by Michael Earp
“I’m not saying it can’t be done.” Wyll’s throat jumps as he swallows. “I’m saying it’s not what I want for me.”
Simeon is overcome with growing despair. He steps forwards on his painful yet functional foot and snatches the feverfew out of Wyll’s hand. Without another word he charges into the trees, trying to focus on his sister and the need that sent them into the forest to begin with.
He can hear Wyll following at a distance. Why isn’t Wyll taking it back, saying he wants to stay, that it was a joke? Simeon can’t understand.
The clearing with Wren’s house comes into sight. Wren stands waiting and eyes the two boys, who do not talk.
“I feel the cost of this draught is becoming clearer.” Their voice is wry, but not without compassion.
“What does that mean?” Simeon snaps. “Why are you so enigmatic?”
“The truth is a draught of its own. Bitter to swallow, it heals in time.”
Heartbreak has made Simeon short-tempered. “Enough riddles. Can you save Elzabe or not?” He thrusts the herbs at Wren. “I won’t lose two people in one day.”
“I can,” Wren replies. “If I cannot do this, then you may as well burn this entire forest to the ground for all the power I supposedly hold. I will make it and deliver it to your home when it is ready. You have my word.”
Simeon looks at Wyll – he stands at the edge of the clearing, probably dreaming of elsewhere even now – then turns to journey home.
My body glides through the water as I swim – arms moving rhythmically left, right, left – pulling my legs along as they drag behind me. As I make it to the end of my row and break for a breather, I see her.
I’m not alone.
She’s wheeling alongside the pool towards the accessible toilet. Her hair is green and it matches the bright lime green of her power wheelchair. I shouldn’t stare, but who is she? Where did she come from? She gets to the toilet door and just barges her chair into it and disappears inside.
I wonder if she’s noticed my wheelchair yet? My daggy little thing, with its bald tires that have lost their tread from hooning about the place, and my cushion that sags and smells like old sweat. It looks small and shy compared to that beast she’s driving.
I force myself to swim a couple more laps so I don’t look like a weirdo staring, waiting for her to come out. When she eventually does (maybe it takes her ages to get her boots off too?), she takes the aisle furthest away from me. Damn it! How can I check her out properly from this distance? Maybe she feels awkward because there are two of us here now and she’s wearing one of those unattractive old-people swimming caps? The price of having green hair, I guess.
Getting out of the pool, I pull myself up into my chair, wheeling slowly past her and her chair, hoping she’ll see me and say hi or something. Maybe she doesn’t even like other people with disabilities; maybe she feels uncomfortable around them like I do sometimes?
Wheeling to the change room, I try to ram the door like she did, but this arm-powered chair just doesn’t have the grunt. I make it through and in and have a long, long hot shower and take my time getting dressed. When I open the door she’s waiting outside, wet and dripping, cap in hand.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to take so long. My feet … don’t like my boots.” Who says that? I’m such a dork!
“It’s cool,” she says. “Mine don’t either.” She grins at me, straightening up her spike of bright green hair with her hands. The green hair highlights her dark brown eyes, and brightly coloured drops of dye run down her pale complexion. Her tank top and board shorts hang off her skinny frame. She cuts through my thoughts: “Now get out of the way before I catch a cold!”
“Sorry. Sure, see ya round,” I stammer. I hope!
The next day I have class. It’s like Year Twelve English except at TAFE for people who didn’t finish school. It’s kinda boring, but I’m good at it, and it means that I have an excuse to go hang at the library and read the few queer books there ’cause I’m not game enough to smuggle them home. As I wheel into the library the woman behind the reception desk says, as she always does when she sees me, “If you need help with anything, if any of it’s out of your reach, just come and ask one of us. We are here to help, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say. Why do people think I always need help? I wheel down a few aisles so as to not look obvious before I make my way to the LGBTQIA+ section.
And there she is. The chick from the pool. What is she doing here?
She smiles and says, “Hi, I’m Drew. We actually almost ran into each other yesterday at the pool?”
“Yeah, hi, I’m Jem,” I say awkwardly, wheeling forwards a little. I nervously run a hand over my dark, brown hair. It’s newly shaved at the sides and short on top and I love the feeling of the smooth skin under my fingers after a fresh shave.
“Cool. Are you looking for these type of books? This is good,” she says, pointing to one on the shelf, “if you’re looking to know a bit of the herstory of the gay and lesbian rights movement.”
“Maybe …” is all I can manage in response. She makes me feel so deeply uncomfortable, especially with that book in her hands. I’m sure I’m blushing. How does she manage to look like such a … dyke? Like who does she get to cut her hair like that, all freshly shaved on the sides, and where does she find her clothes? She’s wearing this perfectly pressed button-up shirt, a rainbow belt, pants with a flare and Docs. Does she have a girlfriend? I wonder.
“Can I help you, love?” It’s the librarian again. It’s like she’s stalking me.
“Yes,” I say, not thinking straight. “I’m looking for some books on disability. Do you have a disability section?”
“It’s a few aisles down that way,” Drew says, “though all the disability books are on the top shelf, so I couldn’t reach them.”
“Oh,” says the librarian sheepishly, “we didn’t think that through very well, did we? Come with me, girls, and I’ll get them down for you.” She walks off and we follow along behind her, arriving at a small section titled “Disability Studies”. She takes a little pile of books down and hands some to me and the others to Drew. Most of them are aimed at disability support workers, however there is one that looks interesting. It’s a collection of essays by people with disabilities. I flip to the contents page and there are chapters called “Women and Disability”, “Disability and Identity” and “Disability and Sexuality”. I need this book!
“What have you found?” asks Drew. I flip it over and read its title: Life Narratives: Exploring Disability Pride and Politics.
“Sounds super amazing! There’ll be loads of great stuff in there, I bet,” she says. “Anyway, I’ve gotta run, I’m speaking to a class of disability support workers in five about how best they can support people like us. Ace seeing you again. We should catch up, like do coffee or something.” She takes my phone and enters her socials. “Actually, there is a queer collective meeting at uni tomorrow at twelve, and I’d love another disabled person in the space with me because they have no idea about disability. Wanna come? We could do lunch after?” She hands the phone back.
It takes me a moment to catch up to the conversation. “Oh, that sounds great, unfortunately I’m not at uni yet. Do you think they’d mind me gatecrashing?”
“Nah,” Drew says, “and if they do, I’ll tell them you’re my support worker. That will really confuse the hell out of them!” She laughs.
Before I can say anything else, she says, “Later, babe” and wheels off.
Babe? No one hot has ever called me babe before … I shouldn’t overthink it because she’s probably one of these cool queers who calls everyone babe. She couldn’t be flirting, right?
I ring Dad and he picks me up. He’s a massive dag. He wears second-hand clothes from an op shop (he calls them preloved), shorts and singlets most of the year and then trackpants and the most unfashionable jumpers from a bargain store in the winter. And Crocs with socks! He’s a bit odd but most of the time h
e’s not too bad. He doesn’t believe in working for “the capitalist system” so he doesn’t have a job. He says being a father is his job. Mum works as a nurse and Dad does all the stuff around the house.
“How’d your class go? You look tired,” Dad begins now that I’m a captive in the car. “You should try to go to bed earlier tonight, actually get some sleep.”
Sigh. Not this lecture again.
“It’s your life, Jem,” he says. “Your mum worries about you being up at all hours, talking to whoever online.”
“I’m not talking to any guys, Dad, I’m reading stuff and chatting to some other girls.”
“I know it must be hard on you, with the chair and all. I know you will find a nice guy one day who will love you, and see past the wheelchair.”
This is old territory, too. “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Sometimes it’s hard, Dad, like when complete strangers ask ‘what’s wrong with you?’ when all I’m doing is wheeling down the street. That makes me feel super awkward. I wish I didn’t have to stand out all the time. But there are things I like about my chair. I can wheel further than I ever could ‘walk’ and I’ve been having fun going down hills!”
“Yes, well, make sure you don’t go too fast and keep an eye out for cars when you’re crossing roads.”
“Dad, I’m not five. I know how to cross a road safely. Don’t worry.”
“Do you want an orange?” This isn’t really a question as he’s already begun peeling me one. I know I have to eat it and sit quietly with him while he eats one too. This is a ritual Dad and I have had since I was little, him peeling me an orange and me sitting with him. He doesn’t try too hard to find out how I’m feeling, the way Mum does.
Dad hands me the segmented orange and turns on the radio to one of his boring old-people Radio National programs and we sit chewing together in silence.
I get to the plaza at uni just on one o’clock and take a deep breath to try to calm my nerves. This is the first queer thing I’ve been to. What if I don’t look queer enough? I have the short hair happening, and a tank top, shorts and my Docs, but that’s it; I don’t have coloured hair or piercings or anything. What if they don’t think I’m queer and they’re all like, “what are you doing here?”
As I push through the big glass doors, my chair noisily scrapes along the sides. It annoys me.
I find Drew parked in a semi-circle with four other people.
“Hi,” I say nervously. “I … Drew invited me.”
“Cool, welcome,” says a young, skinny guy with too much eyeliner. “Join us. Let me get you a … let me remove a chair.” He pulls one aside next to Drew and I squeeze in and park myself beside her.
“We were doing names and pronouns and what we’re studying,” says the guy with the eyeliner. “I’m Pat, and I use he/him pronouns. I’m the Queer Officer on campus,” he says with a grin.
I hate these things where everyone has to say who they are. And I don’t know what a pronoun is. I’m so anxious I don’t even hear anyone until Drew is speaking beside me.
“Hi, I’m Drew. I use she/her pronouns and I’ve recently moved here for uni. Living on campus, and I’m studying psych.”
Suddenly it’s my turn. “Hi, I’m Jem,” I say. “She … and I’m studying … but not here. Yet. I’m at TAFE doing, like, Year Twelve, hoping to come here in the future.”
“All right,” Pat says. “Let’s get started. Does anyone have any activities or events they’d like to propose we do this semester?” he asks, looking around the circle.
“Yeah, I do,” Drew jumps in. “I want to see us do a disability pride event with people with disabilities speaking about what’s good about living in the bodies and minds they do. And we’d discuss what kinds of support are available to people at uni. Did you guys know that two thirds of people with disabilities have invisible disabilities and a lot of them are in the closet about being disabled? Which is why we need to help them be out and proud!” Drew stops talking and everyone stares at her. My cheeks burn for her.
“O … kay,” says Pat. “We are an LGBTQIA+ collective, not a disabilities support group, so that’s not really our bag, sorry.”
“What?” Drew says, her voice rising. “But clearly people here, like me and Jem, are queer and have disabilities, so there are people who it’s very important to. If we had a disability and sexuality event would you guys support it or is that not gaystream enough?”
Pat looks frustrated. “I don’t know how many people would come to your event. We want something that appeals to all students, which helps us attract allies, not just some special cause.” He sighs loudly. “Anyone else got any ideas for a queer event or action on campus? Rainbow chalking of the footpaths, a protest outside the Evangelical students’ weekly barbecue ’cause they’ve been handing out homophobic flyers?”
Drew says quietly to me, “Wanna bail and grab lunch?”
“Yeah, sure,” I whisper back.
This time on the way out I kind of like how much noise both our wheelchairs make clattering through the glass doors. “Stuff ‘em, we will not go quietly!” says Drew loudly as she lets the door slam behind us. Damn! She’s such a bad-arse!
I buy a chicken pasta, sandwich and two large coffees, from what Drew informs me is the best of the two terrible coffee places on campus.
“That was frustrating. I knew they probs weren’t going to go for it,” Drew says, wheeling up to our table. “I wanted to see how unsupportive they’d be before I gave my free time helping out with their events.”
“Don’t you care if they don’t like you, though?” I ask, chewing on a mouthful of pasta.
“Yeah, a bit,” she says. “I’d like to have some friends in this town, and that chick opposite us with the curly hair and the sleeve tatt was kinda hot. But I’d rather have an opinion and let them know what’s important to me than not say anything. I’m over caring what able-bods think, you know?”
I don’t actually know. I spend a lot of time worrying what people think about me, though I like this idea that maybe one day I won’t.
“If … if you organised a disability pride event, I would one hundred per cent be there!” I say.
“Excellent. And if it’s only us, who cares? You and me against the world!” Drew says with a little cheer.
Wow. What if I could have a friend, like an actual cool friend? I don’t really have any friends. I used to have a few – not many, but a few – before I left halfway through Year Ten because I was sick of being made to feel like a freak and a loser for using a chair. I was the only person in a wheelchair at school, which was really hard. So I left one day, stayed in my room for a couple of weeks feeling super sad and then only because Mum and Dad wouldn’t let up, I enrolled in TAFE. It isn’t really a place to find my type of people, so I’ve been kinda studying and hanging at home being bored.
“You know,” Drew says, cutting through my thoughts, “we are not alone. I know it can sometimes feel like you are, but you’re not. Other people have lived in bodies like ours throughout history and tried to make sense of it.”
I glance at her with what must have been a “what?” look on my face because she grins and continues: “Okay, you’re pretty green with thinking about disability and what it might mean for you, yeah? Have you read that book you nabbed from the library yet? You should, and I’ve got a few more you might like. We should hang again real soon.”
She looks up towards the steepest part of the uni. “Now I’ve got to power up that hill to head to class. Thank god for old Reggie here,” she pats the armrest of her chair lovingly like it’s a faithful dog, “she’ll get me there.” She looks me up and down, eyeing off my arm muscles, her eyes catching mine for a moment. “I wouldn’t want to be in your position, having to push myself up that. I mean, you look fit and tanned, yet even that must be beyond you, right?”
“Yeah, it is,” I admit.
“I used to think, when I got my first powerchair at twelve, that it was giving up,” she says. “That�
��s what everyone had told me; that getting a wheelchair basically meant my life was worthless. The reality is it’s made my life much easier. Now I can cruise around, and it’s much less tiring than trying to walk unsteadily on sticks! This baby,” she strokes her chair again, “doesn’t mean giving up, she means independence and freedom. Anyway, I’ve really gotta head out or I’m gonna be late!”
“Cool, thanks loads for hanging today,” I say. “I’m gonna burn down that big hill through the car park and not care if anyone is watching me for once!”
Later, when I get home, Drew texts me: Hey, do you wanna hang sometime, like at mine? It’s a bit of a mess but we could watch some movies or something?
Is she hitting on me? This never happens!
Sure, I reply, that would be great. When are you free? :)
Tomorrow night?
She texts me her address. It’s one of the uni colleges and is up literally the biggest hill in town. There is no way I’ll be able to push myself up it. The only wheelchair-accessible taxi driver in town is a total creep, so that’s not an option. I’m going to have to ask Dad for a lift and he’ll ask me twenty questions. I’ll tell a little lie and say it’s someone from my TAFE class who I have to do a boring assessment with.
Crap! What am I going to wear? I’ll work it out tomorrow. Now it’s time to read some of that book so that I can have interesting and impressive things to say tomorrow night. And maybe I’ll daydream about Drew a little …
As I open the book and begin to read, I imagine her lying in bed beside me, her arm wrapped around me and my head resting on her chest.
The next night, I finally settle on my casual jeans and a singlet top with a button-up shirt over it. It’s slightly dressy, definitely queer and accentuates my arm muscles. Plus I’m not even sure what this hang out is. Just because we’re both in wheelchairs doesn’t mean we have to be into each other, right? And I don’t even know if she likes me. I really want to kiss someone who isn’t that drunken guy at my friend’s party last year, who tasted like beer and slightly of spew. I only made out with him because he wanted to and people were starting to think I was into girls.