The Scent of Apples (7 page)

I hear voices in the foyer and then footsteps coming towards my room. A tapping on my door and Dad's voice.

‘We have to go now, Libby. Do you want to come … or at least say goodbye?'

I ignore him. I won't ever say goodbye.

After a while I hear his footsteps going back down the stairs.

The crunch of the gravel makes me peek through the curtains, just in time to see the car driving away.

Toby stands beside the driveway with his hat held in front of him, like I'd seen his grandfather do. We both watch the tail-lights on the car disappear. When he looks up at my window, I quickly step back.

As far back as I can remember, Nan was my official story-teller. When she told me stories, real or made up, her hands would fly around, and I learnt to duck and weave like a professional boxer. She would hold onto the end of words for so long I wanted to shake her to get the next one out.

She must have read
Alice in Wonderland
to me about forty times. When they drove off with Nan, just like Alice, I jumped down a rabbit hole and spiralled through a tunnel. There was no one to call me back.

I lie on my bed and pull at my hair. I am Alice: I take myself to a world separate from anyone else.

I am so absorbed with my hair-pulling that I don't notice my bedroom door open. Mum's voice right beside my bed hits me like a thunderbolt. For a moment I straddle both worlds. Mum's mouth is moving up and down rapidly, but I can't make sense of the words.

I sit up so fast that it makes my head spin, and raise my hands to hide my head. The look on Mum's face tells me that it's too late.

‘What on earth is going on here? What's happened to your hair?' she screams at me. She whips back my duvet cover like I might be hiding something under there too.

I want to curl into a ball but I can't move. Shame freezes my limbs.

Mum's fingers are on top of my head, pulling and pushing hair aside to inspect my scalp.

‘For God's sake, Elizabeth! What's wrong with you?' I can hear the hysteria rising in her voice.

I shake my head from side to side.

‘You must have something to say! People don't just decide to pull their hair out. How long have you been doing this?'

I don't answer.

‘Does anyone else know about this?'

I say nothing.

She looks down at me.

‘Right. You stay in your room until I can work out what to do with you. Do you understand?'

I nod.

She turns from me and I hear footsteps move away and a door slam.

*

Dad is on his way to Auckland, where he'll be for the week. I know Mum won't phone him until she has a plan. She'll be hoping to have me all sorted out by the time he gets back.

I read somewhere that seventy percent of the human body is made up of water. In this moment the only thing that I'm made of is shame.

A tiny bit of me feels relief at being caught. I've been treading water while cradling a heavy anchor. At some point I would either have to let go or be taken under.

I don't know how much later it is when Mum bursts back into my room. The door bangs against the wall with the force of her hand.

‘I've been trying to work out why you would do such a thing. It just doesn't make sense.' She shakes her head. ‘It doesn't matter why. We need to get you some help with your mental problems.'

I feel my jaw drop. Even though I've questioned my own sanity, I'm shocked by Mum's words.

‘I've made an appointment with a doctor in Auckland. We'll drive up in the morning and be back before nightfall.'

She stops and looks at me. For a moment I think she's going to say something comforting.

‘What you've done to yourself makes me feel sick.' She blows air out of her nose like a dragon.

I shuffle backwards on my bed and press my back into the wall, hoping to put some distance between her words and me. I thought that there was nothing she could say that would make me feel worse than I already did. I was wrong.

*

The night sky offers me some comfort. I lie crooked on my bed with the windows open so I can gaze up into it. I stare at the blanket of stars high above me. I imagine Poppa up there among them. The longer I look, the closer the stars appear. I can almost make believe that our universes are still connected.

In the middle of the night when I still can't sleep, I creep out of the house and into the orchard. The light from the moon helps me to navigate my way through the trees. I follow the orderly rows until I find myself under the old pohutukawa.

I wrap my arms around the trunk and lean my head onto the bark. It still holds the warmth from the day's sunshine. I remember Poppa telling me that all trees hold stories and magic within them. I hope for some of the magic to soak into me.

I look up into the sky.

‘If you're up there Poppa, please make me well.'

The only answer I receive is a rain shower. It sends me scuttling inside.

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The rain and wind lash at the windows. It crosses my mind that this must be how prisoners feel. Trapped inside their thoughts. Waiting for a morning that holds no promise.

I'm bundled into the car under the cover of darkness, like an illegal human package. Grey smoke from the exhaust fumes mixes with the cold morning air and sends up signals about our secret mission.

‘Buckle up.' The corners of Mum's mouth stretch sideways. She stares straight out the front windscreen.

My reflection in the passenger window keeps me company on the long silent drive to Auckland. My thoughts tumble – too fast for me to catch one and hold it long enough to make any sense out of it.

I glance over at Mum. Maybe I could talk to her. Tell her how confused I am. Her knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. Now is definitely not a good time.

We fly along State Highway One. I'm surprised when we take the Takanini off-ramp; we're heading for a suburb on the outskirts of town. I don't know why, but I presumed we were going into the heart of the city.

We dash past houses lining the sides of the streets. A lot of them have weeds that grow wild and tall enough to peek inside the grimy windows. Fridges and prams rust away on the front lawns. It seems that people here just open up their front doors and fling out anything that's no good.

We pull up in front of a building that looks like an afterthought. It's a skinny two-storey building, jammed in between a garage and a scrap-metal factory. Mum gets out of the car first, and I reluctantly follow. The downstairs window has horizontal bars on it. The door beside it has
Consultation rooms of Doctor Vivian
stencilled in black on it, but someone has scratched out most of the letters of ‘Consultation', so it reads
nut rooms of Doctor Vivian
.

Mum makes eye contact with me for the first time today. For a second I think I see doubt in her eyes, but then without a word she grabs my hand and pulls me inside, and then along a narrow corridor.

I want to tug on her hand and pull her away from this horrible building. I want to scream. But I don't. I don't make one sound. Not one tiny little sound. Not even a reflex that tells her I don't want to go in here. But a small part of me is clinging to a life raft; hoping that behind these grimy doors is a cure.

The small waiting room has green plastic chairs pushed up against the wall. Even they look like they don't want to be here. Mum strides up to the counter and leans over like she's telling the receptionist a secret.

‘What did you say your name was?' the receptionist asks in a loud voice.

Mum leans in and whispers it again.

‘OK, Mrs Morgan. Fill out this new patient form and then bring it back.' She slides a clipboard with a pen dangling from some dirty string across the counter.

I sense Mum's discomfort as she takes the only spare seat in the room. I stand by the door. A movie reel in my mind is playing an escape movie, but I'm not brave enough to star in it.

On one side of Mum is a young girl nursing a toddler. The girl can't be much older than me. Her baby has a filthy jumpsuit on and snot crusted around his nose. The girl looks sad. Wedged in on the other side of Mum is an old lady who keeps looking through a worn white handbag that rests on her knee. She continuously mutters to herself as she searches for something.

Mum takes a pen from her handbag and scribbles details on the form. After handing it back to the nurse she goes back to her seat and smoothes out imaginary creases in her skirt. I smile. God, she'd hate it if I told her how much at home she looks in this place.

‘Mrs Morgan. The doctor will see you now.'

I follow Mum in.

The office is small, like the waiting room. The only impressive thing in it is a huge mahogany desk. The doctor sits behind it. His high-backed chair has ornate carvings on it of tigers with jaws wide open and fierce-looking black bears standing on their hind legs.

Doctor Vivian doesn't quite match his furniture or his name. I thought he was going to be a she. His torso only goes half way up the chair. He's like the small man in a circus act. His limbs are stunted, and his fat threatens to spill over the armrests. The way he's wedged in his chair makes it look like a highchair for grown-ups.

‘Take a seat.'

I notice a thin moustache of sweat on his upper lip.

‘So what can we do for you?' He clasps his hands in front of him, directing the question to my mother.

I see her chest rise as she draws in a deep breath, and watch as all the air goes out of it.

‘Elizabeth has taken to mutilating herself.'

Those words pull the doctor forward in his seat. ‘What sort of mutilation?'

‘Well, um …' Mum takes another breath. ‘She pulls her hair out.'

A look that I can only describe as excitement flares on the doctor's podgy face. ‘How long has she been doing this for?'

‘I am here, you know.'

They both look at me. And then ignore me.

‘She says only a few weeks, but to be honest I'm not sure. I've been under enormous pressure. I've had a funeral to organise and a sick mother-in-law to look after, and I've been running a business at the same time. Elizabeth's father has been away through most of it.'

It's my turn to take in a big breath of air. I want to tell the doctor that she's lying about most of it, but Mum surprises me by bursting into tears.

I have never seen her cry.

‘It must be very hard for you.' Dr Vivian passes her a tissue. ‘Looking after someone who's harming themselves takes a big toll on the carer.'

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

Mum sniffs and nods her head in agreement. She dabs at her tears like she's in some old movie.

The doctor swivels around in his chair. His eyes feel like a probe as he squints to look at me. It's like he's trying to work out what species I belong to.

‘Let me see what you've done to yourself.' He frightens me as he jumps off his chair and drags a footstool over to where I'm sitting.

Without another word he pulls the scarf off my head and pushes my head down. His stumpy fingers search around my scalp.

‘Ow, that hurts!'

He ignores me again, and carries on searching like he's on the Big Dig.

I quickly swipe a tear away. I need to take myself somewhere else. I concentrate on the paisley fabric on the chair. I imagine that I'm one of the green coils that looks like a ponga frond. The gold thread swirls around me like sunshine on a gorgeous day. Its rays wrap their protective cloth around me. I start humming silently to myself until I drown out their voices.

*

We leave the offices without me having participated in the discussion at all. Mum has a prescription clutched in her hand.

‘The tranquilisers will work during the day to keep her calm,' the doctor had said, ‘and the sleeping pills should take care of the night. The third one is for you. It's for anxiety, and should ease some of the pressure on you.'

As we make our way to the car, I laugh at my ridiculous hope that we were going to find a cure for me. I wonder if this appointment had ever been about me.

Around the corner we park outside a block of shops. Rubbish is littered over the pavement. Most of the shops have boards or bars over the windows.

‘Wait here.' Mum gets out of the car and strides into the chemist shop. I know it must be killing her to be in such a rundown area. But not as much as it would kill her to have our secret discovered by our local chemist.

An old couple come out of another shop carrying bread and milk. They both smile at me when they notice me sitting in the car. I don't have the energy to smile back. I envy them as I watch them getting on with their day. I close my eyes to try and shut down the thoughts of what a faulty human I am.

It doesn't work.

I'm now officially mad, and I've got the drugs to prove it. Drugs so I can survive the day and drugs to put me to sleep at night.

As soon as Mum is back in the car, she locks the doors, takes the cap off one of the bottles and swallows two pills without any water. She tosses the paper bag over to me. A look of irritation crosses her face as she notices my tears.

‘I'm sorry, Elizabeth, but I'm all out of sympathy. I still can't believe that you'd intentionally disfigure yourself.'

She shoves the car into reverse and pulls back without looking. A car horn blasts, but the driver manages to avoid us.

She gives me the silent treatment all the way home.

*

Poppa and Nan used to have an old record player in their bedroom. When I was little I put on miniature shows for them. The floor was the stage and the bed the place that the audience sat. I dressed up and entertained them with songs and stupid riddles. The one that got them laughing the most was my slow-motion dance.

I'd put a 45 record on the turntable and set the dial to the 78 speed. Imitating the music, I would float around their room in slow motion, mouthing the words slowly as I lifted one limb and then the other.

The drugs make me feel like my inner turntable is set on the wrong speed.

Every day is the same.

I wake but it's like half of me stays asleep. I make myself get up and move about. Then it's lunchtime. Beside my plate are two tranquilisers. I don't get to leave the table until I swallow them. The feeling is the same as if I was drinking concrete. It slowly sets in my body, making thinking and moving hard. Just when it's starting to dissolve, it's time for the sleeping pills.