You Don't Even Know (16 page)

“I can see that.” Paul dumps the papers on my bed. “You'll enjoy them more than the car mags.”

After he leaves, I count to sixty before looking at what he left. When I do, my face burns and my stomach churns.

The magazines and pamphlets aren't about grief and angst. They're surfing magazines, Surf Life Saving Australia brochures and leaflets about towns by the ocean. He's even printed a list of websites and written across the top in blue pen, “You can check out these links when you have access to a computer. Paul.”

I slap my plastered arm and soak up the rush of red pain that follows.

My thoughts are murky and slow and my head throbs. I can't bring myself to walk around the room, despite the pull of Mackie's scrapbook.

Mum arrives at the same time as the morning tea trolley. She's carrying a bunch of pink roses, a basket of fruit and my pillow from home. I close my eyes. The pillow is a horse kick to my heart. Mum kisses my cheek. She smells of oranges and spice. “How are you feeling, darling?”

“Fine.” I open my eyes and watch her place the fruit on the overbed table, prop the pillow behind my head and rummage through my drawers. It's as though the scene with Dimity never occurred.

She assesses what's left of my flowers, then Mackie's side of the room. She scowls. Still holding the bunch of roses and greenery wrapped in purple foil, she sits and leans forwards.

“Are they your flowers over there?” She whispers, glaring at Mackie. “Did that dreadful fat nurse move them?”

I know she means Dimity. “What fat nurse?” I wrestle the pillow out from behind me and toss it to the floor.

“She had no right. I'll report her.”

I sigh. “Mum, I did it.”

Her face is blank. “Why would you give gifts from your friends to someone else?”

“They aren't from my friends. They're from yours and Dad's. Anyway, who is going to know? It's not like I ever have visitors.”

The foil rustles as Mum shifts position. “I visit.”

“Yeah, but no one else.” I don't know why it matters – it's not like I'm awake for long. But visitors, other than Mum, would mean the world is still turning outside the hospital and that someone has realised I'm not around.

Mum stands and shoves the flowers into a vase already holding a small bouquet of carnations. “Your father felt …” She looks up, her face bright but brittle. “I saw Cooper yesterday. He's working at the supermarket. He asked after you. Benny has been calling too. And the other boys from water polo – Bart? Smurf? Strange names. Your mobile flashes with messages and missed calls all the time.”

“So why didn't you bring it in?”

Mum twirls her wedding ring. “Well, that's against the hospital rules.”

“Dad's rules.” I snort. “He's told people not to come, hasn't he?”

“He thinks–”

“Like I give a shit about what he thinks.”

“That will do, Alex.”

“Actually, it won't.” It's like I'm on my bike, flying down a massive hill. “I'm over the way Dad treats me and I'm sick of you never stopping him or standing up for me. It's like he hates me.”

“Alex, that's not true.” She looks around her.

“It is. I don't do all the stuff Dad thinks I should. He's ashamed of me. You both are.” Every muscle is taut. “I don't fit your idea of the perfect family.”

Mum slaps her flat palm on the overbed table.

I jump.

“For God's sake, Alex. Stop this.”

Her next words are like an dagger to my heart.

“Someone will hear you.”

“Yeah, because that's what really matters. Not how I feel, but that some stranger will hear me.” I press the nurse call button. “Go back home to the others. I have a headache.”

It's rest time, the curtains are drawn and the lights dimmed, but I can't sleep. Mum's face and words swirl through the muck that is my brain. After what she said, I feel as though my skin has been scrubbed away with a hard-bristled brush. I roll to my left side, hoping for sleep.

Muffled voices, footsteps and the constant beep for attention of the drip pumps fill the air.

And still Mum's words keep coming.

“Someone will hear you.”

I roll to my back and stare at the ceiling, which seems greyer and lower in the gloom.

Mackie's sheets rustle. I glance at her bed. Dreaming, maybe. About sewing and dresses and mothers who talk to you as though you are the only person in the world.

I peel back my sheets and shimmy to the edge of the bed, then pad, barefoot, to Mackie. Her pale face is contorted into a frown. Her lips are white and flaky. I look around for the lip balm I'd seen Vicky apply to Mackie's lips. There's only a hospital phone and a box of tissues on the cabinet. I ease open the top drawer. Two lip balms roll against a packet of those face wipes girls use. I study both lip balms in the gloom. One moisturises. The other repairs. Mackie's lips look dry, so I go for moisturise. I take off the lid and wind the bottom, looking from the balm to her lips.

I've never applied this stuff to my own lips and certainly not to anyone else's. How much do I use? Do I, like, draw as though it's a texta? Do I dab it? And how hard?

I quiet my churning brain and think of how Tilly used to apply lip balm. I lean forwards and trace the waxy stuff over Mackie's lips. They ripple like water. I stop when her lips are white and waxy.

Lip balm back in the drawer, I pull a wipe from the container and clean around Mackie's eyes and the corners of her mouth. The whole time I'm jumpy as, ready for a nurse, the physio or even Vicky to walk in and crack it with me. But no one turns up.

Mackie's scrapbook is within arm's reach on the bedside cabinet. I resist returning to it. But only for a moment. I lift it and flip through, past the collages of clothes and people and past the sketch of the rabbit, to a page framed with drawings and pictures from magazines. There are stars, fairies, fairy wands, sparkles and all kinds of fantasy stuff. Inside the frame is a list. Each line is written in different coloured ink.

I D
ON'T
B
ELIEVE
…

*
I don't believe in the tooth fairy
.

*
I don't believe in Santa
.

*
I don't believe in the Easter bunny
.

*
I don't believe in chemotherapy or radiotherapy
.

*
I don't believe in stupid, hippy treatments
.

*
I don't believe in cancer cures
.

*
I don't believe doctors when they say, “This won't hurt. Sharp scratch.”

*
I don't believe there is anything fair about the world
.

*
I don't believe anybody understands what it's like to be me
.

*
I don't believe I'll ever be kissed, married or a mum
.

*
I don't believe I have much time
.

My heart lurches in my chest. My eyes keep drifting back to that last line.

Much. Time.

I don't want to think about death. Not Mackie's and not anyone else's. I feel around the edges of the page and find the right side is held down by a slither of BluTack. I carefully peel it back and read.

Mum and Ash are trading insults in the kitchen. It's like listening to the broadcast of a tennis match
.

Mum serves. “Can't trust you.”

Ash returns. “Always picking on me.”

A lob from Mum. “Always stuffing up.”

Smash from Ash. “You're never home.”

Fifteen – love
.

I am completely over them. I can handle the nausea, the tiredness, even the mouth ulcers, but this fighting is doing my head in. And it's not like they fight over new stuff, it's always the same old thing
.

Mum goes to work. Ash doesn't do what she asks (take the rubbish out, put his washing away, clear the table – not major stuff). Mum comes home, sees nothing has been done and goes mental. Mum and Ash go at each other until one of them storms off, slamming doors. And then the one who's left turns up in my room needing support
.

I used to do Ash's jobs for him so it would be more peaceful at home. But now it's too hard. Even walking to the loo is a major effort
.

Kind of embarrassing to admit, but part of me thinks he owes me. Apart from doing his jobs, it's me who makes sure Mum and Tim don't find out after he's been caught wagging school or that the police brought him home for drinking at the skate park. He has no idea how tough that's been for me
.

So I reckon he can wear the lectures for not doing his dumb jobs
.

Only thing is, lying here listening to them fight is tough, especially when I can see through the words to what's really going on
.

Ash wants Mum to notice him, but Mum's too busy working or fussing over me to pay him attention
.

I guess that's why I keep covering up for him
.

Great. Now they are yelling. Scratch that – screaming. And Mum lobs a grenade. “You'll end up just like your father.”

Ouch! That's gotta hurt. Dad is so depressed he's practically comatose. Won't work, won't even leave the house since he was caught drink-driving and lost his licence. Ash is scared-stupid that he's like Dad
.

The sound of smashing glass fills the air. I'm off the bed and down the hall to the kitchen where Mum stands at the kitchen sink, hand over her mouth. There's glass on the floor at her feet and on the bench. Behind her, the kitchen window is broken
.

Ash stands beside the table, his left hand clenched
.

When I ask what happened he says mum won't lay off. And then it's all about me. He spits words at me, his face a mask of anger. The ones that hurt the most are, “It's all your fault. Why'd you have to go and get sick again?”

He bolts out the back door
.

Beneath that, Mackie has drawn a row of daisies in coloured pencil. Then the writing starts again.

Bloody Ash
.

Lucky Tim was at a work and then dart night so missed the whole thing
.

I promised Mum that I'd find Ash to stop her calling in sick from her new casual job
.

Me and my big mouth
.

Bucket by my side, I rang like a thousand people and talked to his feral mates. After piecing their stories together, I worked out Ash was with that loser Conrad Fennell. Not that I know him, I'd just seen him around school. He stands out. Dreads, a stretching thing in each ear and a pierced upper and lower lip
.

Anyway, I had to talk to Conrad Fennell, who denied Ash was there until I completely cracked it. When Conrad finally put Ash on the phone, I pleaded, begged, cried, even promised to do his jobs for him if he came home before Mum finished work
.

He flat out refused
.

But he did come home and was in bed fifteen minutes before Mum returned
.

I try to imagine that frail body in the bed in front of me brimming with fight for her family.

Would I fight like that? For Mum? For Ethan? Even Harvey?

Probably not.

But I'd have done that and a thousand tougher things for Mia.

Visiting hours, and the halls are filled with people carrying everything from flowers and balloons to bottles of soft drink and quilts. I'm walking towards the lift, staying close to the wall and away from any one when the lift opens. Paul steps out, satchel over his shoulder. He's with a woman in a black dress and boots.

I'd run, but my ribs and head kill if I move too fast. Standing still and looking stupid is my only option. I pray he won't notice me.

“Alex, how's the walking?”

Clearly a red T-shirt and navy trackies are not great camouflage in a hospital.

“Yeah, good.” Shame squirms up from my gut and wraps itself around my tongue. I wish the woman would clear off.

“The stuff you left, it was great. Thanks.” I can't look at Paul's face. “When you turned up with that, I thought you'd been sucking up to me to make me spill my guts. But you're not like …”

“I'll meet you in the office, Paul,” says the woman, touching Paul's arm. Her red nails are bright against his blue shirt.

“Mind taking my stuff?” Paul hands her his satchel. He leans against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. “So, what aren't I like?”

“That Melinda chick. She talked to me like I was a puppy. And that hairy bloke with dopey eyes that Mum sent me to after …”

“Mia?” Paul's voice is gentle.

“Yeah.” I pick at the fluff where the plaster stops near my thumb. It's like someone has their hands wrapped around my throat and is squeezing. “I can't talk about her.”

“That's okay, Alex. When you're ready, I'll listen.” He pushes off the wall. “You're looking pretty pale, mate. How about a rest?”

He walks me back to my room.

I'm lying on one of those blow-up mattresses floating on murky water, which rolls and boils beneath me like the sea. Only it's not the ocean, but an outdoor pool surrounded by hard-faced people I don't recognise. Like zombies, they raise their arms to point at me.