Sick Bay

by Nova Weetman

  I give Lina the thumbs up and she leaves. It takes a bit longer to finish drying my hair but it’s pretty dry. Mum would have to feel it to know that it had been in water. Now I have to try to recreate Jenna’s messy bun, otherwise leaving my hair down might be a bit of a giveaway.

  When I eventually come out, the three of them are lying on their beds wrapped in towels, watching the trailers. I take up position on my bed, relieved that I’m feeling better.

  ‘You okay?’ Elle asks me, still watching the screen.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mum’s ordering burgers for dinner. Are you happy with that?’ Lina looks across and I know that even if I hated burgers I’d have to say yes. Besides, Mum has already worked out all the grams for me, based on an average-sized burger and a cupful of fries.

  ‘Yum,’ I say.

  As the movie starts, I look across at my friends, their wet hair dripping down onto their pillows.

  ‘Wish I could stay,’ I tell Lina.

  ‘Yeah. Me too,’ she says, staring at the screen. But her flat voice makes me wonder if it’s true.

  Meg

  My favourite page towards the middle of Anne of Green Gables is slightly torn at the bottom. I can’t remember what happened to it or when it was damaged, but each time I reach it, my thumb presses into the rip and shunts it a little higher. And, just like all the occasions I’ve stared at the Healthy Eating Pyramid poster in Sick Bay and had thoughts about taping up the tear, I promise myself that next time I read my well-worn book, I’ll find the sticky tape in the drawer in Dad’s office and repair it.

  Only I don’t. And I kid myself that I don’t because I’m too engrossed in Anne and Diana’s friendship, although actually it’s because I like it damaged. I like that it needs repair. So I turn the torn page and keep reading.

  In this part of the story, Anne is floating down the river in a boat, pretending to be the Lady of Shalott.

  I stretch out my legs, pretending my bed is a boat. The house is so quiet that I could be rocking on a river, the water lapping the sides.

  I hear the door handle turn and my body tenses.

  ‘Knock, knock, Meg,’ says Mum from the doorway.

  I slide my book down, placing it carefully on the floor.

  ‘I thought maybe we could walk to the shops together,’ says Mum quietly. ‘I feel quite good today and it’s so beautiful outside … What do you think?’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  Mum’s dressed, which means she’s had a shower, and her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail low on her neck. It’s been months since we ventured out together.

  I swing my legs out of bed, tucking them into my slippers.

  ‘Maybe we could take a look for some shoes while we’re there?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say, looking up at her, hope radiating off me.

  I fix my hair with my fingers and check myself in the tiny mirror on my desk. My freckles look darker, like they’ve plumped up catching glimpses of sunlight on my walks to school and to Peggy’s and the shops.

  At the front door, Mum pauses. I wait for her to unlock the deadbolt and gather herself, breathing deeply as she does. I wonder if she has remembered to tuck her own Bag into the pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Ready,’ she says, smiling slightly at me as she steps out of the house and into the brightness of the day.

  The street is busy in that Sunday afternoon way. A couple of younger kids I know from school have set up a stall in their front yard selling old toys. I hurry past.

  Mum slips her jumper off and ties it around her waist. She stretches out her arms and I see how thin and white they are.

  The shops aren’t far when I’m alone, although with Mum they seem further. Maybe because I can’t daydream the way I would if she wasn’t here.

  ‘I walk this way when I go to the laundromat,’ I tell Mum, wanting her to know the details of my week.

  ‘How is Peggy?’

  I nod. ‘Her hair’s blue.’

  Mum smiles. ‘The last time I saw her she’d just worked up the courage to die a stripe at the front. It was a big deal,’ she says.

  ‘No. You saw her when she had white hair,’ I say.

  Mum looks across at me, panic flitting across her face. ‘Did I?’

  ‘That time she visited when you weren’t feeling … when you weren’t well.’

  ‘Oh … yes … of course.’

  But I know she doesn’t remember. It was late last year and she’d been in bed for weeks and I was worried because she wasn’t eating much and I couldn’t even drag her out for some of Peggy’s minestrone.

  We reach the end of the street and I tap the button for the lights to change. The road is busy and Mum stares out like she’s going to get run over.

  There’s a loud bang and Mum jumps next to me, letting out a tiny squeak as a hotted-up green car burns past us.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum. It just backfired,’ I tell her.

  She touches her hair and I see her chest rapidly going up and down.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  The light changes and we start to cross. Mum is behind me. I don’t dare look at her in case she changes her mind. I’m imagining buying a pair of sneakers from the shoe shop and how my life will be different when I go to school on Monday.

  ‘Food or shoes?’ I ask over my shoulder, trying to lighten everything as we walk towards the shop entrance.

  She blows out a long stream of air. I hear it catch in her throat, and the gasp that comes as she looks up and sees people. Everywhere. Bustling and pushing, carrying shopping, chatting.

  ‘Let’s do food first,’ I tell her, heading towards the electronic doors, hoping that once she’s inside she’ll be okay. I power inside and turn to speak to Mum to ask what she wants to buy, but realise she’s still outside. The electronic doors have shut between us; she’s out and I’m in.

  I step forward to trigger the doors into opening again. The doors don’t budge. I move closer and they still don’t open. I step back and then forward and then back, although I can’t get them to slide. Then somebody walks in from the outside and the doors part, letting me rush through.

  Mum is slumped up against the glass, her head bent and a brown paper bag gripped tight around her mouth. The bag fills and empties as her breathing rushes in and out.

  I stand watching her. I don’t know what to do. I can hear her gasping. I slide down next to her, hoping nobody from school walks past. I put my hand behind her back and rub up and down her shirt, like Sarah did to me. I can feel the bones of her ribs moving in and out below her skin.

  ‘Mum … just breathe … slow … in … out.’

  A lady slows her trolley down as she passes and then wheels past, not stopping, just staring.

  The paper bag fills and shrinks with each of Mum’s rapid breaths.

  ‘Mum … try to hold the air in for a few seconds and then breathe it out,’ I tell her.

  My hand keeps moving up and down her back. I lean in, smelling the crisp apple shampoo that was on special last week when I did the shopping. Her hair falls like a screen, stopping me from seeing her face. I can just hear the bag crinkling like a pair of noisy artificial lungs.

  She’s had attacks like this before, but never when I’ve been with her in public. At home, I don’t usually get this close. She tries to keep her attacks private.

  ‘Mum … it’s okay …’

  She nods. I take the fact she’s responding as a good sign. The bag fills with air and then slowly shrivels.

  ‘It’s okay …’ I say again, my voice strange. I sound older, like I know what I’m doing. I move my hand away from her back and hug my legs to my stomach.

  Beside us the automatic doors continue to open and close. Someone laughs. A baby squeals. A trolley is returned and bumps noisily into the metal fra
me of another trolley. And I wait for Mum to lower her bag, wondering how we ended up here.

  Slowly she raises her head, her hair dropping away from her face.

  ‘Mum?’

  She nods and I hear her swallow. Her throat is probably dry. Maybe it’s sore.

  ‘Do you need me to get you a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  She turns her head, her eyes blinking. There’s so much sadness reflected back at me. I look away first.

  ‘Home?’ She chokes out the word.

  I nod, because I can’t speak. I’m just metres away from new shoes and I can’t speak. Instead, I stand and reach for her arm, pulling her, helping her, lifting her until she’s upright. She’s still clutching the bag in one hand, like she’s not quite finished with it. She lets me guide her, one arm through hers, taking slow steps like she’s ancient and weak.

  It’s going to be a long walk home.

  Sick Bay should be empty because nobody else usually visits it this early on a Monday, but as I walk in I see that the bed is occupied by a little boy clutching an icepack to his head. He looks up at me when I slam through the door and scurry over to my corner throne. I sit down on the cool plastic and kick off my slippers, curling my legs underneath me.

  ‘I’ve got concussion,’ the boy says.

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘I ran into a pole,’ he continues.

  I shrug. Today I really don’t care. I start reading the medicine labels through the fridge window.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he says.

  ‘My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes,’ I say dramatically, turning back to stare at him and hoping he’ll stop talking. But he straightens up, dropping the icepack and looking interested.

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It means I have no friends and I wear slippers to school.’

  ‘I have lots of friends,’ he says. ‘And I’m not allowed to wear slippers to school.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’

  My tone makes us both frown and I know I shouldn’t take things out on him. But Dash isn’t here today so the prep will have to do.

  ‘I’ll show you the egg on my head,’ he says, dropping his head forward.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘I know why you don’t have friends. You’re mean,’ he tells me, sitting up.

  I shrug, realising he may be right. I take out a muesli bar I found in the cupboard at home. I haven’t had breakfast and my stomach is growling and groaning. I unwrap it and shove the whole thing in so that the honey-covered oats mould inside my mouth and make it impossible to chew.

  ‘You’re not supposed to eat in here,’ he says like he knows.

  I open my mouth so he can see the mess of gooey bar.

  ‘Yuck!’ he shouts at the same moment Sarah opens the door. I close my mouth and try to swallow the gunked-up muesli.

  ‘She’s eating!’

  Luckily Sarah expects me to eat in Sick Bay, given that she’s usually the one feeding me. She gives me a look that says I should be more discreet and it makes me wish I hadn’t taunted the boy.

  ‘How are you feeling now, Tom?’

  ‘Good. My egg’s gone,’ he tells her.

  ‘That was quick,’ she says.

  I wonder if he really has concussion or if he needed some quiet space too. Now I feel even worse. I’ve just teased a fellow classroom escapee.

  ‘Would you like to come and press the morning bell for me, Tom?’

  He nods so fast that Sarah laughs.

  ‘Bye,’ he says quietly as he reaches the door. He seems to have forgiven me already.

  ‘See ya.’

  I force the last of the muesli bar down. Tom and Sarah leave, making Sick Bay all mine again.

  I only have seventeen more days of primary school. Then I will never be able to visit Sick Bay again.

  In fourteen days we have the graduation dinner. I have to show my speech to the principal by the end of the week and it’s not looking great so far. I didn’t have much time to work on it over the weekend, especially considering what happened with Mum. I’ve written a version of: Primary school was the best years of my life … I’d like to thank my friends … (insert random name here) … my teachers … and wish everyone the best of luck.

  I’m not sure what to think about high school. In some ways I’ll be more invisible. There will be more kids so fewer people will know my business. Although, I’m not sure if they have a sick bay and, if they do, if I’ll be allowed to just hang out whenever I need.

  The bell goes. Then it goes again. Unsurprisingly, it seems Tom likes pressing the button.

  ‘There’s no cake today but I found some crackers in the cupboard,’ Sarah says a few minutes later as she comes back into the room.

  I take the packet. It’s fluoro orange and it’s sealed. This will keep me going for the rest of the day.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Usually Sarah feeds me and leaves after a quick chat, although today she perches on the edge of the bed and scoops up the icepack that Tom dropped. I watch her long fingers knead the cold green goo inside the plastic and wait for the question.

  ‘Is everything okay at home, Meg?’

  I wonder about telling her the truth. Then I say, ‘It’s grand, thanks, Sarah.’

  ‘Only, you’ve been wearing slippers for a while now and I wondered how your mum was doing.’

  ‘Oh, she’s good. She’s planning on going back to work. She’s taking me shopping this weekend for shoes,’ I say, lying like a seasoned spy.

  ‘There’s nothing else going on?’

  Sarah doesn’t look at me when she asks this. That means she knows something is going on but can’t risk my reaction. I toss up what I should say. Too many lies can get tricky and I don’t want Mum getting in trouble. The last thing I want at the moment is anyone from the school having a reason to come and sniff around.

  ‘No, no. Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it.’

  Sarah frowns, causing a little ‘v’ to form between her eyes. ‘Winnie-the-Pooh?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I tell her, deciding that there is no reason to stop lying now.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, Meg?’

  ‘Surer than sure.’

  Although for the first time as Sarah gives up her attempts at the truth, I sink when she leaves.

  Riley

  I’m slow out of class to my locker. I haven’t seen Lina and the others since her party because this morning we’ve been in our graduating committee groups. Now it’s lunchtime and they haven’t waited for me. I should do a reading before I go and find them. I look across to where I found Meg watching me that day, but she’s not there. I wonder if she’s in Sick Bay and I’m tempted to go looking. Torn, I take out my lunch bag, feeling the familiar thermos shape through the padded fabric. Then I head outside.

  As I walk over to the monkey bars, I see Elle and Tessa huddled around a phone and Lina cartwheeling near them.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, squatting down near Tessa.

  They keep watching. Elle starts giggling and Lina wiggles her way into the group and squeals. I try to lean closer so I can see what they’re looking at. The screen is hard to make out from where I’m sitting. There’s too much glare.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We made a movie after you left the hotel,’ says Lina, without looking up.

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘In a minute,’ she snaps.

  ‘Was it fun?’

  Lina pauses the movie and looks at me. Tessa and Elle join her and I realise the three of them are wearing the same frosted-pink lip gloss.

  ‘Yeah. Course.’

  I nod. ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ‘The breakfast was amazing! You would have loved it. No pumpkin soup to be seen,’ say
s Elle.

  I smile at my friend, pleased she’s at least making an effort to include me.

  ‘We got busted waking up for a midnight feast,’ says Tessa with a giggle. ‘But Lina’s mum couldn’t stay mad for long and told us to eat quietly!’

  ‘Then we went shopping all day in the city,’ says Lina.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, wondering why they didn’t at least invite me.

  ‘We bought our graduation dresses,’ adds Lina. ‘We’re all wearing navy.’

  I notice the emphasis on we, like I’m somehow not part of it. I nod, then wonder why I’m nodding. ‘Sorry I had to go home.’

  Lina shrugs like she doesn’t care. ‘Used to you not being there, R.’

  I swallow, wishing it wasn’t true, wishing I wasn’t the one that never came. At least Mum didn’t find out I’d been swimming. I had to admit to the high, and that meant a short lecture about carbohydrates, but she was pleased that I’d corrected it and done all the right things.

  Lina turns her focus back to her phone and presses play. I sit back against the monkey bars, sipping my soup, while my friends giggle over something I can’t see. I bite down on my lip while the playground buzz fills my ears with noise, and I feel like the only quiet thing here.

  I tune back in to my friends in time to hear them making plans to go shopping on the weekend for matching shoes to wear with their dresses.

  ‘You should come, R,’ says Tessa.

  ‘She won’t be allowed,’ says Lina, helping herself to a handful of crackers from Elle’s lunch box. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, blinking away the scratchy feeling in my eyes.

  ‘There are no parentals coming,’ she says, like that will seal it, and then she smiles at me.

  ‘I think we’re busy on the weekend, anyway,’ I say, knowing that nobody believes me.

  ‘See. Told you,’ says Lina to the others.

  Tessa smiles at me. It’s kind but unhelpful. Elle shakes the box of crackers in my direction and I take one because there’s nobody around telling me not to.

  ‘Can’t believe they chose that group of creeps to make graduation speeches,’ says Lina. ‘No offence, R.’