card when she visits.”

“Well, you are tight for room,” she says, glancing around. “Okay. Thanks.” She grins and waddles out, holding the box in front of her.

I stare into space, the wall opposite a white blur and end up focussing on the shelf above my roommate's head. There are two cards – one handmade with what looks like rabbits on the front, the other has balloons on it. A bunch of daisies, lavender and roses stuffed in a coffee jar, sit on the bedside cabinet.

In the bed, the girl called Mackie lies on her back, sheets pulled tight across her chest, thin arms on top of the bedspread. A tube hooks her to a bag of clear fluid and a pump like the one I had before the drip was taken out. Her arms and face are as white as the bandage that swathes her head. Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes sunken.

“So what happened to you, Mackie?” I say aloud.

I'm trying to remember if Mackie has had any visitors when an ache begins in my head and spreads to my ribs. I slip back down the bed so I'm lying flat.

The nurse who brought the flowers a moment ago enters the room wheeling the blood pressure monitor behind her. “Time for obs,” she says.

While she measures, counts and records, she chats about the night netball game she played last night. Care factor? Zero.

My head feels like it's being crushed between a giant's hands, and my ribs hurt so much I can only take shallow breaths.

She studies me for a moment. “Are you in pain?”

“Yeah. Bit.”

“I'll grab you something for that.”

She returns with another younger nurse. This nurse has her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, the way Tilly wears hers at work. She twists her lips as she reads the name and number from my identity bracelet aloud to the flower nurse.

Tilly twists her lips the same way when she's thinking.

Flower nurse hands me a glass of water and a small plastic cup holding two tablets. I gulp the water, swallow the tablets and lie back on the pillow.

Tilly.

Tilly.

The curve of her neck disappearing beneath her polo shirt.

The hollow at the base of her throat.

The dimple on her left cheek when she smiles.

The crinkles on her forehead when trying on ten thousand pairs of identical skinny leg jeans.

The tilt of her head when she asked as many questions about each pair of jeans.

“Okay from the back?” “What about red? Or is the green better?” “Does my butt look huge in this?”

The curl of her lip when she hands all the jeans to the changing room assistant.

The warmth of her hand in mine as we walked along the beach.

The toss of her hair when she stormed from my room after I dumped her, the night before the funeral.

I didn't want to break up with Tilly, but I had to. It wasn't that I didn't love her any more. I did. It was because the last thing I needed then was Tilly stuck to my side, patting my knee and asking every ten seconds if I was okay.

Actually, it was more than that. I didn't deserve to breathe in her vanilla scent or feel the softness of her thigh against mine.

I didn't deserve anything good.

Not after what happened.

It's late afternoon, judging by the gloomy sky beyond the window. I press the button to raise the bed. Across from me, a woman holds Mackie's hand and chats to her. The woman's voice is low and steady, but too quiet for me to hear what she's saying.

I pour a glass of water from the plastic jug and watch. The woman has a book, like a scrapbook only bigger, which is covered in what looks like fabric. She's showing it to Mackie the way a teacher holds a picture book when reading it to kids.

The woman turns as she senses me watching. “Hello, I'm Mackie's mum, Vicky.”

“Alex.”

She smiles. Her face is pale and drawn and her greying hair pulled into a ponytail. “I brought in Mackie's scrapbook.” She turns the scrapbook so I can see a page covered in pictures of dresses. “She's really creative. Makes her own clothes and paints and sketches too. She wants to be a florist and an interior …” Vicky's voice trails off.

“Must be good to be arty. I'm not much good at anything really. Except stuffing up.” I'm surprised by the wave of self pity that has engulfed me.