Sick Bay

by Nova Weetman

  ‘Does anyone fail to graduate?’

  ‘I can think of plenty of kids who should,’ I tell her, frowning.

  ‘Is there a dinner or a dance?’

  ‘Both. It’s meant to be some grand function where all the girls wear frilly dresses and the boys wear suits and talk about how primary school was the best days of their lives. I don’t think so!’

  The bell dings out the front and Peggy stands up slowly. I wait for her to say something else, but she just pats my hand and leaves me to it.

  I hear her say hello to a customer as I focus on wiping my finger across another slice of Boston Bun until all the icing piles up in a sticky lump. I jam the whole thing into my mouth and let it ooze around.

  ‘Meg, your washing’s finished,’ calls Peggy.

  I tidy up before I leave. The back room is so compact and neat that it doesn’t feel right to leave anything out of place.

  ‘Look at this,’ Peggy says as I walk into the front part of the laundromat. She holds up a wad of socks that have electrocuted themselves together as they’ve tumbled around inside a huge metal barrel. She separates one sock and places it above her head. A whisper of blue hair floats up to it.

  ‘Static,’ she laughs.

  I open washing machine number seven and pull out the lump of clothes. They smell like oranges.

  ‘You right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, struggling to carry the pile to the dryer in one go. The dryer’s still warm from the last load, and I lean into the barrel, wondering what it would feel like to tumble around with the clothes. I might even discover what happens to all the missing socks.

  Riley

  Lina doesn’t wear crop tops. She wears a real bra, with lace. Apparently, her mum took her shopping and they bought three different floral patterns. She loves it when we can glimpse the strap through her t-shirt.

  ‘Try this one,’ says Mum, banging into the change room without knocking.

  I cover my chest quickly with crossed arms.

  ‘I’ve seen it all before, Riley.’

  It’s Friday morning and we have a curriculum day so no school for me, which means no work for Mum. So she decided it would be a good opportunity to tick off all the jobs we needed to do. I was hoping this would be a shopping trip for a graduation dress. Instead, Mum is buying me a sports bra. There’s no lace or patterns on a sports bra. It’s chunky and solid and like something she’d wear. I slip my arms through and fiddle with the clasp but can’t do it up properly. Mum’s cold fingers skim against my back as they clip the sides together.

  I chance a look at myself. Instead of seeing the bra, I just see the tape covering the cannula into my stomach and the pucker marks on my skin where my line has been injected over the last few weeks. I stretch my arm across my middle, wondering what it would feel like to have nothing attached to your body.

  ‘Still too big,’ says Mum, tugging on the straps. She swings the door open without warning, exposing me to anyone walking down the corridor, and disappears again.

  Kicking the door shut, I sit down on the chair and slip out my phone from the pocket of Jenna’s hand-me-down denim jacket. I’ll do anything to avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror.

  Elle has texted about Lina’s present. We’re putting in money to buy her a Polaroid camera. It’s a surprise, but she’s hinted at it often enough so I’m sure she knows it’s coming. I start texting back, wishing I was shopping with Elle and Tessa instead of being here with Mum.

  ‘This is the smallest size they have,’ says Mum, barging back in and flinging another option towards me. This one is grey.

  ‘Can’t I just get something less ugly?’

  ‘You don’t need a bra yet, honey. You have tiny breasts,’ says Mum. ‘At least this bra will be some protection for sports.’

  ‘Mum …’

  ‘Riley, come on. Off your phone.’ She grabs at my phone and tosses it into her handbag.

  ‘Mu-um!’

  I didn’t even get to press send on the complaint text I was writing. She thrusts the grey bra in my direction, not bothering to apologise.

  ‘Can we still look for dresses?’ I slip my arms in, cover my front and turn around so Mum can do up the back.

  ‘Haven’t you got something you can wear?’

  ‘Graduation’s a big deal. Everyone else has been shopping for weeks,’ I tell her.

  She steps behind me so she can see over my shoulder and into the mirror.

  ‘Nice,’ she says, nodding like she’s achieved something great.

  ‘As if …’

  She smooths down a strap across my shoulder and I slap her hand away. I’m surprised when she laughs.

  ‘When did you get so big, Riley? You’re almost as tall as me.’

  ‘Leave, Mum,’ I tell her, pushing her out the door so I can change back into my crop top and t-shirt in private. Looking in the mirror, I fix my ponytail and scruff up my fringe so it’s not so neat. Mum keeps telling me I need a haircut, but I’m desperate to grow my hair even longer, like Lina’s. She can almost sit on hers when she straightens it. My sister and I always had short hair when we were little, thanks to Mum. She said it was to keep nits under control, but I think it was just so that she didn’t have to brush the knots out every night. She lives for practical.

  Mum hands me a small bag with the bra in it when I come out of the change room. I really wish I could leave it on the ground for someone else to take home.

  ‘Can we go to that shop on the second floor that Jenna likes?’

  Frowning, The Brain pushes her glasses back up her nose. I’m sure she thinks it makes her look more like a psychologist. Her glasses magnify her eyes so I can see the specks of brown in the blue.

  ‘Not for graduation,’ she says.

  ‘Please, Mum. We’re just looking.’

  ‘I’m not buying something too adult …’

  When I was little, Mum taught my sister and me a trick – to count to five before we answered so that we wouldn’t say something we regretted. Now I mostly use the trick when I’m talking to her.

  ‘One. Two …’

  She hurries off and I skip numbers three and four and trail after her. I have to step quickly to keep up. She’s always so busy. Even shopping on a Friday morning she walks at a pace that I can hardly match.

  Today is what Lina would call a scoping day. Apparently, you’re supposed to scope at least six times before you actually purchase. I’m not quite as into shopping as Lina is. Maybe because I always go with Mum and there’s no chance of doughnut eating or make-up testing. But Lina and the others spend half their life shopping. While they shop, I make up reasons why I can’t go with them.

  The shop Jenna likes is called ‘Hidden’ and it plays the sort of music she tunes out to most nights. Mum pulls a face as soon as we step through the door. I decide to go left while she heads right.

  Most of the dresses are super short. Some are also backless. I’m scanning for one I think Mum will at least let me try on, but to be honest there aren’t many to choose from.

  ‘This would suit you,’ says Mum, holding up a pants suit.

  I shake my head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You don’t have to wear a dress, Riley,’ says Mum. ‘This is the twenty-first century. Women wear pants,’ she says, holding up her leg as if to show me proof that she’s a woman and she’s wearing pants.

  ‘I want to wear a dress.’

  ‘Not usually.’

  ‘I do, Mum.’

  ‘Really? Or is Lina wearing a dress?’

  I focus on the rack in front and grab at material that’s sparkly and not me at all but will do as a distraction.

  ‘That’s been our biggest seller,’ says a woman a bit older than Jenna, who appears from nowhere like a genie out of a bottle. She’s wearing ripped denim jeans, a low-cut white top an
d huge dangling earrings.

  ‘Not our style,’ says Mum, plucking it from my hand and returning it to the rack.

  The woman laughs like this a scene she knows well. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Something appropriate for a child,’ snaps Mum.

  ‘Um … something for graduation,’ I mumble.

  One. Two. Three …

  ‘Okay, follow me,’ she says, striding around the shop in her towering heels and plucking dresses from both sides.

  ‘Dressing room three is empty. If you need other sizes, just call out,’ she tells me, hanging about thirty dresses in the change room and smiling at us both.

  I’m tired already.

  Mum hustles in behind me and pulls the curtain across so hard it comes loose at the other end.

  ‘There’s not much room, Mum,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Sighing, I turn away from her and start to undress.

  The car ride to the hospital is silent. Not even music blares to fill in all the gaps between us. The only sound is from me biting chunks out of a green apple that Mum handed me when I complained I was hungry.

  ‘Did you do a test?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fourteen grams,’ she says.

  ‘Did it.’

  Mum stops at the lights and looks across at me. I concentrate on trying to shred the green skin with my teeth.

  ‘The blue dress looked nice but it wasn’t amazing …’ she says.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘I think we can do better.’

  I tried to tell her that the blue dress was perfect. It had a pocket for my test kit and pump so I wouldn’t need my bumbag. It didn’t pull too tightly across my stomach so you couldn’t see the infusion set. And it made me look like everyone else. But I can’t say all that to Mum because she’s forgotten what it’s like being twelve.

  ‘Not getting any greener, Mum,’ I say, nodding my head to the traffic lights.

  She stops inspecting me with her well-practised psych gaze and looks out the windscreen.

  Mum drives the car into the hospital car park and keeps circling down until she reaches basement level three. Mum always parks here; we should have our own allocated spot. I drop half the apple on the floor.

  ‘Riley, you’ve put in fourteen grams, you have to finish the apple,’ she says like I’m new to this diabetes thing. ‘I hope you don’t do that at school. Although it would explain your low last week.’

  The apple’s covered in floor fluff. I don’t want to eat any more but I take a bite because arguing with her is even worse. It tastes weird.

  Today I’m seeing Eda – my endocrinologist. I call her The Hulk. Nobody knows that, of course. Just me. It’s not because she’s green or even angry, but something about the quick way she shifts from friendly to stern reminds me of the Marvel character. I don’t mind these appointments. I like The Hulk. I see her once every three months if everything is going okay.

  ‘I’m going to get a coffee before we go,’ says Mum, pressing the ground-floor button in the lift.

  I follow Mum to the only cafe she believes makes a decent brew, and wait while she orders and hands over the glass keep cup she keeps in her bag so she can save the environment one takeaway coffee at a time. A display case of pre-prepared sandwiches, custard-filled cakes and biscuits taunts me. The apple did nothing to fill the rumble in my stomach.

  ‘Can I get a toasted sandwich?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head like it’s a joke question not worthy of a real answer.

  ‘I’m hungry, Mum.’

  ‘You had lunch two hours ago,’ she says. ‘And you just ate an apple. Or three-quarters of one.’

  I notice her catch another woman’s eye and they share a look.

  ‘Mum, two hours is a long time when you’re young.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait.’ She fiddles with her plastic lid, attaching it to the top of the cup, and trots off towards the lift.

  ‘Can you hear my stomach?’ I say, running after her.

  Mum laughs. ‘You’ll live.’

  ‘Yeah, but you do realise you’re starving me and that’s a matter for child services.’

  The doors open and I leap into the lift, pressing the button before she can.

  ‘I’m going to tell Dad you’ve stopped feeding me.’

  ‘Riley.’ Mum has this way of capping a moment so tight, you know if you shake it up further it will become a bubbling volcanic mess.

  ‘Hungry,’ I say under my breath.

  The lift dings and the doors open before Mum can hiss a reply. I leave her to chat nicely with the receptionist while I head through to the waiting area and take up residence in a spinny chair near the window. I can’t see Mum from here, which means she can’t see me either. There’s something relaxing about that. This place looks pretty much the same as the hospital in Sydney. Electric blue walls with oversized goofy animals painted on them, and furniture that is almost comfortable. The television is on. It’s some kids’ show with lumpy creatures dancing around in onesies. I watch it anyway.

  Another kid lopes in. He’s pretty young, maybe five or six years old. I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his name. Even though endocrinologists don’t just look after people with diabetes, the hospital schedules all the visits for certain conditions on the same day of the week. Friday is diabetes day so all the kids in today will have diabetes. Endocrinologists treat anyone who has a condition relating to their endocrine system, which controls hormones. My whacky hormone is insulin. The kids who come here on other days will have issues with their growth hormones or with their thyroid, or some other part of the endocrine system.

  ‘Riley,’ says a voice.

  I look around, towards the corridor that leads to all the private rooms, and see Eda with her sharp black fringe and glasses like Mum’s that scream, I’m a doctor.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, jumping up and heading over. I reach Eda and realise that for the first time I’m exactly the same height as her. I must have grown without noticing. I can’t see Mum anywhere and I’m hoping I can start the appointment before she realises where I am.

  ‘How are you?’

  I shrug, knowing Eda will understand the response.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘Chatting, but we can start without her,’ I say lightly.

  As Eda walks, I see the start of a sly smile. She’s tried in the past to have meetings with me that don’t include Mum but they’ve been quickly shut down. ‘I’m sure she’ll find us.’

  I follow Eda into her usual room. I’ve never been in here without a parent. It feels dangerous. Like I could spill secrets and Mum wouldn’t know.

  I lean back in the slightly more comfortable chair than the one in the waiting room. The wallpaper in here is green with pictures of monkeys hanging from branches, like somehow that will jolly us into loving our medical conditions and expressing our feelings.

  At these visits, Eda looks at my average blood sugar levels (BGL) for the past three months (called an HBA1C blood test or A1C for short) and my pump upload for the past week. Usually Mum would be interpreting the numbers for her like Eda didn’t spend twelve years at university.

  ‘How are you?’ This time the question seems to hold more meaning. Eda looks at me over the top of her glasses.

  I shrug. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Last time you were here we talked a bit about puberty. Did you read the pamphlets I gave you?’

  I swallow, now wishing Mum would make an appearance. ‘Um … yeah.’

  Eda leans back in her chair. ‘Puberty starts with the release of oestrogen for girls. And oestrogen can cause insulin resistance so your body doesn’t absorb insulin as well. This can have a knock-on effect of higher blood sugar. You’ll also be growing and filling out, so you need to eat
more. That means more insulin.’

  I force a small nod, trying to look at Eda but feeling my cheeks starting to heat up.

  ‘Riley, your levels have been a bit less consistent lately,’ Eda says.

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘Mmm. You had a low last week? And lots of highs in the last few weeks.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I think back to Sick Bay and how close I came to vomiting on the carpet right near Meg’s slippered feet.

  ‘The pump upload is showing that you’re not testing often enough at school. You need to be testing every time you eat, even if it’s just a snack. I’m also aware that you’re probably sharing food with friends. Right?’

  I look up at her, waiting to see what she’s going to say. She pushes her glasses back on her nose and ploughs on.

  ‘Riley, I understand. But I think it would be helpful if you could learn how to estimate grams more accurately. I want you to come back and see the dietician. She can go through all of that.’

  I’ve been warned before that the pump upload is like Big Brother. Basically there’s nowhere to hide. It lets The Hulk see every interaction with the pump, or lack of interaction. I’m so lucky The Brain isn’t in the room. She’d be yelling I told you so. She’s always on at me about testing before meals, and about sharing food. The thing is, I know I have to test. It’s been drilled into me forever. I just don’t always do it.

  ‘Has something changed at school?’ Eda asks.

  ‘No. It’s just …’

  ‘Hard. I know,’ she says. ‘But this is an import- ant time. It’s your body, Riley. You need to take ownership over it.’

  ‘I want to …’ But Mum won’t let me.

  At that exact moment, Mum bursts into the room, looking flustered and concerned.

  ‘Have you started without me? Why didn’t you come and get me, Riley?’

  ‘It’s okay, Tina, we’re just having a chat.’

  Mum pulls out the chair next to me and sits down, sending me a look that I’m not sure I want to understand.

  ‘We’re just talking about puberty and what that means for Riley’s diabetes,’ says Eda.

  ‘I’ve been studying the print outs and I’m concerned that her levels have been all over the place lately.’