Peeling the Onion (20 page)

'Not
for
you. Though it's got to be a bonus if I can help your pain, because I love you, and I can't be happy when you're hurting.'
The word 'love' twists through me, warm as his fingers; powerful, sexy little word.

'I'd hate it if you were just doing it because of me.'

'But it probably
is
partly because of you. That's just the way it is; you can't come into somebody's life without changing it—what's happened to you has got to affect me. And I might never have known how good it is, using my hands to help someone, if I hadn't known you.'

As long as he remembers where the person's pain is. Right now those magic hands seem to be having trouble finding my neck—and this place is not exactly private. Any minute now Dad and the kids could appear, exercising their well-trained Ben. 'You'd better not use your hands on anyone else the way you do on me!' I try to push him away, and am filled with such a wave of tenderness that I can't, clinging to him instead, feeling the warmth of his body flood into me as he buries his head against my throat.

I can't believe it's the end of school already; two more sessions of tutors and then exams after that.

Martin's off to the Canary Islands next week, to bring a boat back to Sydney for someone whose lifetime dream of sailing from England to Australia sent him to the edge of a nervous breakdown.

'It's something you can't describe—that combination of mind-numbing boredom and fatigue, occasional terror and the unbelievable, empty loneliness when you're out of sight of land,' Martin explains. 'At least this guy was smart enough to swallow his pride and admit he's strictly a weekend, coastal sailor—better than ending up insane or dead, which I'd say were his options.'

His manuscript has gone to a publisher. It was interesting—especially the bits where he actually wrote his story instead of a how-to-sail manual. I don't know if I'd like the fear and loneliness but he seems to have found his own ways to conquer them.

And he thinks I'm well prepared for the exam next week. I got a B- in the mid-terms, and he thinks I should do better in the final; I'll definitely do Lit next year. Besides, people in books are always dealing with some momentous problem—the difference with real life is that they usually solve it. If I read enough maybe I'll eventually get a clue to my own.

Maths still isn't so easy. The deferred mid-term was a C and the best Lisa's hoping for the final is that I'll add a plus to it.

'My dad thought maybe I could do accounting and go into business with him,' I tell her, mostly to see her reaction.

'Sweet,' she says dismissively. 'Let's face it—the only thing accounting has in its favour, as far as you're concerned, is that you can sit down to do it. I think you can find a better reason than that for your aim in life.'

Speaking of aims in life, she's going back to full-time teaching next year. 'So I won't be able to do any tutoring—I just couldn't have Becky minded again in the evening after being in care all day.'

'What happens if you want to go out for fun?'

She grimaces. 'I'll worry about that if it happens. It hasn't exactly been a problem this year—hey, don't look so worried! Becky's the best thing in my life; did I tell you she's crawling? Oh, look what I just happen to have . . . '

A picture of a baby, wearing nothing but a look of intense concentration, crawling after a bright patchwork ball. Unbelievable how six months have changed a passive baby in a pram to this busy, complete little person.

'You know,' Lisa confides, 'people say there's no such thing as an accidental pregnancy—well, I'm here to tell you there is. We used contraception—and by the time I realised I was pregnant it was too late for an abortion. God, I was angry—I thought my world had ended! You know, I was twenty-six, I loved my work—I was just tossing up whether to do a masters or an exchange year in England; babies were definitely not on my list! But once I had her, none of that mattered—it's not even making the best of things, I really love being a mother. Amazing how life turns out sometimes.'

Something else I didn't know till today is Becky's birthday—she was born on the 29th of January. I didn't ask what time.

A couple of months ago I couldn't have handled it.
Her life started as mine ended
—melodramatic crap, but it's what I'd have thought. Even now I feel cold at the date—but I can't help thinking what a very busy day that was. God must have been humming—here comes Anna, no, too cranky, send her back; how about a little guilt for Trevor and Hayden, a baby for Lisa and a birthday for Becky—plus several million other people around the world dying, being born, losing their jobs and falling in love.

Everyone's got an attack of busy-ness today. Bronwyn and Matt are digging up their bit of garden; Mum's sorting out the vegetable rack in the pantry, where something's died and gone to plant hell.

'Yuck!' she exclaims, chucking a squishily rotten potato into the compost bucket.

She's getting ruthless. Some rubbery carrots follow, and then an onion sprouting a tall green shoot.

Matt grabs the onion. 'Don't throw it out!' he yells. 'We need it for our garden.'

'Will it grow?' Bronwyn asks.

'It already is,' Mum says. 'Just plant it and look after it.'

'Have you thought about social work?' Jenny asks.

'I don't think having problems automatically makes you good at sorting out other people's!'

'But learning to cope might. You're good with people.'

'Me?'

'Don't be stupid! You act as if not being mobile means you don't have anything to offer—remember the night I thought I'd broken up with Costa?'

'I didn't do anything!'

'You kept me sane.'

I'm sprawled on the lawn, gazing up at the sky and the waving branches of the silky oak, heavy with its dark seed pods; the bruised thyme below me scents the air.
Picture of a young woman enjoying the spring sunshine
—as long as you forget that what I actually meant to do was walk across the garden. It was okay until my foot got confused by a twig it thought was a log; it's not a very smart foot.

But this isn't a bad place to lie, now I've got my breath back and checked that nothing's much sorer than usual. Pain's a funny thing anyway. It's still always there, somewhere between a nag and a scream—but suddenly I'm starting to beat it. I can't change what it does to my body, but it doesn't get down into me, into my soul, the way it used to. Maybe that's the difference between pain and suffering. If I never got any better than this, I could still survive.

And I'm going to do more than survive—I'm starting to live! It's hard to see any difference from week to week now, but I'm stronger than I was last month. And after the exams I'm going to Melbourne for a new kind of physio Brian thinks might be useful. 'As long as you're not expecting miracles!' he warned—but I figure everything that helps is a bonus.

Luke's going with me. It runs like a song in the back of my mind, behind everything else that's happening.
Luke's going with me.

Everyone's happy: Mum and Dad figure I'll be safe in the day because Luke won't let me fall off a tram or lie dead in the street, and the three suburbs between Lynda's and Luke's dad's will keep me safe at night. I'm happy because Luke's going to try and sort things out with his dad—and because we're having a holiday together in Melbourne and I don't think my dad's realised how much of each day I have left after physio.

In the parallel universe I used to fantasise about, Trevor Jones stopped at the sign and a healthy Anna went on with her life. She'd have her black belt now and be gearing up for uni next year. But she wouldn't have Luke.

I've dug deep into myself, because if there's any chance that the horrible theory is right and there's a part of me which likes being injured and stops me from getting better, I need to find it and deal with it. But all I've found so far is the part of me that likes being well—and if there's one thing all those doctors' appointments did for me, it's to say that sometimes the damage is real and there's no point pretending it's not there. Recovering slowly doesn't mean I wanted the accident to happen.

So I'm not betraying myself by enjoying any good things that have happened because of it. I can learn and grow from the experience even if I don't believe it was part of some cosmic training scheme.

'Remember what I tried to tell you about the river flowing around the rock?' Luke asks.

'I've learned to flow?' I tease, shifting my weight against him so that my head's supported by his shoulder, staring at the real river flowing past us. I lift my walking stick across my knees and stroke the coloured figures. 'Tell me again what they say.'

'This is the chi; Tai Chi and yin yang; this one's strength.'

'What are the ones on the handle—a whole row all the same?'

'"Fire in the heart"—love.'

'So when I hold the stick I'm holding love?'

'Even when you're not.' And he grins that grin, the one where he looks down at me and my heart slips and I know why I love him.

Love, he said, and strength.
I stroke the handle once more when he leaves, and go in to the phone.

'Trevor? It's Anna Duncan. I'll meet you at the psychologist's office next Friday at two.'

Feel a bit trembly when I hang up; go back to my room and find the poem I wrote for Martin.

The black version is wrong too—if there's nothing inside, it wouldn't hurt so much; there must be someone doing the crying. I write it one last time.

I am

peeling like an onion,

shedding papery protection,

and superficial skin—

tearing, skinning, ripping off the layers—

the firm and curving flesh

of what onions used to be—

Peeling onions makes me cry.

Shrinking down to nothing,

my shells are disappearing

and there's nowhere left to hide.

But under all the layers

—a tiny green shoot sprouting—

I'm growing from inside.