Zac and Mia (13 page)

I come out early to see the baby alpaca in the pen. Her wool is fluffy like a chicken’s. Ten hours old, she can already stand on wonky legs.

When I check the other animals, I find a dead rooster. It was old. I open the coop and lift it out, then walk the path to the far fence where I throw the body far into the bush. I don’t wait for the vixen today, though I know she’ll be close.

‘Stay away,’ I call over my shoulder, as if a deal could be made with a fox.
Have the bird but stay away from the newborn
. I fool myself into thinking killers have a conscience.

Some might.

But not all.

Some don’t care about age or decency. Some come in daylight on a Sunday morning and snatch a grown
man on his way home from the beach, sand on his soles, salt on the surfboard in the back of his ute. A man with a C-shaped scar on the side of his head.
C for Cam, in case you forget
.

I’m in the shed brushing lacquer onto timber when Mum tells me. Dad and Evan are out loading the trailer.

‘It was Nina who called. She thought you’d want to know. It was quick.’

I scratch at a patch of dried varnish on my palm. I’m not sure I hear Mum right.

‘You know Cam didn’t have … good odds.’

Yeah, but still. It wasn’t supposed to happen yet. It was supposed to be drawn out for another twelve months, with more radiation and surgery, more scans and always a pocket of hope. Not a sudden heart attack—
major organ failure
—three kilometres from home. Did he get the chance to brake? Pull over? Was he aware of the song that was playing on the radio?

‘At least he got a last surf in.’ I’m dizzy with the fumes.

‘He always liked you.’ Mum squeezes my shoulders and I flinch. ‘What’s wrong?’ She finds the fresh bruise, and shakes at the touch. ‘Zac!’

‘Don’t stress, it was an accident.’

‘What happened?’

‘Will there be a funeral?’

‘Nina said there’s a service tomorrow.’

‘In Perth?’

‘Scarborough Beach. Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I’ll go.’

‘Good,’ says Mum, already making plans. ‘We can stay with Trish.’

I notice a brush bristle stuck in a slat. I pull it out like a splinter.

‘I’ll take Mia.’

‘But isn’t she going to—’

‘No.’

It’s not the raw wound of her leg that haunts me. It’s the expression on her face. She said she hated me but it wasn’t hate I saw. It was terror.

I’m not scared of her; I’m scared
for
her. I’m scared of all the things she might do. I know she’s going to run. She’ll run from anyone who cares enough.

I care enough.

Cam died yesterday and there was nothing could I do about it. But Mia …

‘I’m going to take her home.’

But she’s already gone. In the spare room, Bec’s stripping the bed.

Everything of Mia’s has disappeared except the mobile phone still plugged into the wall. I pull it from the socket and switch it on. It beeps three times as I walk to Mum’s car. I read the new messages.

I look for her at the bus stop but the seats are empty. There’s another two hours before the bus will come.

I drive each street in town. The blonde wig is easy to spot. For a girl who’s running away, she’s picked a strange place to stand. I pull the car over and watch.

Holding onto crutches, she’s reading the posters in the window of the police station. It’s like she’s looking for someone. That’s when it hits me that despite everything she says, Mia might actually want to be found.

I cross the road and step up to join her. By her side, I read the posters too, wondering if these people want to stay missing, or if they’re just too proud or scared to turn back.

‘Cam died.’

‘I knew him,’ she says after a while. ‘He asked me to play pool.’

‘Did you?’

‘No. I should’ve though. He was … sweet. I’m sorry.’

We’re speaking to each other’s reflections in the glass. We could be ghosts.

I tell her I’m going to the service.

‘Why?’

‘He was a friend. It’s in Perth. There’s room for you.’

She closes her eyes as her head drops.
Can’t
, she mouths.

Mia’s too far gone for choices. I have to make this one for her.

I ease the crutches free and place them against the window, then hook an arm under her knees and hoist
her up. She lets me carry her to the car. She’s heavier than I expected. Her skin is warm and kind of clammy. I hadn’t noticed how sick she is.

I jog back for the crutches and that’s when I see the photo on the left side of the window. The girl smiles out, with glossed lips, perfect teeth and dark shiny hair.

Missing: MIA PHILLIPS, 17yo, female. Amputee, needs treatment. Last seen at friend’s house in Perth
.

I drive home to grab a change of clothes. Mia stays in the front seat. When I come back out, my mum’s beside the driver’s door. I promise her we’ll be safe. I’ll watch out for roos. I’ll drive carefully with regular stops and stay overnight at Aunt Trish’s house. Mum hugs me through the window then hands me my pill box. What else can she do?

‘I hope you feel better,’ she tells Mia, passing across a bag of pears. ‘These are for your mum. And you. They’re good.’ Mum wants to say more, but she stops herself and kisses me instead. I’m proud of her. ‘See you soon.’

I’ve made this trip north hundreds of times, but always with Mum filling the hours with dialogue. This time I drive with Mia beside me. She dozes most of the time. When she’s awake, the silence is comfortable, like an old blanket between us.

At a servo I fill up the car and buy us bacon-and-egg rolls and iced coffees. She sips hers through a straw, looking over the countryside that’s dotted with cows.

Each time we close in on a town, Mia scans for radio signals. We listen to whatever’s playing until the reception crackles again, and she turns it off.

I think about Cam. Last year when our chemo cycles overlapped, he tried to ‘educate’ my music tastes during our pool-playing marathons. He told me stories about girls and surfing. He’d always start with ‘When I was your age …’ He was only thirty-two. He knew a lot about Buddhism. He said it helped put things into perspective. He would line up his cue and let it rest off the white ball for ages. He had composure when it mattered, even with that tumour branching out, taking hold.

‘It shouldn’t be quiet,’ I say aloud, unexpectedly.

Mia reaches for the radio dial, mistaking me.

‘Cancer, I mean.’ The ‘C’ word. With the destruction it brings, cancer should come howling into a body with sirens wailing and lights flashing. It shouldn’t be allowed to slink in and take root in someone’s brain like that, hiding amongst memories.

‘Yeah.’

Even though Mia doesn’t say much, I’m glad she’s here. Our decisions are easy ones.
Toilet stop at this rest area or the next? Doritos or chilli Grain Waves? Coke or iced coffee?

Mia chooses iced coffee again. As I line up to pay, I see her frowning at the contents of a bain-marie.

‘You hungry?’ I ask.

‘Is that food?’

‘Maybe forty per cent of it. The rest … not sure. You’ve never had a battered sav?’

She shakes her head.

‘A Chiko Roll?’

‘No. Have you?’

‘Not one that looks so … last Tuesday.’

‘Chicken.’

‘I can’t tell.’

‘I mean
you
,’ she says, like it’s a dare.

So I buy us two Chiko Rolls, even though they’d definitely be on my banned foods list. The guy packets them and checks out Mia’s crutches.

‘What happened?’

‘Shark,’ she says, squeezing tomato sauce over her Chiko Roll before I can stop her.

‘Wow.’

She winks. ‘If I was you, I’d think twice before peeing in your wetsuit.’

The look on the guy’s face as Mia swings away: priceless.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if she’ll go home, or back to hospital, or even back to the bus station to start her escape all over again.

But today, we eat salty, soggy Chiko Rolls in the sunshine and they taste better than anything. Mia’s got the knack of keeping me in the surprising, glary present. Exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I hate Perth. I hate its suburbs, where every landmark pricks me with reminders.

I hate arriving, the engine turning off. The itch of my scalp beneath the sweaty wig. I hate the thought of getting out of the car, with its chip packets and the seat that’s softened to my shape.

‘You still okay with this?’

I shrug. What else can I do?

‘We can find a motel, if you want. I’ve got enough cash.’

‘Your aunt’s place will be fine,’ I say. Right now, I’m preoccupied by the clock on the dashboard. I calculate there’s an hour and a half before I can take the next pills. Until then, I shouldn’t be making snap decisions.

We’re parked on a street that runs from King’s Park down to the Swan River. Either side are high-rise
apartment buildings, competing for views. I’ve never known anyone who lives near here.

‘You didn’t mention your aunt’s a yuppy.’

‘She’s not so bad …’

I give him a throwaway smile to show that I’m joking. It’s only a gesture but there’s something about Zac’s face that hooks my glance and keeps it there. For some reason, he seems older. Better. I blink in surprise.

It makes him self-conscious. ‘What?’

Perhaps his face is like the night sky, the way it changes each time you look away.

‘What!?’ Zac flips down the mirror and checks between his teeth.

‘You look … different.’

‘Tired different? Just-driven-over-five-hundred-kilometres different? Or a booger in my nose different?’

Nope, he’s the same Zac.

He swipes at his nose and I snort out a laugh. I don’t know how he does it—how he makes me forget the clock and the pain. Sometimes, even if it’s just for a few seconds, I can forget just how crap my life is.

‘Come on booger-head. I gotta pee.’

‘Again? Are you taking the piss?’

‘It’s the iced coffees.’

He offers me an empty Coke bottle.

‘I had a catheter in after the surgery,’ I tell him. ‘I could pee into a bag any time I wanted without leaving the bed.’

‘Nice.’

‘You know, I was actually kind of sad when they
took it out. Going to a toilet is a total waste of time.’

‘Well, if you didn’t drink so many iced coffees—’

‘Thanks for those. I owe you.’

‘I know, I’m keeping a tab. The Chiko Roll, though, that was on me.’

We walk past the main gate and through a lush garden. In the centre is a circular fountain with a concrete fish spitting out water. We avoid the splash and head to the entrance, where Zac buzzes the intercom. The response comes from a balcony six stories up.

‘Zacchi!’ A woman waves, leaning dangerously over. ‘The lift’s getting fixed so walk on up.’

Zac turns to me. ‘You still good?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, looking up.

He takes my backpack and leads the way through the foyer and into the stairwell.

‘Take your time,’ he says. Like I have a choice.

With each step, the crutches dig harder into my armpits. Even the slightest weight on my left leg shoots fire up it. There’s no forgetting myself anymore.

After the first ten steps, I pause on the landing. My arms are shaking when I pull strands of wig from my lips.

‘Mia.’ My name echoes in the stairwell as Zac jumps down three steps.

I don’t want him to see me like this, sweaty and stressed. I don’t want him to see how much this hurts.
Each step is a blinding flash.

‘I’m fine.’

But by the third floor, he’s got his hand on my back. By the fourth, I’m leaning on him.

‘I’ll carry you,’ he offers at the fifth.

‘You’re not tough enough,’ I taunt, closing my eyes to the burn. Beneath my jeans, the stump throbs twice its size. The pain could set me alight.

At the sixth floor, the woman waits by an open door.

‘Jeepers,’ she says, noticing my crutches. ‘You’ve done well. Is it your ankle?’

‘Netball injury.’

‘Nasty.’

Trish is toned and tanned. Barefoot, she wears a charcoal skirt and a cream blouse, with a thin gold necklace. She smells of flowers, just a bit, the kind of flowers you have to lean in to. She hugs Zac then shakes my hand.

‘It’s good to meet you. Zac’s told me a lot—’

‘Not much—’

‘A little about you. You’ve been staying at the farm?’

‘Mia’s an old friend,’ he says.

My breath is steadying but the nausea remains. This stupid leg shouldn’t hurt so much, should it?

‘I’m sorry about Cam. It’s not fair—’

Zac drums his stomach. ‘I’m starving. Mia?’

I nod, though the idea of food makes me want to puke. ‘Starving.’

‘Zac knows I’m no domestic goddess, so I’ve
prepared these.’ Trish presents three takeaway menus like prizes. ‘Mexican, Vietnamese, Italian.’

‘Mia?’ Zac’s beside me. Sweat trickles down the side of my face and I think he sees it. He helps me to a couch. I let him.

‘Geez, do you need anything?’

I wave Trish away. ‘Mexican?’

‘It’s a ten-minute walk.’

‘I’ll wait here. You two go. Do they do tortillas?’

‘The best.’

Zac crouches close, though I can’t meet his gaze.

‘What do you need?’

‘Avocado. Extra cheese.’

‘What
else
do you need?’

I inhale. Fight the tears that want to come.

‘Does your aunt have a bath?’

Zac shakes his head. ‘It’s a small apartment.’

‘Then a glass of water and my backpack.’

The apartment is beautiful, but it’s the long wall of glass panes that’s most appealing. I limp across and slide open the door. Cool wisps of breeze find my face. From the balcony, I watch Zac and Trish make their way down the street.

I’ve lived in Perth all my life but I’ve never seen it from this angle. Beside the river, cyclists ride in twos and threes. Lone joggers pound the pavement. Birds unfold their wings like flashers. Boats skip
along the flat, wide water, racing the light home.

Along the freeway, red tail-lights nudge south. Inbound, white headlights stream over the bridge, heading north. From here, I can track the layout of suburbs. I can even guess where mine would be. My mum’s. It’s south-west of here, far from the river, past the freeway and further inland, past the university and across Manning Highway, four streets down, then two to the right. A small, shadeless cul-de-sac with overgrown verges and squat orange villas for foreign students and single mothers.

If I had a telescope, I could probably find the house from here. I’d see its courtyard with plastic furniture. Its clothesline with three rows of pegged uniforms.

And if I looked inside, I might even see my mother there, with the pantry door open, finding nothing worth eating. Would the washing machine be thumping? Would the house seem even smaller with only one person in it?

People and birds turn to silhouettes. The sky is changing, throbbing with dusk. I know these colours well. Puckered pinks and flaming reds, hot and soft to touch. Scarlet smearing the horizon. A symphony of infection and pain. Then slowly, heavily, a violet descends like a giant bruise until it’s all the same. There’s a peace that comes with the dark. I exhale with relief. Without the rage of day, there’s nothing left to feel.

The freeway unblocks itself. Lights twinkle. Cars stream to where they belong.

Six stories below, garden lights flicker on. I lean over the balcony, pushing my chest into the aluminium railing the way Trish did. The great grey fish continues to spit from its pond. I watch the water arc up and out, bubbling then tumbling into its circular base. The water looks cold and I imagine the relief it would give me. It would put out the fire. It would probably do more than that.

If I fell from here, six stories would be enough, wouldn’t it? If I toppled into that cool concrete pond, I wouldn’t burn anymore. I wouldn’t be ugly. I wouldn’t be so horrible and hopeless.

But it would be Zac and Trish who would find me, and I couldn’t do that to them. I don’t want Zac to be broken as well.

I don’t know how this will end. The cancer didn’t kill me, but it should’ve. Perhaps it’ll come back, somewhere else, the way Cam’s did. Perhaps the infection in my leg will finish me off, leaching enough poison into my bloodstream to end it. Or maybe a bus will take me so far I can fall off the edge and Zac won’t be around to pick up my pieces.

I see him walking up the hill with his aunt, lit by the streetlights. He carries a bag with tortillas, with extra avocado and cheese.

Poor Zac. He still thinks he can save me.

Lying on my side on the couch, I watch occasional headlights trace the curves of the river.

Trish had offered me the spare bed, but I insisted on the couch. It’s the cool breeze I craved, so I kept the glass door open. Now I lie in T-shirt and undies, awake at 1 a.m. The last painkillers have worn off completely.

I don’t want to use up my supply, so I feel my way to the bathroom where I close the door behind me and switch on the fluoro light. The cabinet is beneath the sink. I lower myself to the floor.

The cupboard is stacked: six packets of painkillers, five codeine, anti-inflammatories and heaps of sleeping tablets. I can’t believe it. There’s enough in here to numb a battlefield. There’d be enough to finish it all.

‘There’s more if you need.’

I launch myself across my leg but it’s too late to cover it.

‘Shut the door,’ I spit, swivelling. The light’s too harsh for this. I need my jeans. My wig. ‘What are you doing?’

Trish’s response is unexpected. ‘Sorry, Mia. I’m out of antibiotics.’

I drag a towel from the rail to hide myself.

‘No. I need codeine.’

Trish lifts a packet from the floor, opens it, and pops two pills through the casing.

‘Take them. Then tomorrow, see a doctor—’

‘Doctors are arseholes,’ I say. ‘You’re not a doctor, are you?’

She shakes her head. ‘Lawyer. Though a lot of them are arseholes too.’

Leaning across me, Trish fills a glass with tap water, then crouches and hands it to me. I wash the pills down.

‘It won’t always hurt so much,’ she says. ‘It gets better.’

What the fuck? She can’t be serious. The last thing I need now is a lecture.

‘You learn to live …’

I glare at the tiles, incredulous. What would this woman know, with her pedicured feet and toned calves? Who is she to counsel me on
learning to live
? How dare she keep looking at me, without the decency to turn away.

She must be in on it too. Zac’s mum must’ve phoned her:
Keep an eye on the girl, she’ll raid your cabinet like she did Bec’s. Tell her to get her check-ups and go back to her mother. Keep her away from my boy
.

I can’t speak for outrage. For shame.

Trish eases herself to the tiles beside me, leaning her back against the shower cubicle. She stretches her legs out to the wall. Then she peels another two pills from the packet, places them on her own tongue, and swallows dry.

The fluoro doesn’t flatter Trish either, I notice. She looks sunken—almost concave. Her singlet seems to hang on her, flattened against her chest the way it shouldn’t. Where her thin, gold necklace had been before, just above her breasts, there’s … nothing.

‘Have you heard the story about the family who moved from Melbourne to Darwin, and then six years later the cat showed up, like nothing had happened?’

I shake my head. In this light, her skin is pale and uneven. Blotched in the inner arms. Puckered at the neck. Like Zac’s. Like mine.

‘Even after six years, I still think there’s a cat heading to my door.’

The codeine trickles into my bloodstream, bringing the promise of relief.

‘I still get headaches. Insomnia. I still worry. But I don’t …
hurt
like that anymore. I don’t hurt … like you.’

My words come out as a confession. ‘I hurt all the time.’

‘There are some things you can’t change,’ Trish says, inspecting her arms. ‘And there are some things you can.’

The drugs flood me, swamping my leg and its pain. But my chest, fuck, it still burns.

‘It’s not fair, hon.’ Trish speaks in Zac’s voice. In mine. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘It’s not …’

‘No, hon, it’s
not
fair.’

‘It’s
not
…’

‘It’s not fair …’

Our voices overlap and I let the tears fall as I’m rocked like a baby in the ugly light.

In the morning I clip on the leg, pull on jeans, brush out the wig. I steal some more painkillers only to find two fresh boxes already in my backpack.

Trish brings lattes and pikelets to the balcony, but I can’t meet the eye of this woman, made womanly again with a wool-knit top. At the table, Trish and Zac pass each other plates and maple syrup. They talk about school, the baby alpaca and the new Italian coffee grinder, as if these things matter. I watch them, two relatives with unlucky genes, discussing coffee beans.

How the hell do they do it? He’s got someone else’s marrow and she has a butchered chest. How do they coast through each day with this illusion of control? Ever since my surgery, all I’ve done is swing from pity to rage. Pity to rage. How can I not? Everywhere I look I’m reminded of what’s missing.

My instinct is to howl at the joggers below. I imagine breaking their legs and clawing out their hair. Why should they be so lucky? So obliviously lucky? And those cyclists, riding in symmetry—I want to push them off their bikes. I want to punch anyone who dares to be happy.

I watch Trish playing with her necklace, and I wonder where she hides all her anger. I study her face and her hands, but I can’t find it. Has she forgotten what it’s like? Or has she become an expert at pretending?

She slides a pikelet onto my plate. ‘Go on. It’s the one thing I can actually cook.’

What if all this—the crocheted tablecloth, the breakfast rituals and small talk—is just pretend? Is Zac in on it too, faking normal? If so, the world should stand up and clap and give them both Academy Awards.

I try to take their lead. I swallow the coffee. It’s too strong, but I don’t complain. I add more milk. I hold my tongue. I count to ten. To twenty. I mirror the way they spread butter and pour maple syrup. I slice another triangle of pikelet. I lean forward on my elbows and, like them, I let the sun find my face. I fake a smile and I think they buy it.