Trust (40 page)

‘Very impressive, Andrew,’ he said, sitting back, finally sated with information. ‘I had no idea that a paramedic’s training involved all this.’

‘It doesn’t, really,’ said Andrew in his easy, unfussed way. ‘More that a cycling mate of mine got hit by a car a couple of years ago, and we’ve formed a rehab team, working with him. You get pretty involved. I have, anyhow.’

Gerry nodded several times, looking at Andrew thoughtfully. ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘That’s great to hear.’

When Andrew was out of the room, Seb said, ‘You like him. Don’t you?’

‘I do, I do. He’s smart, he’s focused, he’s knowledgeable. I reckon he’s just the bloke to get you motivated again, young Sebbie.’ Gerry grinned. ‘I’ll put money on him having you back on the courts inside a month.’

Wordlessly, Seb asked his mother’s opinion. She’d been listening to Gerry; now she gave a little half-smiling shrug, nodding several times, and then Andrew re-entered the room. ‘Apricot tart?’ she asked, rising.

When they were all eating dessert, she asked politely, ‘So, Andrew: what made you decide to become an ambulance driver?’

‘Well,’ said Andrew, leaning forward, and Seb saw the wicked glimmer in his eye, behind the sober metal-framed glasses. ‘I always wanted a job where I get to turn on a big loud siren and drive really fast through red lights. I thought about becoming a copper, but I didn’t want to go through life with everybody hating me.’

For a moment Gerry and Susanna both stared at him, mouths-open, spoons half-raised – then Gerry gave a short shout of laughter, and they all cracked up.

‘Sorry,’ Andrew said, still completely straight-faced. ‘That was my evil twin speaking.’

Susanna giggled. ‘Could the non-evil twin tell us, then?’ she said. ‘Seriously.’

He nodded. ‘Seriously, then: it was because of me brother. He has severe epileptic seizures, our Craig. They’d happen anywhere: school, shops, on the bus. They were pretty full-on; bit frightening for most folk, but when I was still a little feller I realised I had no problem dealing with ’em, whatsoever. One time we were on holidays in Majorca and Craig had a seizure while we were in the swimming pool. It was really early in the morning, just him and me, no one else around, and I was able to hold him up and get him to the side. I saved his life; I knew I had. Mum and Dad were that proud of me – I liked that.’

‘Wow!’ said Seb. ‘How old were you?’

‘Eight or nine.’

‘I’d have been proud of you too,’ said Susanna. ‘So you decided saving people’s lives was your … vocation, when you were only eight or nine?’

‘Aye. Joined the St John’s Ambulance Brigade: cute little junior cadet, I was. Long way from that to being a qualified ambulance paramedic, though.’

‘And when
did
you qualify?’

‘A year and a half ago. Still the cute little junior on our team,’ Andrew said, with a big cheesy grin.

By the end of the meal, Seb had the distinct impression they would
all
like to go away for the weekend with Andrew.

They drove down the highway with the Cat Empire’s first CD blasting out of the sound system, singing their heads off to ‘How to Explain?’. When they got to the bit about having all the pairs – of hands for climbing, knees to spring, balls for strength and lungs to sing – Seb stretched out in the passenger seat giving double air-punches to the sky, and as they rounded the corner of the South Gippsland Highway at Kilcunda and got that first stunning view of the mighty ocean, they were bellowing, ‘
Music is the language of us all!
’ into the wind.

‘You know what I was just thinking?’ Seb said after they’d stopped in Korumburra for a couple of pies and a milkshake, and were back on the road, burping. ‘I was thinking how weird it is that if it hadn’t been for the car crash I never would have met you. And that means somehow that the accident wasn’t a totally terrible thing. I mean it
was
, obviously it was. My grandma got killed and my sister nearly did too. But here I am, on the way to Venus Bay on a sunny day, and I’m with you and I am so fucking
happy
!’

‘That’s good,’ said Andrew in his might-be-ironic way.

‘
Rah!
’ yelled Seb, a roar of joy. ‘
Raaaah!
’ Suddenly he stopped. ‘Is it good? Or do you think it’s weird?’

‘It’s good, and it’s weird, and it’s also true, but most of all it’s bloody fantastic.’

‘Yeah! My auntie would probably say it was all part of god’s plan or something. I don’t believe that stuff, or that things are “meant to be”, even, like some people say. But it’s just —’ Seb narrowed his eyes, trying to sort it out ‘— it’s just
amazing
how you can feel all these radically different ways about one single thing that’s happened. Or one single person.’

‘Ah, yes. Ordinary life, Marlon, in all its quivering complexity,’ said Andrew, and Seb turned the sound system back on. They let the music fill the last part of their journey.

When they arrived at the Venus Bay house, a plain weekender elevated among the ti-tree and banksia on a sandy, sloping block, the half-dozen people on the deck of the house all turned to look, then waved and yelled greetings. Seb felt a moment of awful shyness. ‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered, but Andrew gave him an encouraging wink and then they were walking up the steps and he was being introduced. There was Johnny, the mate of Andrew’s who’d had the cycling accident (Seb noticed the two crutch-like sticks he used for walking) and his boyfriend, plus his sister and her husband, who were the owners of the house, and another gay couple, and two German girls who’d been hitchhiking and been invited to join the party. It became apparent that Andrew had told his friends about Seb; they’d been looking forward to meeting him, and were curious, in a friendly way, to see what he was like, which he found simultaneously flattering and nerve-racking.

They drank a few beers, they talked; a few of them went for a walk on the beach with a black dog that barked madly at wheeling seagulls. Back at the house, a barbecue had been set up; they ate, drank a few more beers. Dusk fell, and an impromptu joke-telling competition sprang up, of which the German girls, unexpectedly, were the outright winners. A couple of joints went round. Johnny’s sister played the ukelele and sang ‘If You Like a Ukelele Lady’ with a red hibiscus tucked behind one ear and a winsome smile, and then accompanied her brother who sang ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’ with cheesy vocal flourishes. Then Andrew turned off all the lights but one, so that he was spotlit on the verandah, and produced a set of soft colourful juggling balls, adding to them one at a time till he was juggling six at once and everyone was cheering wildly.

Seb lay on his back on the grass and saw two shooting stars and thought he had never been happier in his life, until Andrew came over and hunkered down beside him and said, ‘How are you doing there, Marlon?’, and Seb grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him down and they kissed and they kissed, and Seb knew that he was happier still than he had been just minutes before.

There was a small bungalow out the back of the house; that’s where they were sleeping. ‘Look at this,’ said Andrew as he lit candles. ‘The great romantic, me.’

Seb was lying back in jeans and a T-shirt, a little bit zonked but not too much, just gazing at the sculpted lines of Andrew’s tall, lean body. ‘Romantic’s good,’ he said dreamily. ‘It’s all good. Better than good.’

‘Sebastian.’ Andrew sat down on the edge of the bed, solemn-faced, the candlelight reflecting in the lenses of his glasses.

‘Can you see me if you take them off?’ Seb asked, lifting a hand toward the glasses.

‘Sebastian,’ said Andrew again, seriously, moving his head back out of range. ‘Listen. I want you to understand: we don’t have to do anything. We can just sleep. We don’t have to —’

‘Shut up,’ Seb said. He pulled his T-shirt off, then leaned forward and tugged at Andrew’s. Andrew drew in a quivering breath and took his shirt off. Seb lay his left hand flat, palm down, over the ridge of Andrew’s collarbone and drew it down over his chest, evenly, over his nipples and ribs and stomach. ‘Oh,’ he murmured, ‘fuck.’ He did it again, this time twinning the long, slow touch with his right hand on his own chest. The sensation was dizzying, overwhelming; he had to close his eyes. It was like coming to a place he’d never been before and finding it utterly and beautifully familiar; like coming home. He took Andrew’s hand and laid it over his own crotch, pressed it down.

The sound of music came from the house. Were they singing, in there? It sounded fresh, and wonderful, like people who didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Do you hear that?’ he asked Andrew.

‘The music? I do.’ Andrew took off his glasses.

‘You see me?’ Seb breathed.

‘I see you.’

THIRTY-FIVE

Crazy shit
, thought Stella-Jean as she lay in bed, waiting for the next lot of therapy – occupational, physical, speech, recreational, whatever was up next. How could she believe stuff had happened when she had absolutely no memory of it? How was she supposed to get her head around all the impossible things people had told her?
It’s like being in one of those dodgem cars, trying to zoom around really fast while other cars keep crashing into you.
You were in a real car crash –
bang! –
and Jeejee got killed –
bang!
You weren’t in Bali at all, you were in a coma for a month –
bang!
– and now you can’t walk or talk properly –
bang! bang!
Oh, and by the way, while you were out to it, almost two hundred people got burnt to death, just outside of good old safe Melbourne, the city you’ve lived in all your life.
What?

And the one thing she could remember apparently hadn’t happened. Someone tried to drown Finn.
No they didn’t, Finn’s fine.
But he told me.
You told me, didn’t you Finnster?
Finn shaking his head,
no, I never said anything
. Very, very weird. She was going to have to sort it out. Get up, get walking, get talking, and get to the bottom of what was going on.
And don’t tell me it’s just confusion because of the TBI
, Stella-Jean felt like yelling. Yes, her memory had holes in it and yes, bright light gave her a shocking headache and yes, when she tried to talk it was like there was a wet sock in her mouth, but Finn was lying and she
knew
something was badly wrong.

Seb was visiting. He watched her transfer herself laboriously into the wheelchair, then he walked slowly alongside her down the corridor, with his friend Andrew. Andrew the Ambo. They had a thing going on, she knew they did. Andrew was cute; she liked him.

The therapist had to help her get up out of the wheelchair and on to the walking machine. ‘Come on, Stell,’ Seb called from where he was leaning against the wall. ‘You’re supposed to be coming home this week. What, you expect us to carry you over the threshhold or something?’

‘Shu’ up,’ Stella-Jean grunted. No
way
was she going to get carried in!

‘You’re doing really well, Stella-Jean, you’re doing fantastic,’ the physical therapist crooned. This was the nice therapist, who always said sweet, encouraging things. Bit drippy, actually. ‘You’re our brightest little star, you really are.’

‘You’ll never motivate her that way,’ said Seb. ‘Tell her she’s pathetic, that’ll get her going.’

I’m going to get off this thing and punch you in the nose
, said Stella-Jean’s look, and he beamed at her, delighted. She picked her feet up, working her kitten-weak leg muscles for all they were worth.
Just you wait
.

Cute Andrew just shook his head and smiled quietly to himself.

She swung her legs out of the car, gripped the handles of the walking frame and hauled herself up. Along, just a couple of metres: that seemed to take about five minutes. And now those three steps, up to the front porch. Mum was standing at the top, wanting so badly to help her up those stairs; Stella-Jean could feel the power of Susanna’s want coming at her. She shot her mother a warning look,
Don’t
, and saw her dad put his arm firmly around Mum’s shoulders. Dad understood; good. In between each step, Stella-Jean leaned her weight onto the frame, breathing hard.
Three crappy little steps
, she thought.
You’re not going to beat me
.

‘Nice work, Stell,’ her dad said casually when Stella-Jean made it to the front door, and she lifted her head and flashed her parents a grin of pure, naked triumph.

A few nights later, Susanna lay in bed picturing that grin. It was so like Gerry’s own, and recognising how much of Gerry was in their daughter gave her heart. Having his driving will, his sense of purpose, would help Stella-Jean deal with all that lay ahead of her.

She was lying with her husband’s sleeping arms close around her. It was becoming uncomfortable, but she was not yet ready to move from his embrace; she felt polite with him, and a little nervous, as though he were a stranger.
Making love to strangers
– she could hear that line, sung in a wistful male voice, but couldn’t place the song. Except that she and Gerry weren’t strangers; coming together again had been more like a meeting between old schoolfriends, someone you’d once been close to and weren’t sure if you could be again. But they – their bodies – were becoming more familiar to each other each time.

It had been reading Jean’s letter of forgiveness – a week ago? No, longer: almost two – that had made her see she must stop turning away from Gerry. What good would staying closed and angry do? Better, surely, to embark on that journey of forgiveness, as her mother had. She remembered Jean at the book group meeting saying, ‘I don’t know anything about forgiveness,’ but she’d found a way. Susanna resolved to do the same, to find her way to forgiving Gerry and putting his betrayals behind them, but it wasn’t easy. Even while they were in the midst of sex, even while, having put in maximum effort, she was coming, she felt self-conscious. Even though he called her his sweet little pigeon and said nice things about her body, part of her wanted to demand,
How do I compare to all those other women? Are they better in bed than me? What did you do with them, that we don’t?