You Don't Even Know (13 page)

“Mate, you hear me?

“Yeah,” I gasped. Tears prickled my eyes. “Miss. Timed. My. Breath.” Still struggling to breathe, I lurched off the lane rope and swam as hard as I could to the deep end. My lungs screamed as I touched the wall. Arms on the pool lip, I puffed and panted until my breathing calmed. The smell of wet concrete mixed with the chlorine.

A wave of intense guilt and sorrow engulfed me, so strong it was as though my chest was being crushed in a massive vice.

I eased back from the wall and slipped beneath the water, arms above my head. I breathed out. Silver circles shimmered to the surface and were gone. The gurgle and burble of the water soothing. I released the last of my breath. My lungs shrank from my ribs then screamed at me to breathe.

I pushed my arms down and burst from the water, gasping for air.

The lifeguard leaned over the edge of the pool. “Geez, mate. I thought you were drowning.”

“I'm fine.” I heaved myself from the water and stormed into the change rooms. In the shower, head pressed against the wall, tepid water streaming down my back, I decided.

No more swimming.

No more water polo.

Ever.

I didn't deserve it.

Once showering was a basic, low-stress thing to do. But in hospital, it's tough. For starters I have to wear a plastic bag on my arm to keep the plaster dry and a shower cap thing to stop the dressing from becoming soaked. Seriously. A shower cap.

At least, apart from help with the plastic bag, I'm able to shower on my own now, even if it's exhausting. The first couple of times a nurse actually came in with me. Showering in front of a stranger is beyond weird.

I'm dressed and lying on the bed, regrouping, when Dimity, the brash nurse who is anything but diminutive, drags the curtains around the bed closed and pushes the button to raise the bedhead. So much for the “raise it a bit at a time” approach.

I close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to pass. A ripping sound snaps my eyes open. Dimity tears open packages of bandages.

“Let's change that dressing.”

I swallow. The last time Dimity changed my dressing it ended with strong painkillers and sleep filled with bizarre dreams about power tools drilling into my head.

Without looking at me, she busies herself laying scissors, tweezers, gauze and swabs on a white bandage thing with plastic stuff on the back. When she's done, she peels the bandage from my head.

While she cleans and applies a fresh bandage to the wound, I concentrate on the flowers on Mackie's side of the room.

When Dimity has cleaned up the rubbish and gone, all without saying much, I'm restless. I shuffle around the room and stop at Mackie's bed. Instead of lying on her back, like she had earlier, she's on her side, facing the window. Someone must have been in to roll her while Dimity changed my dressing.

I reach for her scrapbook. Part of me feels wrong, but the pull to know more about her is stronger. I settle in the chair beside Mackie and flip past the pages I've read to one that has a sketch of a rabbit filled with patterns. At least I figure it's plain patterns and that crosshatching thing artists do, until I look closer. The pattern is actually small drawings, repeated over and over so they look like a pattern. There are rabbits with glossy eyes, broken hearts, clouds, single teardrops and all kinds of medical stuff – needles, drip bags, tablets and those kidney-shaped dishes.

The most disturbing sketch is the single eye that appears every so often. It seems to stare straight through me. Used to Mackie's way of placing writing under her pictures, I check the edges. Mackie has drawn on the scrapbook's pages, so there's nothing to look under.

“Hey, Alex. Up to a bit of exercise?”

I jump and close Mackie's book. Brent stands in the doorway, so alive it's like he has a golden glow about him.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I stand, place the scrapbook on the chair and meet Brent by my bed.

During the rest period, as they call it around here, I find myself back at Mackie's bedside, reading her scrapbook. I stop at the double page past the rabbit. On the left is writing in pencil, another list, and on the right a collage of random stuff – cuttings from cards, magazines and photos. There are strawberries, so real I could almost pluck them from the page and eat them, bottles of perfume, tropical beaches with white sand and turquoise water, dolphins leaping from the ocean, bunches of flowers and actors. Scattered across the collage are words cut from headlines.

Summer. Love. Happy. Peace. Dreams. Joy. Sewing. Birds. Friends. Laughter. Freedom. No Pain.

I read the list on the left page.

I
WISH
…

*
I could sing like Florence Welch
.

*
I looked like Miranda Kerr
.

*
My hair would grow back long and lush like Anne Hathaway's before she did Les Misérables
.

*
I could draw … really draw
.

*
Dad would smile
.

*
Ash would stop drinking so much
.

*
Mum and Tim would inherit millions so Mum didn't have to work
.

*
My scars would fade so I can wear a bikini
.

*
I could fly way above the pain
.

*
There was a cure for cancer
.

I read the list twice before closing the scrapbook. I reach out and touch Mackie's hand. Not hold it or anything, but rest my hand against hers so she knows someone is here.

I'm determined to make the distance from my room to the end of the corridor and back before the pain swallows me. As I reach the TV room, I hear bracelets rattle and a hollow voice floating on the disinfectant thick air.

Pain sears from my rib towards my heart.

Two more steps and I see Mum at the nurses' station, arms flailing, face red.

“I requested my son be moved. Now I am demanding it happen.”

Dimity stands strong in the face of Mum's attack. “Mrs Hudson, you need to discuss this with Alex.”

“Have you looked at my son lately? He's not in any state to make decisions about his own welfare.”

“Indeed, I have seen your son lately, Mrs Hudson. And I have watched him work hard to be stronger.”

Mum tuts. “So he can jump in front of a train this time.”

I gasp, and grip the handrail. The pain in my ribs is searing hot. I stare at the floor, trying to fathom what Mum has said.

“Dimity, can you help Alex back to his room?” I look up to see Jenny scurrying to the desk. “Seems he's overdone it.”

Jenny takes Mum by the elbow and leads her to the office behind the nurses' station.

Dimity scowls at Mum and stomps my way.

“Thanks,” I say when Dimity reaches me.

Heat rises off her as she walks me back to my room. She stops at the doorway. “Look, I'm sorry I spoke to your mother like that. I'm sick to death of her crapping on about moving you to a private room, and now a private hospital ‘more suited to your needs'.”

I shake my head. “More suited to her social standing.”

Dimity does something I thought her incapable of – she laughs. “Touché!”

“I don't want to move rooms, and I sure don't want to move hospitals. She'd know that if she asked me. She's never even asked me how all of this happened.”

“The accident?” says Dimity.

“Yeah.” I stare at the grey swirled pattern on the lino. “The thing is, I can't remember.”

Dimity slips past and lowers my bed. “Come and rest for a bit. You can walk around and visit your girlfriend later.”

“She's not–”

“Joking, Alex, joking.”

I stay away from Mackie for the rest of the day and night.

“One chocolate thickshake,” says Paul. He waits while I shuffle around and raise the bedhead until I'm sitting. “A proper one, I might add, not a fast-food job.”

“Thanks.” When I take a sip, the icy sweetness explodes in my mouth. Such a contrast to the bland hospital food. “Where's it from?”

“Caf downstairs. They do good smoothies too.”

“The hospital cafeteria?”

Paul grins. “Not all hospital food sucks.”

I take another sip. What I really want to do is chug the whole thing, but a brain freeze is the last thing I need. Enough of me hurts as it is. I place the drink beside the magazines Mum left on the table.

“You into cars?” asks Paul, picking up the top one.

“I want to drive and stuff, but I'm not like
into
cars. Mum brings them in. Reckon she grabs what she thinks are guy magazines. Or she asks the newsagent what teenage boys like.” Bitter and twisted. That's how I sound. I wonder what Paul makes of me.

“So, you and your mum aren't close?”

“No. Yeah. Kind of. I'm closer to her than Dad. No one really gets me at home, except for …” What the hell did I say that for? Paul will dive like a seagull on a chip. I reach for the thickshake and take a massive slurp, welcoming the sharp pain spreading through my palate and the front of my head.

“My mum and I didn't get along at all, but Dad and I were best mates. I lived with him after they divorced.”

I stare at Paul. That isn't the response I expect. He's talking to me as though we are, well, equals.

“Did you grow up in Melbourne?”

“Taree.” Paul stops flicking through the magazine. “Heard of it?

“Kind of. New South Wales? Or Queensland?”

“New South Wales. Bit different to Brunswick.”

“That where you live now?” I ask.

Paul nods. “My partner and I are renovating a weatherboard house, hence …” He holds out his hands, which are covered in scabs and scratches. “I'm not exactly handy. Lucky my partner is a builder.”

“Be cool to be a builder.”

“Is that what you want to do?” asks Paul. “When you leave school?”

“First thing I want to do is leave home.” I stare at the gaudy fruit images on the thickshake container. “So I can be a lifeguard. Hang out at a surf club and improve my skills, especially paddling the surf ski. I'm pretty good at swimming, but I suck at paddling.” I hope I've distracted him from the leaving home thing.

“So you've already done training?”

“A bit. Lifeguard certificates and other short courses. Now I have to rack up the hours and experience. And find a job.”

“Money – the necessary evil,” says Paul.

We talk for ages about jobs I could do. Paul has good ideas, like labouring for a builder, or work at a pool like I do – strike that – used to.

“No point in mentioning jobs in fast-food joints, I'm guessing.”

“Nah – not unless I'm seriously desperate. Though that one you talked about in Warrnambool would be okay.”

“I'm telling you. Best. Burgers. Ever.” He glances at his watch. “Hell, late again. Okay if I come back tomorrow?”

“That'd be good.”

“Cool. See you then.”

I call after him. “Thanks for the shake.” I lower the bedhead and lie still, listening to the beeps, whispers, shuffles and the hum of air conditioning.

I ignored the first soft rap on my closed bedroom door. Maybe whoever it was would go away. The next knock was harder. Harvey or Ethan? I didn't want to talk to them, or anyone else for that matter.

“Go away.”

“Alex, it's me.” Tilly sounded unsure.

“I have a headache, Tilly,” I lied, pushing back from the computer. I'd spent the morning scrolling through photos of Mia. “And I'm in my PJs.”

Took more than the threat of flannelette to scare Tilly. The door opened a fraction and a wedge of light fell across my dishevelled bed. She stepped into my darkened room.

“God, Alex, no wonder you have a headache. It's seriously funky in here.”

She picked her way through the discarded clothes and damp towels, flung back the curtains and opened both windows. The light gave her a golden halo.

When my eyes adjusted, I could see out the window. Trees shimmered in the sunlight and beyond that, the sky was rich blue with a few fluffy clouds, like something from a cartoon.

“Shut the curtains.” My voice sounded deadpan even to me.

“Alex, you need light and …” Her words drifted away. She was looking past me at the computer. I turned. A picture of me and Mia, in her Barbie bathers, lying in the shallows on Surfers Paradise Beach filled the screen.

Barbs of sorrow stabbed my chest.

Tilly crossed the room and leaned in to hug me. I pushed the chair back and crashed into the computer desk.

Her face crumpled with confusion. “Alex, I–”

“This isn't about you,” I snarled like one of those dogs from the movies – ugly, desolate things with bared teeth, ready to fight for survival.

“I came over to see how you were. To see if I could help.”

“What are you like at bringing back the dead?”

She recoiled, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Don't, Alex. I love you.”

For the first time in days, I felt something other than numb. Like that desolate dog, I attacked.