You Don't Even Know (22 page)

“But it's hard for Mackie's family to be here all the time.” I shrug. “I have to be here, so I'll keep her company. And it doesn't worry me if Vicky or the others stay.”

“Are you sure you understand what you're saying, Alex?” asks Dimity.

“Mackie is …” I glance at Vicky. “… dying. I get that. I don't think she should be alone.”

“But, Alex,” says Sarah, hands clasped in front of her, “if Mackie stays in this room, people will be coming and going all the time, at all hours.

“You've never been a patient in hospital, have you?”

Sarah shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

“Hospitals aren't exactly the quietest places. Cleaners, physios, ward staff, nurses and doctors are in and out all the time.”

“I don't think Alex is equipped to make this decision.” Mum's arms are folded. “I'm his mother and I …”

“Mum, I want to do this.”

“But, Alex, I don't think you understand what this means.”

My lip curls. “Yeah, because I haven't been touched by death, have I, Mum?”

Mum's eyes widen.

“I didn't mean to start a fight,” says Vicky.

I ignore her. “Please, Dimity. If it's okay with Vicky, leave Mackie where she is.”

“I can't see it being a problem,” says Dimity.

Sarah's lips twist as she takes a business card from her folder and hands it to Vicky. “You need time to think about this. Contact me when you change your mind.”

“I won't.” Vicky eyes are filled with tears, but her face is less drawn.

Sarah takes a deep breath. “We do have a few other matters to discuss.” She, Dimity and Vicky go back to Mackie's bed.

Mum leans close to me and whispers, “Alex, are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

It's dark when I wake. I'm groggy and foggy, like I was when I was on morphine. Only I'm not on morphine any more, just paracetamol and codeine. The residue of a dream clouds my head. I try to remember what it was about, but all I can conjure up is me at the bottom of a pool, reaching for Mia, who is trapped in silver bubbles that float away from me to the surface. No matter how hard I try, I can't reach her, save her.

I pour a glass of water and with each swallow try to douse the despair and uselessness that lingers.

Across the room, Mackie lies on her back. Instinct draws me to her. I watch her shallow and irregular breathing for a moment, then reach for her scrapbook. It feels like weeks since I've read it, but it can only be a day or two. I re-read the whole thing, from the finished craft projects to the last entry I read,
Reasons to Keep Fighting
. On the next page an unfinished pencil sketch stares at me. Wavy hair frames a face with eyes, but no nose or mouth. The eyes are filled with sorrow and knowing. The necklace around the girl's neck is a string of words: “Kiss. Ferris wheel. Fireworks. Kiss. Dolphins. Babies. Love. Kiss.”

The next page is blank, and so is the next. Like the face, Mackie's journal isn't complete.

“So, Mackie,” I say, taking her hand. “Pretty sure your mum is moving in tomorrow. Any bad habits I should know about?” I watch her face, as though I expect her to answer. “Like, does she sleep talk? Worse, sleepwalk? Mia used to talk in her sleep. I'd hear her from my room sometimes.”

There's a tightness in my chest, like someone has wound a massive rubber band around and around me. I roll my shoulders forwards then back, but the pressure won't ease. “This sucks, Mackie. You should have been able to do all that stuff. The hot air ballooning, concerts, all that normal things. It's not fair.” I squeeze her hand. “I'm sorry.”

I rest my head against the back of the chair, listening to Mackie's shallow breathing.

Kiss. Ferris wheel. Fireworks. Kiss. Dolphins. Babies. Love. Kiss.

“Okay, this is going to sound stupid. There aren't any fireworks and we're not in a Ferris wheel, and I don't look anything like Johnny Depp.” I take a deep breath. “But if it's okay with you, I'd like to cross one thing off your list.”

Holding her hand, I lean in and kiss her lips.

I walk out of the bathroom, wet towel and pyjamas over my left arm, plastic bag still strapped over my right, straight into Mr Dobson and his groupies.

“Good morning, Alex,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

I shrug. “Okay. Better.”

“Good, good.” Mr Dobson motions for me to continue to my bed. As I sit, one of the male interns pulls the curtain closed.

“Let's have a look at how you are healing. Sanzia, would you?”

A tall girl with eyes the colour of chocolate, steps towards me. “Do you mind?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Go for it.”

Her name tag swings near my nose. She peels back the plastic Deb taped over the dressing before my shower.

Her touch is bird-like. “Don't let me hurt you.”

“Firm but gentle, Sanzia,” directs Mr Dobson. “How is the wound?”

“Good. Healing well. Staples can come out.”

“Staples?”

Mr Dobson smiles. “Quicker to insert than sutures and less scarring.” He cranes past Sanzia to inspect my head. “Very good. You can take them out today, Sanzia.” He folds his arms. “Well, Alex, as long the orthopaedic surgeons are happy, looks like you'll be home in a day or two.”

My stomach flutters. “Are you sure I'm ready?”

“You're ready.” He turns to his groupies. “Right, who's next?”

They scurry out. Jenny lingers a moment. “Okay?”

“I guess.”

“It's normal to be scared about leaving hospital, Alex.” She unpeels the tape from my arm. “I'll be back with Sanzia to take those staples out later.”

After she leaves, I stare at the empty doorway.

Home.

Paul arrives at the same time as Vicky. He helps her carry an overnight bag, quilt and matching pillow to Mackie's bed.

“Hey, smaller dressing,” says Paul, checking out my head when he comes back.

“Yeah, staples came out today.”

“How'd that go?”

“Not exactly painful, but not exactly easy. Kind of like having hot needles wrenched from your skull.”

“Ouch.” Paul screws up his face. “So, it's a fantastic day outside and I have permission to take you across the road to the park. Keen?”

“Are you serious?”

Paul raises his eyebrows. “Absolutely. We'll grab a drink on the way.”

Outside on the footpath, waiting for the pedestrian lights to change, the spring sunshine is so bright I have to shield my eyes. “Wish I had my sunglasses.”

“We'll sit in the shade.” Paul carries his iced coffee and my mango smoothie.

I squint past the endless line of cars, vans, trams, buses, trucks and bikes to the green parkland spread in front of us like a desert oasis. The combination of engines and brake noises, sunlight flashing off glass and the smell of exhaust is overpowering. The ding of an approaching tram makes me jump.

“You right?” asks Paul.

“Fine. It's …” I search for the right word. Loud? Confronting? Alive?

“If it's too much–”

“It's fine. Different after being inside, that's all.”

As we cross the road, the bones in my legs go all soft and rubbery.

“What about over there?” Paul jerks his head to where an elm's new season leaves throw shade across a picnic table.

I slide into the seat that faces the park, leaving Paul to look at the hospital hulking behind us.

Paul stirs his iced coffee with the straw. “So, home in a couple of days? How does that feel?”

I shrug. “Dunno.” I gulp my drink. My palate aches. First signs of brain freeze.

“You okay with Mackie staying in your room?”

“You know, as far as changing topics go, you suck.”

“Home or impending death,” Paul laughs. “Not the best way to get you to relax.”

“Maybe not.” Ahead of us a poodle weaves across the oval, nose to the ground. His owner whistles and the dog bounds across the grass, ears flapping. “About Mackie. I'm glad she's not in a palliative care room. That's where they moved Mia.”

“Mia died in hospital?” It's like Paul has found his way to the room deep inside where I've locked everything away. He has his hand on the door handle and I'm too tired to stop him from opening it.

“Technically. But she was dead when I found her. Me doing CPR and stuff only prolonged everything. For hours. And hurt her.”

Paul rubs his chin. “It's not like you had a choice, Alex. You had to try.”

“It would have been better for her if I hadn't though. All that thumping and needles and tubes down her throat.” I scrape my thumb nail along a groove in the table. “I should have been there when they did it.”

“Turned off the ventilator?”

“Yeah.” My throat and chest are being squeezed. “I don't know how it happened. I'd bolted.” I look into Paul's face. “Impressed by my bravery now?”

“Doesn't change anything.” Paul twirls his drink. “Which hospital?”

“Children's.”

Silence wraps around us. After a few minutes, I whisper. “The trip to the hospital was, well, they didn't speed or use the siren or lights, except at intersections. Duncan said it was safer that way, for Mia and the guys in the back, but I wanted them to floor it, you know?”

“Duncan?”

“The ambo. He was driving. When we pulled up at the hospital, a guy was waiting for us. He talked to Duncan as they wheeled Mi inside. The moment we entered the hospital, people in scrubs swamped Mia. One of them took my arm.” I place my hand on the plaster encasing my right forearm. “And I started going off, yelling that I had to stay with Mia. But the nurse guided me away, and said in this steady voice, that the best thing I could do for Mia was stay out of the way and let the doctors do their job. ”

The park, the rustle of the leaves, the smell of possum pee is gone and I'm pacing in that waiting room again, body numb and brain buzzing.

“Have a seat,” said the nurse, guiding me to side room.

“Why didn't they use lights and sirens the whole way?” I asked. “Get here faster?”

The guy cleared his throat. “Mate, they had ambos working unrestrained in the back. It's better for them and your sister if they don't speed.”

I couldn't take any of it in.

“She has the best doctors, nurses and all kinds of specialists helping her. How about I go check on her so I can tell you how she is?”

“Hey,” I said, before he reached the door. “My sister – her name is Mia.”

“Mia. Okay.” The nurse nodded and left.

I paced for a bit then hunkered down on the sofa, elbows on my knees and head in my hands. The whole time I pleaded. Prayed. Bargained. Begged.

I'd never fight Ethan again.

I'd be everything Dad wanted.

I'd start rowing.

I'd drop the whole lifeguard thing.

The door opened. The nurse who brought me here stepped aside and Mum and Dad entered. Mum's face was white. She clutched her bag to her chest. Dad reminded me of a cornered dog – ready to attack.

My heart skidded in my throat.

“I'll be back with an update on Mia,” said the nurse. He smiled at me but gave Dad a cold look.

Dad opened his mouth, clearly about to issue an order, but the nurse was faster and closed the door on him.

For a moment the three of us were frozen, lost in our thoughts. Then Dad charged, teeth bared like an attack dog. He grabbed me by the T-shirt and pulled me from the sofa.

“You were supposed to be looking after her.” A fine spray of spittle hit my face. I kept looking down, unable to face his hate-filled eyes.

“Stop it,” yelled Mum. “This is not the time or place.”

“It's never the time or place to deal with Alex, is it, Christina?”

Mum cringed under Dad's wolf stare.

Dad released me. I tumbled back to the sofa.

“What happened?” he snarled.

I stared at the lino squares. “I don't know. She wanted to swim. I told her to wait until Ethan and his mates left.”

“Ethan had friends over?” said Mum. “Today?”

“Christina, we're facing much bigger issues than any lies Alex tells about Ethan.”

Mum sunk into the chair.

“Well, what happened, Alex?” Dad folded his arms. “I'm waiting.”

Heat exploded in my chest and sparked against my skin. I raised my head and looked Dad in the eye. “Fucked if I know.”

Dad stepped forwards, fist clenched.

Good. He was going to hit me.

A woman wearing a bright shirt and navy pants entered the room. She took in the scene before her. “My name is Kath. Can I bring you anything?”

A different father?

“I need to see my daughter,” said Mum, her voice shaky. “Please?”

“The doctors are still working, Mrs Hudson. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”

Dad's phone rang. He swore, took it from his pocket and brushed past Kath, out the door.

“A coffee or a cold drink?” Kath's voice was softer now Dad had left. I wondered what mayhem he'd caused when he arrived.

“I'd love a coffee, please,” said Mum. “And one for Alex too. Thanks.”

When she left, Mum started to cry. Not big, loud sobs, but the worst kind of crying – silent tears.