Zac and Mia

by A. J. Betts

  I don’t want to be the latest dickhead in a long line of dickheads that she weaves through with her cherry lies. Whatever she’s scheming, I’m not about to fund it.

  I hear the click creak of her return so I zip up the backpack and meet her halfway, near the butcher’s.

  ‘Relief.’ Mia laughs up the pavement. She flashes her full smile, and even with that cheap wig she can still pack a punch. With a face like hers, she must have spent her whole life getting what she wanted. It’s not easy to resist.

  ‘Sorry, I just get this bladder-brain condition sometimes. When my bladder’s full, the brain kind of switches off, you know?’

  ‘I’ve only got thirty bucks,’ I say, showing her my bank card as if it’s proof. I hate the way it rips the smile from her. How tempting it is to give her all my savings in return for her perfect, fleeting thanks.

  ‘I spent the rest. I forgot, sorry.’

  Mia doesn’t react the way I expected. She doesn’t stomp or swear or shout. She just folds into herself and closes her eyes.

  ‘You can stay at my house tonight … or there’s a hostel near here.’

  Mia turns and presses her forehead against the glass pane of the butcher shop.

  ‘The hostel’s not so bad,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind paying, if it helps. It’s only twenty bucks.’

  When she shakes her head, the wig shifts a little. She doesn’t bother to fix it. ‘Twenty-five,’ she mumbles, though I barely hear it. It’s like the glass has turned to sponge, soaking up her words. ‘Before I came to your house, that’s where I was.’

  ‘Was it too loud?’

  The answer’s so small I almost miss it. ‘I paid, but all they had were top bunks.’

  And there it is: the unspeakable thing.

  Whatever’s happened to Mia, it’s emptied her. It’s left behind a girl with fake hair, fake plans, and nowhere in the world she actually wants to be.

  There’s so much I don’t know, but I do know she’s not a bad person. Not really.

  What would Dad do?

  What would Mum do?

  I do what someone should have done already. I hook my arms around her and pull her in, even though she tenses. I feel her struggle, the way an injured animal would, so I hold her tighter and feel her twist against me, again and again, wrenching and writhing, spitting muffled words into my T-shirt until something finally breaks and she sinks into me. I breathe her in.

  Trust me, I think. Trust me.

  Then she tilts into me like I’m the only friend left in the world.

  I go even slower on the ride home. I have to keep looking over my shoulder to check she’s still there. Her left hand grips the handrail; her right holds down the wig. She has her eyes closed as if she’s on a boat, bracing herself against the next wave.

  I pass the cidery and orchards, and the turn-off for our farm. I ride past the end of our olive grove then keep on going, past Petersen’s pistachios, then further past the new estate and winery. Somewhere after rows of rippling vineyards, Mia slides her left arm around my waist.

  There’s no plan. All I want to do is follow this road for the rest of the day and probably all night, but the quad bike has other ideas.

  We roll to a stop near bushland.

  The tank’s bone dry. My brother’s even managed to screw this up for me.

  ‘Not good?’ Mia chews a fingernail, waiting for an answer.

  I shake my head, more in disbelief than in reply. It’s surreal to see her out here.

  ‘It felt good, though, didn’t it? For a while.’

  I sit beside her on the seat and nod. It felt awesome.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  I shake my head and laugh. I’m in such deep shit right now, there’s only one person who would know how to clear it.

  20

  Mia

  I’m in his sister’s lounge room, supposedly out of earshot. I hear enough.

  ‘You can’t keep her.’

  ‘I know—’

  ‘She’s not a stray dog.’

  ‘I know. It’s not for long.’

  ‘What did her mum say?’

  Zac lowers his voice. ‘They don’t get on. Mia moved out after—’

  ‘She’s running away?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing on a quad bike? Mum would kill you.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to know. Can you keep it a secret? All of it?’

  A joey sniffs at the hem of my jeans. Each time I shoo it away, it comes right back. It’s only small but I don’t trust its paws at my leg.

  ‘I’m nearly out of firewood—’

  ‘I’ll get the axe.’

  ‘God, Mum would kill us both. Just go nick some from the olds.’

  Zac peers in at me from the hallway. He seems relieved I’m still here. ‘Bec needs wood. Firewood, I mean.’

  ‘I heard that!’

  ‘She won’t hurt you. The joey, I mean. Or Bec.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  The door bangs shut behind him and I’m alone again in this room with too much wood already: the floorboards, television cabinet, coffee table and clock. In the fireplace, wood crackles and snaps. The air stinks like smoke and wet fur.

  I’ve never seen a real fire before. It’s supposed to be relaxing, isn’t it? But the flames burn my eyes and I have to look away. I have to get out of here.

  Bec’s pretty in a sun-bleached, unkempt way. Her long shock of wavy blonde hair falls down the denim shirt that’s stretched over her belly. She offers me a baby’s bottle of milk.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘It’s for the joey. I thought you might want to feed her.’

  I shake my head. Bec hoists the kangaroo into her arms and it sucks on the teat.

  ‘What’s broken?’

  ‘Broken?’

  ‘You’re on crutches.’

  ‘I tore a ligament at netball. It’s getting better.’

  In the fireplace, sparks shower upwards. If only a life could crackle and vanish so easily. If only I could turn to smoke and drift.

  ‘Here’s the thing: Zac’s worried about you and I worry about Zac. That’s kind of my job. He says you two are old friends. You are, aren’t you?’

  I nod, hoping it’s enough.

  ‘I’ve got two spare rooms, though one’s got colour samples on the walls. I’ll be painting it for the baby.’

  ‘I just need—’

  ‘Money for a bus, I know, but you shouldn’t be crossing a continent on crutches. Your aunt will understand if you leave it a few days.’

  Fuck.

  ‘I can’t have Zac worrying, because then I’ll worry, and that’ll worry Junior here. Then he’ll come out prem and everyone will worry and we don’t want that, do we? So stay until it’s healed, okay?’ She poses it like a question, though it isn’t.

  I nod and smile, but I’m crossing the Nullarbor in my mind. It’s not Bec’s fault. She doesn’t know it’s already too late.

  ‘You want a hot drink? I don’t have coffee, sorry. We’re all tea-drinkers here.’

  The front door bangs and Zac comes in with a load of wood and a ridiculous grin. ‘Stealth! Mum didn’t suspect a thing.’

  He feeds the fire carefully, as if there’s a skill to it. I trust Zac. For what it’s worth, I even trust his sister.

  It’s me I’m not so sure of.

  I lock the bedroom door from the inside. I lock the window too, and draw the curtains. Then I peel back the wig and push it under the pillow. I scratch at my scalp. My hair’s growing back, but unlike Zac’s, there’s not enough. He’s had five months since his last chemo. I’ve only had two.

  My phone beeps twice.

  Mia, ru getting these? Sms me. Tell me where u are.

  I hope Mum gives up soon. Everything she does makes this worse.

  I set my alarm for four, then switch off the phone. I plan to get away in the dark, before Zac can find me. I’ll make my own way to town a
nd hole up somewhere, waiting for the bus. I’ll use my ticket and go to Adelaide, like I planned. I’ve got to leave before kindness turns to meddling. I’ve already left one mother behind; I don’t need a replacement.

  I take the last two painkillers in the packet, then check the prescription repeats in case I’ve misread the numbers.

  I haven’t.

  Tomorrow’s going to hurt. Better off on a bus, I think, taking the pain with me. It hurts less when I’m moving.

  Bec’s spare bed is soft when I lie in it. The blankets smell of mothballs, reminding me of Gran. I reach across to tap the base of the lamp once, twice, three times before it goes out. I sink deeper into the mattress, waiting for the drugs to soften what’s left of the edges.

  Four glow-in-the-dark stars seem to float from the ceiling. They’re only plastic, so why do they shimmer and shift, as if real?

  Each time I blink, the stars swirl and dissolve, skimming across my eyes like tears that should know better.

  21

  ZAC

  I’m sneaking the back way to Bec’s house when I get sprung by Mum. Since when does she weed the pumpkins at 8 a.m.?

  ‘You’re up early, Zac.’

  ‘Just making the most of the morning.’ I stretch like an eighty-year-old.

  ‘How’s Pride and Prejudice?’

  Worse than a lumbar puncture. ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘Thought you’d be finished. Didn’t see much of you yesterday.’

  Now I’m on Mum’s radar, I’ll have to postpone my visit to Mia.

  ‘Chapter eight and still nothing’s happened.’

  Mum laughs. ‘We should rent the movie.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, the men will be picking and Bec wants to get painting. It’ll be fun. I’ll make popcorn.’

  Shit. The only thing worse than a suspicious mother is a bored one.

  Even the movie is lost on me. Who cares about Keira Knightley and the guy from Spooks? How can I feign interest in gossiping socialites when Mia’s only fifty metres away? That’s if she hasn’t done a runner and taken off. When I go for a leak, I phone Bec’s number, but it rings out. Mia’s mobile diverts to voicemail.

  She could be anywhere by now.

  Bec’s front door won’t open for me. I didn’t even know it had a lock.

  I follow the verandah around to the front of the house. Through the lounge room window I see Bec on the couch with her feet up, her laptop balanced on the dome of her belly.

  When I tap the glass, she looks up lazily. It takes her a few seconds to spot me, and when she does her reaction is audible.

  ‘Fuck me!’ She slides the laptop off and pushes up the window. ‘You shouldn’t scare a woman in her third trimester.’

  ‘Why’s the front door locked?’

  ‘To keep out the drop bears.’

  ‘Do I look like a freaking drop bear?’ I hear the whine in my voice.

  ‘Haven’t you got a novel to read?’

  I see Anton, her partner, wave jerkily at me via Skype. I lean in through the window and wave back.

  ‘Go home,’ Bec says.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You’re interrupting …’

  ‘You know what I mean. Where’s Mia?’

  ‘She’s busy. So am I.’

  ‘Bec!’

  She angles the laptop screen away from us. ‘You told me to keep her a secret,’ she whispers.

  ‘I didn’t mean from me! Is she here?’

  ‘I haven’t eaten her; she’s too skinny.’

  ‘Have you checked her room?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘You have to. Mia’s got, like, two switches: Hiding Mia and Houdini Mia. When she wants to go, it’s just … poof.’

  ‘The girl can barely walk, there is no poof.’

  ‘She’s faster than you think. Go check.’

  ‘Give her some space. Now rack off, you’re wasting data.’ She pulls the window down then blows me a kiss.

  I leave, shocked. I’d confided in Bec because I thought she could help. I hadn’t meant for her to take over.

  Give her some space, she’d said. Does that mean Mia’s still there?

  Neither of them answers their phone. The front door stays locked all day, and I get the same response each time I knock: Go read your book. Give her some space.

  It’s only at night that I get any answers. Through the curtains of Bec’s spare room, a low light glows. So she’s there, after all. She’s okay.

  J. R. keeps me company in the pumpkin bed, gently smacking me with his tail. We sit there until the light goes out, and then a while after that.

  Bec hands me pink gloves and a bucket.

  ‘Morning, sunshine.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So …’

  I shove teats into kids’ mouths. ‘Have you checked on Mia this morning?’

  She shrugs, feigning innocence.

  ‘Well, have you told Mum?’

  Bec grins over the sucking of the kids. ‘Our mother doesn’t need to know everything.’

  And neither do I, apparently, as she ignores the rest of my questions through the day. An impenetrable forcefield has descended over her house, and when I tap at the kitchen window in the afternoon, Bec shoos me away, saying that Mia is sleeping.

  ‘At four?’

  ‘She sleeps a lot,’ Bec whispers, as if talking about a baby. ‘She must need it.’

  I creep around to the spare room. I don’t knock at the window. Instead, I slip a note between the glass and the frame.

  Hey neighbour

  Do you need anything? If Bec’s cooking is dodgy, I can bring you a toastie, ok?

  Or a Milo. Whatever you want.

  If Bec’s holding you hostage for slave labour, just call and I’ll bust you out. I’m not far away.

  Zac

  It’s been two days. Why won’t she answer?

  The silence is seriously fucking with me.

  I spend the next two days in the shed, trying to occupy myself with the cot pieces. I saw and sand. My sanity’s slipping away. What’s with all the secrecy?

  On the fifth day, I lose the plot. I chuck the tools and storm across to Bec’s house, ready to force entry if I have to.

  But Bec’s on the front verandah, soaking her hand in Dettol.

  ‘The bitch bit me.’

  ‘Bit you?’

  ‘Don’t go near her; she’s crazy.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was just checking her for ticks.’

  ‘Mia?’

  ‘Daisy bit me. Your stupid alpaca.’

  I’m so confused.

  Bec tuts. ‘And I thought you were Mia’s friend …’

  It’s the final straw. ‘So did I! Bec, you’re taking the piss. It’s been five fucking days.’

  ‘Calm down, Zac.’

  ‘Calm down? I’m worried sick. She’s probably fucked off to the other side of the country.’

  ‘She hasn’t. She’s here—’

  ‘How would you know? You don’t even know that. Mia!’ I shout.

  ‘Shh. She’s in the bath. Zac, don’t—’ Bec grabs my arm but I yank it free and rush around the outside of the house. I knock on the bathroom louvres, but the sound is dull, so I call her name.

  ‘Mia.’

  I tilt the louvres a bit more.

  ‘Mia?’

  ‘I’m here,’ a small voice answers. There’s a slosh of water. It’s her.

  I close my eyes and rest my palms against the louvres. The glass is lumpy and cool.

  ‘Just tell me you’re okay.’

  ‘ I’m okay.’

  I feel like an idiot, but now I know. She might be hiding, but at least she’s not fighting or running.

  And it’s more than I could’ve hoped for.

  22

  Mia

  I’ve never been in a real bathtub. This one stands alone, wide and deep and stained. The enamel is cool and smooth. The warm water comes almost to the top.r />
  In this bathtub, water is sud-slippery. It fills each space without judgment. Nothing hurts.

  Hours pass. There’s nothing to tell how slowly. I’ve let my phone go dead, paranoid someone would track me.

  Sounds skim under the door. There’s the close cheeping of chickens. Further out, grunts and bleats merge into a soundtrack that’s already become ordinary.

  I used to hate spending time alone; now it’s all I crave. In the hospital, too many people came prying. What would they know? I hated every one of them.

  But not as much as I hated my mother. How is it that, at seventeen, I’m old enough to drive, have sex and get married, but not old enough to decide what happens to my body? Given the choice, I’d rather have died than let them do what they did.

  But I didn’t get that choice. My mother signed the form while I was on the operating table, the tumour holding tight to the artery it had wrapped itself around. ‘We had to act immediately,’ surgeons told me later. ‘An excision and bone graft were no longer practicable.’ Consent was needed. They didn’t wake me up; they handed my mother a pen. She signed her name and ruined my life.

  Did they use a powersaw?

  I slide down and go under, letting the back of my head bump against the bottom. Water slips and slops above. Down here, I hear my heart resound through water. Its two-part rhythm is low and wilful in my ears. It surprises me how insistent it sounds, even after all of this.

  ‘Mia.’

  It reaches me like a memory. I lift myself and check the door is locked. It is. My crutches lean against it. The voice comes floating through the window.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I tell Zac, though I’m not. I’m not okay. I’m tired. I’m hurting.

  I don’t have energy for Zac. I don’t have energy for anything. All I can manage is to make the daily journey from my bedroom to the bathroom in Bec’s long robe. I’m more tired than ever. How can Zac get up and feed the animals, cracking jokes like the world is exactly how it should be? Perhaps for him it is. He might have someone else’s marrow, but at least he’s got two legs.

  Fuck. I reel again. After all this time, it still catches me off-guard. I sink underwater once more. How long does it take for the brain to catch up? Each morning I open my eyes to the same sickening shock.