Eleven Weeks (27 page)

“And that wasn’t the first time a guy had chosen you over me. Hey, even when it came to Mum and Dad, you were allowed to do everything I wasn’t. Everything,” Shae says. “You could stay at friend’s houses when you were fourteen. I had to wait have a guy sleepover till I was eighteen. You went on your first date, solo, at fifteen.”

She doesn’t fill in the blanks. We all remember Shae’s first date at sixteen. The one Dad insisted upon chaperoning.

“The point is, you’ve always been the pretty, fun, blonde one who gets everything just handed to her on a platter—and I’ve had to
work
, Stace. I’ve had to
work
.” Shae slams her fist down on the bed, and I feel it vibrate. “And so I guess maybe, I’ve been a little jealous. Maybe I’ve been meaner than I needed to.”

The crickets continue their overture. My brain starts to work like a rat on a wheel. She doesn’t think I—I tried to hurt myself on purpose, does she? “I didn’t jump in front of the car, Shae. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Oh! I mean, I didn’t necessarily think you tried to kill yourself.” Shae’s answer comes all too quickly. “I just mean—I don’t think you’re a dumb slut, okay? And while I think you would have been a great mum—seriously”—She pauses, and her hand grazes over my knee—“I think you’ll be great at whatever you want to be.”

She … doesn’t hate me?
Her words are full of heart. There’s no venom behind them.

Just Shae.

Just my
sister
.

It’s been so many years since she’s spoken to me like that, that my heart breaks. Tears well in my eyes, and for the zillionth time in the last ten weeks, I start to cry. “The ba”—
Rib stab
—“bies go—o—one,” I sob, each syllable punctuated further by a jut of pain. “So why—am—I—still—so—hormonal?” I gasp each word, doubling over in pain again.

Shae laughs, and shuffles up the bed so she’s sitting beside me. She carefully places her arm around my shoulders, pulling me close so that my head rests against her neck.

“I love you,” she whispers, and kisses the top of my head.

Slowly, my eyes start to drop, the lids getting heavier and heavier, until I can feel sleep pulling at me, trying to drag me under.

“Stacey?”

I fight back to the surface. “Mmm?”

“Just don’t do it with my boss again, okay?”

I whack my hand out and hit her in the ribs.

I’m smiling.

And I know she’s smiling too.

She gets up and leaves my room. I check my phone for the time, noting the lack of messages, and I throw it back on my bedside table. I take a little baby-sized jumpsuit out from under my pillow, along with its rabbit friend.

I sleep.

Half an hour later, I jerk awake. My hair is plastered to my face, my breathing short, sharp gasps.

I take more pain medication. I feel slightly better knowing that there’s hope for Shae and me, but it’s not enough to heal this hole in my heart, this scar that runs deep through my body. Will anything ever be enough?

I swallow the medicine down and it’s a bitter pill to take, but it’s the only way I can find true relief. It’s all I have.

January 30

A
LONG
twenty-two days after the accident, I go back to work. My ribs are still a little sensitive, but they’ve got nothing on my soul. The painkillers are good. They make me feel numb. Numb works.

I don’t know why I decided to come here. After all, I don’t need the money now. I don’t have to save for a crib, or a three-wheeled pram.

I don’t have anything at all.

“Stacey!” Candy rushes out from behind her white fortress and embraces me, wrapping her arms around my body.

“Ow.” I suck in a breath.

“Sorry, darling,” she says, shaking her head. She steps back, her hands still on my shoulders, looking me up and down. “Are you okay?”

Her blue eyes blink. I had already told her and Mischa what had happened to me—well, the CliffsNotes version, anyway. The car accident. The fact that I’d lost my … my small human. It seems such a trivial way to describe what happened, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to them about it all. Not when just saying the word
baby
hurts, like I’m ripping open the wound one more time.

“Getting there.” I smile weakly.

“Morning meditation will do you good.” She smiles and links arms with me, leading me into the Room of Healing—no shit, that is actually what the sign on the door says—where the other six employees are all stretched out on white yoga mats, Mischa in the centre, holding court.

She nods once and tilts her head toward two empty mats in the corner, which Candy and I promptly take. I inch myself down, slowly lowering my back to try and cause minimal rib discomfort. I can’t believe these stupid things can take six weeks to heal …

I ease back and stare at the stark, white ceiling above me. It’s so empty. Such a blank canvas. I swallow back another wave of tears. I wish I knew what happened after life; are we alone? Is there a reason for this, for all this excruciating pain?
Is my baby up there, somewhere? Does it need me?

I choke back a sob.
Please, don’t be needing me, little one. I’m no good to you. No good …

“Now let’s focus on relaxing our muscles …” Mischa starts. I try to relax my feet, but my still tender ankle protests when I give it a nudge.

Instead, I jump ahead to the white light part. Just focus on the white light.

White.

Nothing.

Empty.

Whole.

“Stacey …” The word is soft in my ear, quiet, accompanied by a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I blink, and look around. The room is white, full of white light and—
am I dead?

I blink again. No, the room is just white.

I jolt upright and grasp my ribs, looking around me. Of course. I’m at work. We were meditating.

“Do you need a hand?” Mischa is squatting next to me, a gentle smile on her face.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching out and clasping her arm.

We stand up, and I look around again. The room is empty, the yoga mats all rolled away, bar the one I’d just been sleeping on. Through the window, I see the sun setting in a golden yellow beam behind the trees in the park next door.

“What … what time is it?” I shake my head.

“It’s six o’clock.”

My eyes widen. “Six?”

“Yes.” Mischa nods. “You slept—”

“All day?”

“Mmhmm.”

I probe around in my mind, looking for the panic I feel when I wake up. Why isn’t my breathing short, my throat sore, my forehead clammy?

“I haven’t been able to sleep at home. I’m so sorry,” I say, then quickly start running through the list of horrible things my boss could have seen me do. Did I snore? Drool? Sleep talk? And
why didn’t she wake me up?

“It’s fine, Stacey. A lot of people who go through trauma need to open their minds through meditation to help come out the other side.”

Ten weeks ago, I would have scoffed at Mischa’s words. Hell, even four weeks ago, I would have giggled.

But now, they make perfect sense.

Now, they seem right.

Because I haven’t slept so peacefully in a very long while.

It still hurts, aches, stings like a goddamn bee when I think about it all. But at least my eyes aren’t throbbing.

It’s a start.

Dear Small Human,

Why?

P
lease, please don’t be needing me right now. I want to be with you so badly, but I know I shouldn’t. I can’t.

I love you.

Mum xx

February 1

I
T’S BEEN
three days, and still no response from Michael. I’m not really surprised. I heard he’d joined Coal—well, I read an article in the local newspaper to that effect—and I guess he is busy being famous, or a rock star, or something. Something more appealing than chasing after the girl who decided too late she couldn’t live without him.

Hindsight is a beautiful thing. Looking back, I wish I’d possessed more of it. I wish I’d taken the opportunity when I had the chance.

The pain still throbs in my chest. It feels like I’m floating, existing in this make-believe world, but things are going to have to get real, pretty soon. I guess that’s the benefit of hitting rock-bottom. The only place you can go is up.

At least I have something to keep me busy. Kate has organised an art exhibition in honour of Lachlan, so little craft activities have kept me occupied while I’ve been lying in bed. They’ve been a godsend. It’s amazing how focused you can be when you don’t have to
think
. When you don’t have to
feel
.

“Knock, knock,” I call, rapping on the door.

Seconds later it opens and there is Kate. She’s wearing a blue tank today with her black denim shorts. But that’s not what changes her outfit, though. It’s the smile on her face. It’s not a grin; and it’s certainly not ear-to-ear. But it’s there, nonetheless. I think back to when I last saw her, a little more than three weeks ago.

I drop the box I’m holding and launch myself at her, throwing my arms around her neck as I hold her close, even though my rib is hating me for it.

“You are just …” I shake my head. “Awesome.”

She giggles. “Awesome enough for you to quit stepping on my toes?”

“Sorry!” I dance back, and this time I double over as pain shoots through my ribs. Honestly, at least with a broken arm, it would be in a cast. Everything I do seems to set these suckers off.

“Are you okay?” Kate rests her hand on my back and I wince again, trying to pretend like that side of my ribs isn’t connected to the side that’s quietly trying to play voodoo doll with my lungs.

“Okay,” I hiss. “Let’s just … go inside.” I manage to get the words out.

Kate picks up the cardboard box and stumbles into her lounge room, stretching out on the couch. The curtains are open, allowing the summer light to shine through, and the air conditioner is on, thank goodness. It washes over me in a delicious cooling wave.