Zac and Mia (12 page)

I seek out the dark. It was always going to end like this:
Who’s going to take care of her? Who’s going to be sensible?

Pins and needles stab my foot, though it’s no longer there. Phantom pain—the cruellest fucking joke. They say cancer makes you stronger. It doesn’t. It messes with your head. It gives you an itch you can’t scratch and a heart that won’t stop aching.

I have to go, but where? Not to friends with sly looks, or a mother who betrayed me. Not to doctors with powersaws and lies. What else would they want to cut off?

Shit, it wasn’t Plan D that brought me here. Plan D had played out weeks ago.

Coming here was Plan Z. Zac
was
the last chance.

Even though we’d never met, he’d been more real
than anyone in the hospital. That strange, pale boy with the knock became the only one with the right things to say.

‘You know how chickens sort out their pecking order?’ Zac wraps his arms over the fence beside me.

‘No.’

‘That’s what Mum and Bec are doing in there.’

‘Sorry. I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘Home?’

I shake my head. Mum allowed this to happen. A goat nuzzles me so I dip my hand in a tub of food and offer it my palm. Its tongue is dry and rough.

‘Where?’

I shrug. It doesn’t matter. ‘I keep thinking that if I get on a bus and go far enough, I’ll eventually fall off the edge of the world.’

‘I hate to tell you this but …’ Zac mimes a sphere with his hands.

‘Spoiler. I just want to disappear.’

‘You didn’t go through chemo to disappear.’

‘Remember how angry I was about losing my hair? I thought
that
was a tragedy. At least hair grows back …’

‘You fought though.’ He says it like it’s something to be proud of.

‘I just wanted to be normal.’

‘You were …’ he says. ‘You
are …
’

Poor Zac, still tripping over tenses. He knows about my leg. He should realise the word ‘normal’ belongs to the past.

‘If I’m so normal, why is everyone handing me
brochures on wheelchair fucking basketball? I never liked basketball before, but now that I’m a cripple—’

‘You’re not.’

I chuck the rest of the feed. ‘I’m a freak show.’

‘Mia, you don’t know—’

‘You
don’t
know, Zac—’

‘No,
you
don’t know how beautiful you are.’

The word topples me a little.
Beautiful?
I close my eyes. The earth feels like it’s pitching beneath me.

‘You are, Mia. You were and you are, and you always will be.’

‘Don’t.’ I use the fence to steady myself. He’s warping the night with lies.

‘If you were at my school, I wouldn’t talk to you. Couldn’t. Look at you, you’re gorgeous. Even with that blonde wig, you’re still hotter than any girls I know. You’re a nine out of ten.’

‘I’m a number now?’

‘On the universal hierarchy of hotness, you’d easily be a nine. And I’d be like a six-point-five.’

‘You’re a knob,’ I tell him, opening my eyes to catch his grin.

‘Okay, so I’m probably more like a six. And sixes don’t talk to nines, that’s the rules.’

‘You’re not a six, Zac. And I’m definitely not a nine.’

‘You know, there was only one thing stopping me from giving you a ten.’

‘Gee, I wonder …’

‘And it’s because you’re a moody cow.’

I punch him. He mouths an
ow
, rubbing his shoulder.

‘That’ll bruise.’

‘If your stupid hierarchy exists, Zac—and it doesn’t—the truth is you’d be way higher up than me. You’re the normal one now.’

‘You want to make a bet?’

‘Sure.’ It’s a competition I can’t lose. With a crutch, I tap both of his gumboots.
One, two
.

‘Yeah, but what about everything else? I’m stuck here, repeating year twelve, while my mates have gotten on with their lives. I’m taking eleven pills a day, getting platelets counted each week. I can’t do anything halfinteresting. I’m even banned from picking olives, for god’s sake. This isn’t real life, it’s limbo.’

‘At least you
look
normal. People don’t stare—’

‘I’m only a fifty-five.’

Fifty-five? What scale is he using now?

That’s when I notice how tightly he’s clenching the wire. Tendons lock over knuckles. Muscles flex in his forearms.

‘Zac, I don’t get it. What’s a fifty-five?’

But he hooks a foot on a rung and hoists himself onto the fence, above me. A chill creeps through my body and I wonder if it reaches him too. He shivers.

‘Zac?’

‘Fifty-five per cent. My chance of living five years without relapse.’

I’ve never been good with numbers, never needed to be. But I understand this one. Fifty-five falls cleanly
into my head the way a coin chinks into a money box. Numbers are what they are. They can’t be argued with.

Everything else melts away except for a cold number and a boy who’s looking to the stars as if he knows them.

‘Zac, you can’t know that.’

‘Google it.’

I’d assumed that, after leaving the hospital, he’d stopped obsessing over statistics. I didn’t think numbers had followed him all the way down here. Maybe numbers torment him the way my leg torments me. Maybe we’re both only living as fractions.

Fifty-five is a pass
, I think. A fifty-five per cent in Maths or English would be good enough for me. Should I tell him it’s good enough?

‘Mia, you’ll be a ninety-eight by now.’

Well, I’d rather be a fifty-five with two legs than a ninety-eight with one
, I decide, as if this could trump him, but the wind steals the words from my lips and tosses them away. I’m glad they’re gone.

And still he looks up, where thousands of stars fill the arc of the sky. Of all that’s random and uncertain in the universe, how can a boy be so sure of a single number?

‘You’ve got the rest of your life to be angry, Mia. Me … I don’t know what I’ve got.’

‘Did you see that?’ I point, desperate to bring him back. ‘A shooting star.’

‘A burning meteorite.’

‘So I can’t make a wish?’

He shrugs. ‘If you want to make a wish on a burning meteorite, then make a wish.’

I punch his thigh. ‘Spoiler. Help me up.’

Zac braces me as I put my good foot on a wire and, pulling at him, swing the other leg up and over. I straddle the fence, facing him, not trusting myself to balance the way he does. Beneath my jeans, blood rushes my scar, making the wound throb. My head’s dizzy but it’s worth it to be level with him. I notice the grey in his eyes. The squareness of his jaw.

‘Hey, you were supposed to be cheering
me
up, remember?’

‘Was I?’

‘It’s in your job description. We can’t both be miserable, it doesn’t work like that.’ I snap my fingers. ‘So stay focused.’

‘I’ll try. Where was I?’

‘You were about to say
bon voyage
for my bus trip. And I was going to promise to send you a postcard—’ I nudge him playfully. Then I slap his chest for real. ‘Come with me!’

‘What?’

‘Why not? You and me and a Greyhound.’ The idea soars. The freedom of it.

‘Where?’

‘Don’t wreck it with details, just come.’

‘You’re serious?’

I nod, but he laughs and looks away.

‘Shit, Mia, I can’t take off—’

‘You can.’

‘I’ve got year twelve, and Mum. And the others. After all they’ve been through—’

‘They’d understand.’

‘They need me here, on the farm. They need me … well.’

I need you too
, I think, but I keep my lips closed, just in case.

Zac slides a hand over mine, linking his fingers through. I hadn’t imagined how warm his skin would be, or how much I’d been waiting for his touch. His hand calms me. It stops the throb of my leg. It fixes the stars.

When he speaks, he picks his words carefully. ‘I know you don’t believe me, Mia, but you
are
lucky. I’d swap places with you if I could.’

I flinch. It’s not possible. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘If I could promise my parents a ninety-eight, I would.’

‘I’d swap too,’ I counter, but he squeezes my hand until it hurts.

Zac’s mum calls our names, calling us in, but neither of us moves. Balanced on the fence, with our fingers locked around each other’s, it’s all we can do to hold ourselves in place.

Later, after the cold of night has reached our bones, we untangle. This time, I follow Zac to his house. I’m quiet on my crutches beside him. An alpaca grunts as we pass.

Zac helps me through the window, then he pulls the curtains behind us, shutting out the universe.

When I crawl into Zac’s bed, I don’t unclip the prosthetic. I keep my jeans on, and so does he. We both stink of feed and dirt, and soon the sheets do too. I curl and he curls behind me, denim against denim.

Tonight, I want to forget myself. I want to be in someone’s arms, safe from nightmares: not dreaming, sleeping. I want to be more than a fraction.

In the darkness, our arms and legs coil to make a whole.

I wake to feel Mia in the arc of me, her chest rising and falling, her wig splayed on the pillow.

It’s 3 a.m. I know that around the world, 1484 people will be diagnosed with cancer this hour. Almost twenty-five this minute.

But what are the odds of this? Shared breath, soft flesh, and the staggering possibility that life can be good again.

Light floats in as specks, looking for skin to land on. There’s a haze of warm air and heavy doona.

‘I hate to inform you,’ I mumble, ‘but you’ve been downgraded to an eight.’

‘Hmm?’

‘For snoring.’

‘Crap. On the plus side, you’ve been upgraded to a seven.’

‘Seven?’

‘Good arms,’ she tells me.

We coast in and out of consciousness until there’s a knocking at my door. Mia stiffens.

It’s Bec’s voice calling. ‘Zac, she’s gone. But her stuff’s still in the room.’

‘Then she’ll be back.’

We stay, even when our stomachs grumble and daylight pierces the curtains.

‘Correction,’ I say. ‘You’re back up to a nine.’

Mia crinkles her brow, unaware of how I’m seeing her now: no blonde wig, just a sheen of short brown hair that frames her small face. With a finger, I trace a curl near her ear.

‘It’s Emma Watson, post
Harry Potter
. Why the hell have you kept this from me?’

Mia burrows beneath a pillow but I find her there.

She groans. ‘It’s too short.’

‘Have you
seen
Emma Watson?’

‘Not as much as you, obviously …’

‘It’s hot.’

‘Then why only a nine?’

‘You’re still a moody cow.’

‘Shut up and tell me a story. I want to fall back to sleep.’

Under the doona, I tell her about the baby’s cot, still in pieces. I describe the last lot of backpackers and
Evan’s attempts to woo a Frenchie. I tell her how a year ago a Dutch worker ate a whole cooked chook from the local deli and ended up with food poisoning, crapping under every fifth olive tree, from one end of the farm to the other.

‘Then Bec gave Anton Gastro-Stop and a spare room and, for some inexplicable reason, fell in love with him.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In the Kimberley for another fortnight. Bec told him to get the bug out of his system before the baby. The travel bug, I mean. He didn’t want to, but she usually gets her way.’

‘Is he nice?’

‘Yeah, though we still give him shit … about the shits. He says the weirdest stuff. Like, if something’s easy, he’ll say,
Little apple, little egg.’

Mia sounds it out. ‘What else?’

When she smiles, I realise that Mia doesn’t need to cross Australia—she just needs an escape from herself for a bit. So I tell her everything that comes into my head: how Johnno Senior left a sheep for each of us kids in his will, and how this led to a goat and two alpacas.

‘People were coming to buy oil, but they were staying to pat the animals. Dad was stoked, and the petting farm kind of grew out of that. It made me popular, as a kid.
More
popular, I mean.’

‘What were you like, at primary school?’

‘Not as good-looking, obviously. Obsessed with becoming handball champion of the world.’

‘And were you?’

I open my eyes to check hers are still closed. They are. Her lips are parted and I notice the small gap between her front teeth.

‘Of course. Weren’t you?’

‘I was hopscotch champion for a while. Tell me more.’

I tell her the strange requests we’ve had for oils, like lobster- and chocolate-infused. And I tell her about Macka, my cricket coach, and how he chucked a tantrum when his giant pumpkin imploded two hours before the judging at the Albany show.

‘Did you know that pigs have the same intelligence as four-year-old children?’

It’s Mum’s voice that snaps us out of it. ‘Zac, are you okay in there?’

‘Yeah. Just reading chapter nine.’

‘Well, bring it with you. Your appointment’s in twenty minutes so we’ll need to leave in ten.’

Mia throws back the doona and I’m too slow to stop her when she calls, ‘That’s okay, Mrs Meier, I’ll go with him. Little apple, little egg.’

The receptionist notices my crutches and mistakes me for a patient.

‘I’m here with Zac.’

‘Oh. Where’s Wendy today?’

I shrug and flick through magazine articles on celebrities who are pregnant, heartbroken, fat or anorexic. It was stressful enough just to enter this building, so there’s no way I was going to follow Zac into that room. I don’t need a doctor sniffing around. I know exactly what’s wrong.

When he’s done, I go with Zac to pathology but I wait outside while he gets his blood taken. I pull my mobile from my pocket. I should be using this chance to call the bus company and book my ticket east. I have to go—I
want
to go—so why can’t I make myself dial the number? There’s nothing stopping
me from getting on a bus today.

Nothing except a small, childish voice that asks,
What about last night?

Being cocooned with Zac was the nicest thing that’s happened for a long, long time. But how do I know if it meant anything, or if it was just convenience? A warm body on a cold night?

I dial the number and wait for the automated options. ‘Press 1 for new bookings, 2 for arrival times, 3 for timetables. Hold the line for other enquiries.’

I hold the line, but when a woman answers, I hang up.

What about last night? What about it?

Then Zac bounds out of pathology and leads me across the street. He’s talking non-stop about the pathologist’s bad breath, and how she couldn’t find a good vein. ‘They’ve got names, you know. Today we had to bring out Chuck Norris.’

‘Weird.’

If Zac’s wondering about last night, he doesn’t show it. To be honest, he doesn’t appear to be thinking much at all.

In the pharmacy, as we wait for his prescriptions to be made up, Zac raids the sunglasses stand. I watch him, waiting for a clue.
What about last night, Zac?
Why doesn’t he say anything useful?

‘What do you think?’ He models a pair of oversized black sunnies.

‘They’re ugly,’ I tell him, because they are. He looks like a fly.

‘These too?’ The rims are fluoro yellow with huge stars. ‘Only two bucks. You could get the pink ones to match.’

‘Really.’

‘Hey, what if I buy a tube of this stuff for Evan? I could plant it in his room in case he brings a backpacker home. What would the French word for haemorrhoid be?’

‘Le haemorrhoid?’

Zac laughs, then proceeds to try out every single tester of aftershave. That’s when I’m reminded he’s just Zac: harmless, naive Zac. He’s just a boy with good arms. Whatever last night was, it wasn’t real. Real life is a metal leg and an infection that keeps getting worse.

So I swing over to the make-up section and dial the bus company. I hold the line, unnerved by the blonde girl reflected in rectangular mirrors. None of this is real. I tell the woman’s voice my details. Today is full, but she confirms my seat for tomorrow. Then I slide the phone back into my pocket.

I used to spend hours in pharmacies like this. As a girl, I’d pick through lipsticks, eye shadows and powders. I was mesmerised by the endless possibilities of body butters, fake tans and pedicure packs.

These days I’ve got a one-track mind, so I turn toward the only thing that appeals: the rows of prescription painkillers behind the counter. I’ve raided Bec’s cupboards, but I’ll need something stronger for the ride. Before things turn ugly.

When Zac pays for his lot, I lean over and request
the strongest over-the-counter drugs they have—‘for my torn ligament’, I tell the girl. When we’re back in the ute, I rip open the packet.

Zac takes off the yellow sunglasses. ‘Wait. You need food with those.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do. Hang on, there’s a place I know …’

The pills grow sticky in my palm as Zac drives us out of town and down a bumpy turn-off to a semi-filled car park. He leads me inside The Contented Cow Company, where he pushes us through a handful of tourists, arms himself with toothpicks then, ninja-like, impales various cheese cubes at random.

‘Panadeine Forte and cheddar shish kebabs. What more could you want? Except for maybe a honey mead chaser.’ He passes me a plastic cup then clinks the rims, as if it’s a toast.

‘Classy.’ I swallow the drugs. I know they won’t take the pain away, but they’ll help for a while. I lick the sweet liquid from my lips. It’s good.

‘Free cheese. Free honey mead. Seriously, you city folk have no idea what you’re missing.’

‘Seriously, I think I might … I’m going, you know.’

‘Now?’

‘Tomorrow. I booked my ticket.’

‘So we’ve got today.’ He checks his watch. ‘And I’m morally obliged, you realise, to show you exactly what you’ve been missing.’

‘Surely nothing can compete with The Contented C ow?’

He chucks the toothpicks and takes my hand. ‘Don’t peak too soon. Come on.’

For what’s left of the afternoon, Zac drives us down every rutted turn-off that promises cheese, wine, beer, nuts, cider or chutney. When we’re standing at each counter, we become like every other tourist, faking organic preferences and gourmet tastes. I drain each cider and wine glass offered to me but, as designated driver, Zac spits into a bowl. I learn more than I ever thought possible about dukkah—a word I’d previously imagined was made up—blue cheeses and quince paste. Soon, my stomach is churning with a
veritable melange
of flavours. For now, my pain is forgotten. Thoughts bubble and fizz like sparkling wine.

Zac’s phone rings and, for the third time, he lets it ring out.

‘I know what you’re doing, Zac.’

‘Being an excellent host and tour guide?’

‘Apart from getting me drunk, you’re avoiding going home to your mum.’

‘As if. Want some fudge?’

I cringe, pushing my fingers against my stomach. ‘God, no.’

‘There’s a place …’

Zac drives us through new suburbs that skirt the coast, then across an empty block to a lookout over a rocky harbour. Small birds swing above the choppy
ocean, swooping in sea spray.

There’s no fudge. There’s nothing around but us. When Zac switches off the engine, it occurs to me that this afternoon has all been about getting me here. He’d chosen this, the perfect spot, away from crowds and family, and the realisation sobers me. I smooth my tongue across my teeth and comb my fingers through the wig. Perhaps last night meant something to him after all. Perhaps …

Zac drums the steering wheel and admires the swell through his star-shaped sunnies. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s … pretty.’ Why the hell am I so nervous?

‘You know how to use a rod, don’t you?’

A rod?

‘I’ve got a six-foot, but there’s a four-foot that’s easier to handle.’

Never in my life have I parked at a lookout with a guy who suggests fishing. Ever.

‘I don’t think …’

‘I’ll check in the back. There could be a hand-line.’

‘No.’

I don’t want to fish. I hate the smell of bait and besides, those rocks would take some scrambling over. I want to head back—now. My leg is sore, but worse, my face burns hot and I’d hate for him to notice.

I can’t believe what a dick I’ve been. ‘It’s too rough,’ I say.

‘Not for the fish. We could get a dozen herring on a day like this. Come on, it’ll be fun.’

‘Not for the fish.’

He laughs.

‘I’m going tomorrow,’ I remind him.

Zac pushes the sunnies up onto his head. His eyes look more blue than grey.

If he would kiss me now, I might believe some of the things he said last night: that I’m a nine out of ten; that I’m beautiful, still. If he would push me against the seat and grab at me, and want me, I’d know for sure.

But he doesn’t. He just pulls the stupid glasses back into place and starts the engine.

I’m a complete idiot. All the compliments in the world mean nothing if he doesn’t want to act on them.

Zac is just a nice guy, trying to make me feel better.

And I’m a fucking fool for believing him.

I top up the bath, keeping it hot so my whole body scalds, rather than just the one part.

In the lounge room, Bec’s Skyping Anton. I hear them laugh at the way her belly jolts with surprising kicks. I hear in his voice how he misses her.

Blood has tinged the bathwater pink. During chemo, I’d taken the pill to stop my cycles—nurses said I’d need all the blood I had. My period hadn’t come back until tonight, a shock of dark red, mistakenly believing my body’s okay again. If only it knew.

I run a hand between my hip bones where my belly dips. Menstruation is wasted on me. I’ll never grow round like Bec, because no one will ever want to have
sex with what’s left of me. No one could ever love this.

My whole life, I’ve only ever been the pretty one—it’s all I needed to be. But what am I now, without a leg? Without hair? Without the cool group at school to hang out with? Who could look at me with anything but disgust? Zac’s the most decent guy I know, and even he’s not attracted to me.

Without my looks, what’s left? I’m not smart, or kind, or talented, or creative, or funny or brave. I’m nothing.

The bath turns cold. My fingers are crinkled when I lift myself up. I use the sink to help me hop out of the tub. A single wet footprint on the floor. I draw Bec’s robe around me and steal some tampons from her top drawer. I put one in, then swing on crutches down the hall to my room, where I close the door behind me. I sit on the bed to pull on undies, then hop across to grab a shirt.

The knock is too quick. He’s inside too soon, without thinking or waiting. It’s too late for me to hide and too late for him to hide the shock that looks like repulsion as he turns to the wall and I’m screaming and hiding my chest, as if that matters; as if that’s what could disgust him. He’s saying
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry it’s okay
, but it’s not because he saw me and I saw his face and I can’t stop screaming even when he kicks the robe towards me and I hold it over myself. He shuffles to me, hands in front, saying
it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay
and I’m screaming at him not to come any closer. I want to jump out of the window and sprint
for my life but I can’t so I’m trapped and he’s close, too close, so I punch him.

‘You don’t
do
that. You don’t walk
in—’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You can’t
look
at it. Can’t look at me—’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s
not
! I hate you.’

I push him so hard he falls against the cupboard. Coathangers jangle inside and he says, ‘Don’t hate me.’

‘I hate you and this place and Bec, and your mum, and everyone acting like they’re so fucking caring and normal, and it’s all a huge lie. I hate you and you hate me—’

‘I don’t hate you.’

‘You think I’m ugly—’

‘I don’t—’

‘Well, you should have a look at yourself.’

He exhales like it hurts. ‘You’re a nine.’

‘Then why don’t you want to fuck me?’

‘What? No … not like this.’

I pull the lamp from its socket and throw it at him. He doesn’t step away, just lets it smash at his shoulder. He lets me hurt him. Then he picks up each of the pieces and leaves.

In the hallway, Bec fusses over him. ‘It’s my fault,’ he tells her. ‘I went in. I wanted to tell her about Sheba’s baby.’

I hate him.

Bec knocks later, quietly.

‘Mia.’

I don’t answer. The door’s locked—I’ve learned my lesson. I sit on the floor thinking of ways to hurt myself.

‘One of the alpacas gave birth tonight. It’s a girl. You wanna come see?’

I hate them all.