Zac and Mia

by A. J. Betts

  ‘I dropped a … Q.’

  ‘And how does a Q sound?’ The clip in Nina’s hair is a possum. Or perhaps a quokka. It seems to be smirking too.

  When I stand, I bang my head on the IV pump.

  ‘I’ve got your meds.’ She rattles the container. ‘But perhaps you need something … stronger?’

  I’m lightheaded when I say, ‘Go tell the newbie to play Lady Gaga.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t know Morse code and my message got lost in translation.’

  Nina sizes me up. ‘I never picked you as a Gaga guy.’

  ‘I know it’s not a standard request,’ I say, flashing the grin that inexplicably works on her. ‘Just once. For me?’

  I spy the diary beside my bed, fling it open and tear out a blank page. I write:

  Play Gaga.

  I INSIST!

  (Really!)

  I wonder if capitals are too much. Or the exclamation marks. I consider drawing a smiley face to offset any traces of sarcasm.

  ‘Why don’t you download Lady Gaga from iTunes?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear Gaga,’ I whisper, pointing to the wall. ‘I want her to hear Gaga.’

  Nina folds the page carefully. ‘As you wish, Zac. Take your pills, huh?’

  Nina pockets the note then washes her hands for the compulsory thirty seconds. It feels more like sixty.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘At the shops buying music.’

  ‘Lady Gaga?’

  I snort. ‘As if.’

  ‘Of course. You’re okay then? On your own?’

  ‘Definitely.’ I nod and she leaves, both of us grinning.

  Mum’s got a good snore happening, the way she always has at 3 a.m. One of these mornings I should record her as proof. She reckons she doesn’t snore—that she barely even sleeps—but I know the truth. When she’s at her noisiest, I’m at my most awake.

  It’s not Mum’s fault: it’s the 3 a.m. curse. I wake up busting, go for the third slash of the night, then can’t get back to sleep.

  Three is the worst hour. It’s too dark, too bright, too late, too early. It’s when the questions come, droning like flies, nudging me one by one until my mind’s full of them.

  Am I a miner? Addicted to late-night television shopping? A long-distance skier? A musician? A juggler?

  It’s 3.04 and I’m wondering who I am.

  The marrow’s German—the doctors were allowed to tell me that much. I’ve had German marrow for fourteen days, and though I’m not yet craving pretzels or beer or lederhosen, it doesn’t mean I’m not changed in other ways. Alex and Matt have nicknamed me ‘Helga’, and it’s caught on. Now the whole footy team thinks it’s hilarious that I could be part pretzel-baking, beer-swilling, plait-swinging-Fräulein from Bavaria with massive die Brust.

  But is it true? Could I be?

  I try to catch myself being someone else.

  I know it sounds like a B-grade thriller—When Marrow Attacks!—but if my own marrow’s been wiped out of my bones then replaced with a stranger’s, shouldn’t that change who I am? Isn’t marrow where my cells are born, to bump their way through the bloodstream and to every part of me? So if the birthplace of my cells now stems from another human being, shouldn’t this change everything?

  I’m told I’m now 99.9 per cent someone else. I’m told this is a good thing, but how can I know for sure? There’s nothing in this room to test myself with. What if I now kick a footy with the skill of a German beer wench? What if I’ve forgotten how to drive a ute or ride a quad bike? What if my body doesn’t remember how to run? What if these things aren’t stored in my head or muscles, but down deeper, in my marrow? What if … what if all of this is just a waste of time and the leukaemia comes back anyway?

  At 3.07 I switch on the iPad, dim the brightness, and track my way through the maze of blogs and forums, safe from the prying eyes of Mum. Snoring in the recliner beside me, she’s oblivious to my dirty secret.

  In 0.23 seconds, Google tells me there are over 742 million sites on cancer. Almost 8 million are about leukaemia; 6 million on acute myeloid leukaemia. If I google ‘cancer survival rate’ there are over 18 million sites offering me numbers, odds and percentages. I don’t need to read them: I know most of the stats by heart.

  On YouTube, the word ‘cancer’ leads to 4.6 million videos. Of these, 20,000 are from bone marrow transplant patients like me, stuck in isolation. Some are online right now. It may be 3.10 a.m. in Perth, but it’s 7.10 a.m. in Auckland, 3.10 p.m. in Washington, and 8.10 p.m. in Dublin. The world is turning and thousands of people are awake, updating their posts on the bookmarked sites that I trawl through. I’ve come to know these people better than my mates. I can understand their feelings better than my own. Somehow, I feel like I’m intruding. Yet I watch their video uploads with my headphones in. I track their treatment, their side effects and successes. And I keep a tally of the losses.

  Then I hear the flush of the toilet next door.

  The new girl and I have one thing in common, at least.

  4

  ZAC

  Fourteen days post-transplant, and it’s official. I am hideous.

  I’d known my face had puffed up—steroids will do that to you—but I hadn’t realised how much. Either Nina has switched my ensuite mirror with one from the House of Mirrors, or my head has been replaced with a giant Rice Bubble.

  Why hasn’t anyone told me? Why have they been pussyfooting around the obvious deformity that is my head? Only two days ago Dr Aneta called me a ‘hottie’, and I’d assumed she wasn’t referring to my temperature. Nina was talking me up too, and took my photo with Mum’s phone. Mum sent it to my sister, Bec, who posted it to my Facebook wall, causing a bombardment of two hundred compliments, including private messages from Clare Hill and Sienna Chapman. Sienna wrote she wants to ‘catch up’ when I’m home, and Sienna wouldn’t use those words lightly. Was she actually impressed, or was she blinded by charity? It happened in Beauty and the Beast, didn’t it?

  In my opinion, the only accurate comment came from Evan. Nice pic, scrotum-face. Suits you. Prick.

  According to the ensuite mirror, I have no neck. Is it possible my German donor was, in fact, Augustus Gloop? Or has all the ice-cream I’ve been eating gone straight to my chins?

  The doctors say that it’s good to put on fat after a transplant, that it helps the fight, or something like that. Well, it certainly doesn’t help the ego, especially when the new girl keeps peeking through my window.

  How is it fair that she gets to wander the ward freely, flaunting her glossy hair, perfect cheekbones and single chin as she stares into other patients’ rooms to judge them and their pasty, bloated heads, while I’m stuck in here being force-fed ice-cream and lies, making a total fat fool of myself?

  Which would explain why she hasn’t replied to my handwritten note. Why would someone like her bother communicating with a bald Jabba the Hutt like me? Especially now she’s caught me playing Cluedo with my mother.

  I know I shouldn’t care what she thinks—this is temporary, after all—but what if she thinks this is me, the real me?

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘What?’

  I point to my face and raise my eyebrows. At least, I think that’s what I’m doing. ‘What breakfast cereal do I remind you of?’

  ‘Stop ogling yourself and get back to bed. You have to guess if it was the candlestick or the rope.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was the candlestick.’ Mum snaps the board shut and stretches. ‘Is it afternoon tea time yet?’

  We notice it at the same time: a folded piece of paper on the floor. I look at it, then at the door, which hasn’t been opened in hours.

  Mum walks over, picks it up and sniffs it, as if her nose is trained to detect traces of contamination.

  ‘Is it from Nina? I hope it’s clean.’ She unfolds the paper and shows me the CD inside.

  I launch myself to snatch it from her. The rush dizz
ies me; the surprise panics me. The page is blank. Why didn’t she write something?

  I flip the CD to read Lady Gaga for Rm 1 scrawled in blue marker. The realisation is sickening: the newbie not only pities me as a steroidal puffball, she also believes I like girly pop music. Next she’ll be sending me CDs by Justin Bieber.

  Oh fuck, does she think I’m gay? Not that there’s anything wrong with that …

  ‘Pop it in the laptop.’ Mum levers the lid from the ice-cream. ‘Let’s listen.’

  Is my pasty face capable of blushing with humiliation? Would my red blood count be high enough to enable such a luxury?

  I consider banging on our wall to set the girl straight: I’m a 100-per-cent hetero, quad-biking, half-forward flank!

  But that would take a whole lot of knocking and I don’t want her to risk confusing it with: Thanks! Thanks heaps! I love Gaga more than life itself! Snaps for Gaga!

  Could she really believe she’s indulging my audio and emotional needs? Or is there the slightest chance she’s taking the piss out of me?

  Mum’s delight at seeing me pick up my diary is quickly destroyed by my violent tearing out of a page. She tries to appease me with a spoonful of pink ice-cream.

  ‘Go on. It’s your favourite.’

  It’s not, really.

  I scribble:

  Dear patient in Room 2.

  Thank you for your thoughtful present.

  Note: I am being sarcastic! You can’t hear my

  voice, but believe me, there is much sarcasm.

  Try reading this aloud with the voice of Homer

  Simpson and you will hear …

  But when I read this back, it’s not sarcastic at all. It’s childish. And a bit crazed. So I scrunch this page and try another.

  Dear neighbour

  No. Too religious.

  Dear

  To the girl in Room 2.

  I got your CD. Thanks. It’s not my type

  though. But thanks. You go for gold. Knock

  yourself out.

  But not on repeat, surely, like you did that

  first day. Or that loud, I mean, within reason,

  you know. We’re neighbours and the wall isn’t

  that thick. Six or seven centimetres, so I’ve

  estimated. Maybe at certain hours. We could

  make some rules … a roster?

  By this stage, Mum is making good work of a bowl of Neapolitan ice-cream while watching Ready, Steady, Cook.

  I tap a fresh piece of paper with my pen. I can’t remember the last time I wrote an actual letter to someone, especially a stranger. How do I get my point across without sounding like a Nazi or a nutter?

  I stare at the blank page and exhale. What am I trying to say?

  Hi. Thanks for the CD. You shouldn’t have. It’s not what I meant … But cheers. I’ll add it to my collection …

  There’s a whole lot of white space staring back at me. What do I say to a newbie who isn’t coping?

  There’s a tile on your ceiling with a glow-in-the-dark star on it. Have you noticed? My sister Bec stuck heaps of them up there earlier in the year. When I left, the ward manager made me peel them off, but I kept one on. Is it still there? You’ve got a good room. They say mine’s the best but you can see more of the footy oval from yours.

  From the Bubble Boy in Room 1.

  PS Minor use of sarcasm earlier, in case you were wondering.

  PPS Most TV shows make chemo worse, especially if they involve cooking, singing, dancing or Two and a Half Men. Seinfeld is the best sitcom for nausea.

  PPPS Don’t order the chicken schnitzel on a Tuesday.

  I replace the lid on the ballpoint pen and press the buzzer for Nina who, after entering and washing, makes a beeline for my still-flowing drip. She frowns at me suspiciously, making her butterfly hairclip flutter. I pass her my folded note with ‘For Room 2’ written across it before Mum notices.

  ‘Really? So that’s all I am to you now?’

  ‘What wouldn’t you do for the hottest guy on the ward?’ I say, hoping to catch her out. She doesn’t rebut so I point to my fat cheeks. ‘I mean, am I? Even with these?’

  ‘Yes, Zac, you’re still the fairest one of all. Anything else?’

  ‘If I was a breakfast cereal, which one would I be?’

  ‘In personality or appearance?’ She doesn’t miss a beat.

  ‘Either.’

  ‘Lately? Verging on a Froot Loop.’

  She’s not far wrong. I’ve been stuck in this room for twenty-four days and I’m getting pretty desperate for company. I don’t mean my mum or the nurse or the psych or the physios or anyone else who’s paid to be here—I need interaction with people my own age, in real time. It’s not enough to have online friends who sign in with bursts of exclamation marks, thumbs-up symbols and smiley faces. I need something to remind me of the real world, uncensored and reckless.

  I need a friend.

  ‘Breakfast cereal?’ Mum says hours later, after making up her pink bed, turning off the lights and sliding under her blanket. ‘You’re a strange one, Zac.’

  She’s right. Eleven days to go.

  I’ve heard how cool children’s oncology wards are, with huge lounges, rainbow-coloured rooms, ukulele-playing clowns, and games rooms with drum kits and jukeboxes. Best of all, they’re bombarded with West Coast Eagles players and visiting soap stars bearing autographed gifts.

  But because I was diagnosed at seventeen, I missed the cut-off and found myself in an adult hospital with white walls and a small cube for a television. On my first night in, I lay in bed and watched a documentary about the construction of NASA’s new robot vehicle, the Curiosity rover. It was hard to stay focused amid the strange sounds and smells of the ward, and my nagging fear.

  By the time I’d relapsed, the launch of Curiosity was across the headlines. The night before my transplant, Mum and I watched the footage of Atlas V shooting through the atmosphere, carrying its huge, robotic cargo. Even after we turned the TV off, I kept thinking about that robot hurtling through space. Inside it, scientific instruments were set to probe and dig the surface of Mars, searching for the building blocks of life. If scientists can propel a robot 560 million kilometres away, I thought at the time, surely they can fix something as small as rogue blood cells in a body.

  It’s easy to go off on tangents here—there’s nothing else to do. I’ve become so bored that even the nurses’ idiosyncrasies are interesting. Veronica, for instance, has huge hands, which are surprisingly nimble as she changes the sheets on my bed. Sitting in the pink chair, I admire her no-nonsense choreography. Her hospital corners are second to none.

  ‘So, how’s your morning been?’ I ask her.

  ‘Not so bad. You?’

  ‘Standard. Have you been in Room Two yet?’ Mum’s currently using the visitors’ showers down the corridor, so I have to take advantage of her absence.

  Veronica nods.

  ‘Did the girl say anything?’

  Veronica snaps a sheet into place and shakes her head. She’s accustomed to dealing with patients her own age or older, most of whom prattle on for hours about the temperature and/or quality of the hospital meals, not the status of girls-next-door. It’s unusual to have two teenagers in an adult oncology ward, especially in adjoining rooms.

  ‘Did she give you a message?’

  ‘What do you mean by “message”?’

  Mum’s face appears at my window. She’ll be beginning her hand-wash routine, which leaves me with thirty seconds exactly. ‘Did she give you a note? About music … or Seinfeld or chicken schnitzel?’

  Veronica makes a point of showing me her large, empty palms. ‘The only words that girl says are ones I won’t be repeating. You opened your bowels?’

  I close my eyes. ‘Yes. And urinated. Three times in the night, once this morning.’

  Veronica’s pen scores sharp ticks on my chart. Can a man have no secrets? She checks my temperature. ‘Girls like that remind me why I had
only boys,’ Veronica says, as if this was a clever choice on her part. ‘She is so … moody. Won’t eat breakfast. Won’t eat anything. Won’t fill out the blue card. Won’t open the curtains. And how she speaks to her mother …’

  My own mother pushes through the door, carrying her towel and toiletries bag. ‘Morning, Veronica. He’s pooed.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. She knows.’ Everyone knows.

  ‘See, boys, they have manners,’ Veronica continues. ‘Boys treat mothers with respect.’

  I peel myself from the chair and coerce my IV pole towards the bed, where I attempt to lever myself between impossibly taut sheets.

  So starts Day 25: twenty-five in this room, fifteen post-transplant.

  ‘Want to play COD, Mum?’

  ‘Only if you want to die!’ She catches herself too late.

  I grin and shake my head. No chance.

  Amid the gunfire and Mum’s respawning for the fiftieth time, I hear something else. Something that doesn’t belong to a Call of Duty Team Deathmatch.

  It’s the shouting of a real person. Two of them.

  I turn down the volume.

  ‘Who’s snooping now?’ says Mum.

  ‘Shh.’

  I hear the mother. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  It’s the me that jars most. Significant others are supposed to say things like, ‘You’ll be okay’ or ‘When you finish this round of chemo, we’ll go to Dreamworld’ or ‘We’ll pray hard and God will get us through’. They don’t turn it into a melodrama about themselves.

  ‘You should have listened more. Stayed on track—’

  ‘So I’ve caused this? By going part-time?’

  ‘You didn’t need to. You’re smarter than that … that certificate in beauty—’

  ‘You don’t know anything. It’s a diploma—’

  ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘Stay out of my life.’

  ‘And that boy—’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She says it so loud the whole ward must hear it. ‘You’re jealous.’

  I don’t know how the girl can fight back, but she does, again and again.