You Don't Even Know (11 page)

I told myself he had forgotten something – or had to go the loo. But he emerged five minutes later, dressed and holding his gym bag. He walked straight out of the pool area, past Jessica on the desk and out the front door.

Sunlight bathes my bed. Beyond the grey balcony I can see treetops, buildings, traffic and the ocean.

“You're moving today,” says a nurse I haven't met. She pushes a trolley with the blood pressure monitor and other medical stuff in front of her.

I sit straighter in the bed. “How come?”

“There will be a single room vacant this afternoon.”

“But I don't want to move. I'm happy here.” I glance at Mackie, then jerk my head to the window. “I like the view.”

The nurse shrugs. “I'm only delivering the message.” She unfolds the grey cuff and nods for me to raise my arm.

“When is Mr Dobson coming?”

“He's on the ward now.” The cuff inflates. The nurse watches the numbers rise then fall and writes in the folder that's kept at the end of my bed. “Let's get you into the shower.”

“No!”

The nurse jumps.

“Not until I see Mr Dobson. If I have a shower, I'll miss him.”

She scowls. “Have it your way.” She leaves, lips tight and bum wobbling.

I close my eyes and wait.

A woman's voice fills the silence in my head.

“The waiting is the hardest part.”

What bullshit. It's the easiest bit, because while you wait, before you're told what's going on, there is still hope.

What's that thing Grandpa used to say? Where there's hope, there's life. Or is it where there's life, there's hope. Whatever.

We – Dad, Mum and me were in that room close to emergency when that stupid social worker or nurse, or whatever the hell psycho she was, came in. The first thing she said was, “The waiting is the hardest part.”

Complete bullshit. But at the time I was too stunned to speak.

The point is, Grandpa was right and that idiot was wrong. Way wrong.

This is the hardest part, not the waiting. The waiting was a splinter in my thumb, a hangnail on my index finger. This emptiness, this grinding ache, is the very worst part. That and the huge gap in my soul.

I saw this movie once – lots of half-naked people running through the jungle killing each other with primitive weapons. I can't remember what it was called. Anyway, at one stage, this guy, a chief I guess because he had more feathers in his hat and more paint on his body than anyone else, ripped the heart out of a young guy while he was still alive.

That's what every day feels like.

That's the hardest part.

Not the waiting.

There's bustling outside the door. Shadows fill the doorway. Dobson and his gaggle of students are about to enter. I shuffle to the chair. I want to be out of bed when I talk to him.

The rustle of clothes and the tap of heels announce their arrival. They stride past me to Mackie. A girl with cropped hair pulls the curtain around them. As the gap closes, I see sunshine nurse, Jenny, amongst the doctors. She smiles at me.

Surprised at how tall and stiff I'd been holding myself I slump in the seat. The moment I do, my ribs scream in pain. If I wanted to, I could eavesdrop and work out what's going on with Mackie. But I don't. I can't. Reading her journal is bad enough.

As I wait, my knee jiggles and my thumb beats a frantic rhythm on the chair's armrest.

The curtains open and Mr Dobson, flanked by student doctors and medical people, strides towards me. One of the guys closes the curtains around my bed. There must be eight of them, but it feels like one hundred.

Mr Dobson stands in front of me. A girl with huge glasses watches me with disturbingly distorted eyes and takes the folder from the end of my bed.

“How does it feel to be sitting up?” asks Mr Dobson.

“Yeah, good. Ribs hurt a bit.”

“Dizziness?”

“When I first sit or stand. It passes.”

“And how is your head?”

“Not too bad. Kills sometimes, but most of the time it's okay.”

“Blurred vision?”

“When I'm tired.”

Mr Dobson nods to the girl reading. “Annika, fill us in, please.”

She bursts into medical speak about obs, fluids and medication. She doesn't mention my name. She closes the folder and places it back in the box at the end of the bed.

“Alex.”

All faces turn to me.

“My name is Alex. In case you were wondering.”

Annika's eyebrows rise.

“How are you going emotionally, Alex?” asks a guy wearing a purple cardigan.

“Fine.”

“You've sent your flowers to the other side of the room. Why?”

“Figured the other side could use colour.” I shrug. “I had heaps.”

“Are you giving other things away?” he asks.

“Why would I?”

Everyone, except Mr Dobson, scribbles on their clipboards.

I want to scream, knock their pens and stupid folders out of their hands. Only my head has started to throb again and my ribs won't let me move.

“It was a lovely gesture, Alex,” says Jenny.

“Yes, it is,” says the purple cardigan guy.

The same guy who closed them rips the curtains open and the group takes a step to move to the next room.

I clear my throat. “Mr Dobson.”

They stop.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” The surgeon sits on my unmade bed. His groupies watch, eyes full of questions.

“Just you, if it's okay.”

Mr Dobson nods and they bustle from the room.

“Is it all right if I stay, Alex?” says Jenny, at the end of the bed. “You're supposed to have a nurse here to make sure you understand all that is said.”

“Yeah, fine.” I feel like I'm being stabbed in the side, but I have to do this. “Mr Dobson, that nurse who came in today. She said I was moving to a single room.”

Mr Dobson's nod is slow. “As requested.”

“But I didn't request anything. I like being in here with … I like the view.”

Mr Dobson's grey eyes seem to look through my skin. “Alex, your parents, at least your mother, came and asked me if you could have your own room. She feels you–”

“My parents wouldn't know my arse from my head.”

Mr Dobson laughs.

I look at my lap. “I'm sorry. That was rude.”

“Why do you want to stay in here, Alex?” asks Jenny.

“The view, and the sunshine.”

“No, really,” says Mr Dobson.

I take a slow breath and look straight into Mr Dobson's grey eyes. “For real?”

He nods.

“I like hanging out with Mackie, so she has company.” It sounds weird. Creepy weird. Wrong. “Look, I'm not a psycho or deviant or anything.” Next thing I'm crapping on, words flowing from me like water from a tap. “She doesn't have many visitors, and I figure she's been pretty crook and could do with …”

Pain pounds in both my head and ribs.

“Hurting?” asks Mr Dobson.

My smile is weak.

“Jenny will help you back into bed.”

He stands to leave.

“So, can I stay in this room?”

“I'll do you a deal. Talk to someone from psych, and I'll handle your parents.”

“Not that Melinda.”

Dobson glances at Jenny and says, “Paul would be a better fit, I think.”

“And you'll tell my parents I have to stay. In this room?”

Mr Dobson smooths his shirt. “Rest, Alex. You look exhausted.”

“I'll catch up in a moment, Mike,” says Jenny. She places her arm around my back and helps me stand. “Easy now, Alex.”

“Jenny, he doesn't think I'm a weirdo, does he?”

She helps me onto the bed and pulls the covers to my chest. “Far from it, Alex. You just proved a point for him.”

“How?”

“Talk to you later.” She winks and is gone.

My breath out is long and slow. I'm not rapt about talking to a counsellor, but if it means I can stay here, it'll be worth it.

I wriggle and wiggle, shuffle and squirm, but can't get comfortable. Next thing I'm standing by Mackie's bed, flipping through her scrapbook. I stop at the page after her updated list of things to do. Three massive handwritten numbers – 2, 7, 22 – fill the page. They're stuck down, but in true Mackie form, not completely. I peel back the edge of the paper. Scrawled in pencil is a mass of writing. I take the scrapbook to the chair and read.

2, 7, 22

Two years, seven months and twenty-two days. That's how long this has been going on. MRIs, CAT scans, ultrasounds, so many blood tests and needles that I feel like a colander
.

I'm not complaining about all of that, it's just what I have to do. The bit that shits me to tears is what happened six months ago
.

ALL CLEAR
.

When Dr Stevenson said those two words, I could have flapped my arms and flown out of the doctor's surgery, down the corridor and soared way above the hospital into the perfect blue sky. I wish I had. Instead I sat there grinning, believing him, planning what I would do first
.

Tell Granger and Tammy to book that “Swim With the Dolphins” cruise?

Find the nearest helicopter joy ride?

Start making a dress for the school dance
.

Yep, I should have flown away, because a fat lot of good those two words did
.

All clear
.

Six months later – 185 days later to be exact – I'm lying on my bed, waiting for one-thirty, when Tim will take me to The Maxwell Centre for my latest course of chemotherapy. Tim's taking me because Mum has to work and Dad still hasn't got his licence back
.

Actually, it's good Tim is taking me. Being with him will be easier than having Mum fuss and fluff about. He'll muck around on his laptop, send emails, play games with me, or chat about weird stuff, like how polar bears' skin is black and how giraffes don't have a voice box. Who knows where he gets those facts
.

Funny how having to face all this
again
dumps me right back at the very beginning. I can't stop thinking about that time in Dr Stevenson's office when he first said that word
.

Malignant
.

Everything went silent as though someone had dropped a soundproof dome over me. I could see Dr Stevenson, hands clasped on the desk in front of him, mouth moving, moving, but no sound reached me. Instead a string of words rolled through my mind
.

Malignant
.

Malevolent
.

Malicious
.

Malfunction
.

Monumental
.

Then the words stopped, and Dr Stevenson was staring at me, poised expression gone
.

Mum placed a hand on my knee and squeezed
.

“Malignant,” I muttered
.

Dr Stevenson nodded. “I'm so sorry, Mackie.”

“You understand what this means?” asked Dad, his face not as blank as usual
.

I shrugged. “I watch TV.” Like that explained everything
.

“The reality is very different, Mackie.” Dr Stevenson added, his voice soft
.

“Look, tests, needles, chemo, surgery, not necessarily in that order. I get it, okay?” I must have sounded like a complete smart-arse, but I couldn't stop myself
.

Now cancer and chemotherapy is a roller-coaster ride I know too well. I know when to tighten my grip for the bends and when to brace for the drops
.

To make the ride okay, less scary, I need details: dates, times, things I can organise and make happen. Because let's face it, if I didn't sort stuff out, nothing ever happened in my family
.

Mum was flat out rushing from one job to another – currently she has three. Dad couldn't organise his way out of a wet paper bag, even if I ripped a hole in it for him, and Ash would end up in Canberra if I didn't point him in the direction of school every morning
.

When Mum took me to meet the neurosurgeon, Mr Dobson, I reached across his desk and grabbed the notepad and a pen and said, “Give me all the details.”

That was two weeks ago, before the MRI and before I knew exactly what I was facing
.

Two years, seven months and twenty-two days is a bloody long time to be organised. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being brave, of pretending each twist and turn is no big deal
.

Right now all I want is for someone to tell me everything is going to be okay, that I don't have to keep fighting and struggling and pretending. That I don't have to be in charge any more. That I don't have to act as if it doesn't hurt
.

Only thing is, if I stop pretending and organising everyone, what happens?

What happens to them?

What happens to me?

Movement outside the door startles me. I slam the scrapbook shut and shuffle back to bed.

“Tea, coffee or milo, love?” asks the woman pushing the tea trolley.

I choose milo but not the packaged biscuits, and sit back on my bed, hands wrapped around the mug. Thoughts slip through my mind like dry sand through my fingers.

Two years, seven months, twenty-two days.