Dear Banjo

by Sasha Wasley

  Beth stayed on the line for a good half an hour, grilling Tom about the crash, which didn’t help Willow’s peace of mind. Beth finally rang off and Bob started talking about getting dinner. Willow’s hopes rose. If Cathy and Bob went out, she would get a little more time alone with Tom.

  Tom groaned. ‘Don’t talk about food.’

  ‘You’ll get a real dinner tonight,’ Cathy assured him.

  Bob stood. ‘Come on, love,’ he said to Willow. ‘Let us at least shout you a meal to say thanks for everything you’ve done.’

  ‘Oh, no, really – I’m not even hungry.’

  ‘You should eat, Willow,’ Cathy said. ‘Beth’s right about taking care of yourself.’

  ‘Come on, young miss,’ Bob commanded. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’

  Willow looked at Tom. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

  Dammit. She’d hoped he would understand that she didn’t want to go. She got to her feet.

  ‘See you in the morning, love.’ Cathy gave her son a kiss.

  ‘Bye.’ He glanced at Willow, perhaps noticing her hesitation. ‘See you too, Banjo?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going home tomorrow but I’ll stop in before I leave.’

  She followed Bob and Cathy, who debated about where they would go for dinner as they walked along the ward hallway to the elevator. When they got out at the ground floor, Willow couldn’t stand it any longer. She mumbled that she’d forgotten something and would be right back, and dashed back into the lift. She rode up to Tom’s ward, sped along the hall and, when she reached his door, found him staring absently down at his bedclothes. He noticed her.

  ‘Oh, hi. You forget something?’

  ‘Yeah. My – phone.’ She pretended to search the room for a moment and then dug in her pocket and gave an awkward laugh. ‘Oh, in here all along.’

  He chuckled and she wondered if he’d really bought the dreadful performance. Willow chewed her lip. How the hell did anyone have the bravery to do this being vulnerable crap?

  ‘The accident,’ she blurted, ‘it’s been horrible. Really scary.’

  Tom nodded, then watched her. She shifted her feet and dropped her eyes to his blankets. It was a little easier to speak without looking into his eyes.

  ‘I wanted to stay longer. To talk to you. But your dad . . .’

  ‘It’s okay. Dad just wants to thank you. I can’t believe everything you’ve done.’

  ‘I wished I could do more. I . . .’

  This was ridiculous. She couldn’t say what she needed to say. What was she doing? He must think she was insane. ‘Okay. Going now.’

  She caught his eye and he held her gaze, obviously puzzled but without an ounce of judgement in his face. She hovered, knowing she had to go but unable to pull herself away from those questioning blue eyes.

  ‘You went out looking for me,’ he said unexpectedly.

  ‘Of course I bloody did,’ she breathed. Before she could change her mind, she lunged at him and gave him a hug. His arms immediately slipped around her to return the embrace. Her body did that hot and cold thing again and she held the hug as long as she could without seeming too crazy, part of her wishing she could simply never let go. Then she turned her face in to kiss his stubbly cheek, pulled away, and hurried out without another word or glance.

  God. She was so tragically bad at this.

  In her hotel room after dinner, Willow thought about the letters she’d written. Both seemed wrong now, written as they had been in the throes of panic while Tom still was in a serious condition. Now that he was awake, perhaps a new letter would be more suitable. She went to the hotel room desk and found a writing pad.

  Dear Tom,

  I’m so glad you’re okay. I didn’t tell you before but Briggsy said he and your other friends would be there for you no matter what. Obviously you don’t have brain damage but I think what he wanted to say was that they would be your friends, and look after you, not matter what level of ability you were left with. Ditto me.

  It was good to see Briggsy again. He was always getting into fights at school, wasn’t he? I didn’t realise he’d become a cop! Kind of funny, really. I guess he spends more time breaking up fights than getting into them these days. He always had a spirit of adventure. I remember how when he used to come and visit Quintilla, he always wanted to ride the wildest mount or practise lassoing bullocks. Crazy bugger.

  Okay, so I need to explain why I acted the way I did this year.

  When I got back to Mount Clair, I figured you’d be well and truly over any feelings you had for me when I left ten years ago. I convinced myself it was teenage boy hormones that had made you do and say what you did the day we got our uni acceptances. By now, you’d be over it and we could become friends again. I longed for that. I missed your friendship terribly for the years we didn’t talk.

  The last thing I expected was to find you still had feelings for me. Don’t get me wrong – it was a huge honour to find you wanted to take me out on a date. But, even after ten years,I wasn’t ready. You were my friend again, the most important person in my life, but somehow I still struggled to let down that final barrier between us.

  The helicopter crash was a wake-up call. It was as if, when you crashed the chopper, you also crashed through that barrier around my heart and there was my love, just sitting there waiting for you. God, that sounds corny, but that’s how it feels. Ever since I got back I’ve been resisting the feelings I’ve had for you – big feelings that kept busting out from underneath that bloody hard shell around my heart. Maybe those feelings were important, but there was no way I was going to focus on them. Every time they threatened to surface I simply pretended they didn’t exist. I was terrified to find out what they meant.

  My heart felt light whenever I saw you. I loved everything you did to help and support me. I wanted to make you smile – make you feel good in the same way you made me feel good. Once or twice you let slip that you thought I looked pretty. That made me feel a hell of a lot happier than it should have. And, holy crap, the way you looked was a shock to my system. You weren’t quite the Tom I remembered. You’d become big, strong and bloody gorgeous, and that night you danced with me got me hot and bothered in all the wrong ways. But still, this wasn’t love, was it? Just friendship. Gratitude. Biochemistry. Anything but love.

  You know I hate to admit I’m wrong about anything, but it turns out it was love, after all. Can we talk?

  Willow

  She still hadn’t managed to say it properly, even in three separate attempts. Phoebe’s big squishy hugs popped into her head. How could she compete with someone like that – someone naturally affectionate, who knew how to flirt? She shoved the letter into her overnight bag and tried to forget about telling Tom she loved him. She would just keep doing what she was doing: being there for him, helping at Quintilla and making sure he got better. This stuff could come later.

  In the morning, Willow packed up and left for the hospital. Her emails and phone messages indicated she had a ton of work waiting at home. This would be a flying visit; she didn’t have long before she had to go to the airport but she needed to see Tom again before she left Darwin. She bumped into Bob and Cathy as they were leaving the hospital foyer.

  ‘Morning, love,’ Cathy said. ‘Here again?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m heading home shortly so I thought I’d drop in one last time. How long do you think you’ll all be here?’

  ‘They’ll probably discharge him in a week or so,’ said Cathy. ‘Bob’s going home in the next couple of days but I’ll stay until they let Tom out. I’m hoping we’ll all be home by next weekend. If there are any hiccups in his recovery, Mount Clair Hospital should be able to manage it.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘It’s been a long time away from home, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Over a week,’ Bob agreed. ‘We needed a holiday but this wasn’t quite what we had in mind.’

  ‘We just spent a few minutes with Tom,’ Cathy went on. ‘He’s got a specialist appointment this
arvo, so we’re coming back for that, to hear about the rehab for his leg.’

  ‘Is he feeling all right today?’

  ‘Yes. He’s just moaning about the instant coffee.’ Cathy smiled.

  ‘He’s in good spirits,’ Bob commented. ‘Very good spirits,I thought.’

  Cathy nodded. ‘Yes, he did seem bright this morning.’

  They went on their way and Willow made a snap decision to duck into the hospital café and pick up a coffee for Tom. As she stood waiting she spotted something on the counter that made her smile. She added it to her purchase and went up to Tom’s ward with a triumphant spirit. He saw her and his face lit up in that beautiful way it always did, making her heart pound. She placed the coffee cups on his table and fished in her handbag.

  ‘Good morning. Wait until you see what I got you.’

  He tipped his head enquiringly and she whipped it out of her bag. His eyes widened. ‘A Wagon Wheel? Banjo, you bloody beauty!’

  She laughed and handed it over. ‘Your childhood favourite. Still your favourite?’ she checked.

  He nodded, unwrapping it. ‘And yours was peanut M&Ms.’

  ‘Still is. Except I try to stick to fair-trade dark chocolate these days.’

  ‘This is probably full of palm oil and produced in a factory that spews phosphates into waterways.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re convalescing,’ she said with a shrug. ‘So I’ll overlook it just this once.’

  He bit into his chocolate treat with a blissful expression. ‘And real coffee?’ he said when he’d swallowed. ‘You’re like an angel of mercy this morning.’

  ‘How long do they reckon that leg will be out of action?’ she asked.

  ‘The doc says a couple of months. The cast should go on today but it’s one of those newfangled neoprene-reinforced ones, not plaster. So I can take it off when I want a shower or whatever.’

  ‘Showering with a broken leg?’ Willow raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds perilous.’

  ‘Well, a bath, then.’

  She sat and sipped her coffee, enjoying the sight of him devouring his Wagon Wheel. Time flew while they discussed the possibility of rain, a weaning practice she’d read about and the cost of organic feed. A box of flowers sat on his windowsill with his collection of cards, Phoebe’s red-rose note visible among them. He noticed her looking.

  ‘The staff sent flowers. They sent me this, too.’ He held up a toy helicopter.

  She laughed with him. ‘Cute.’

  ‘You off home today?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. I wish I could stay.’

  He smiled. ‘Seriously, Banjo. You searched for me, sat by me, ran my station as well as your own, and then flew to Darwin to see me. And now you bring me real coffee, with a goddamn Wagon Wheel.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’ve made your point. You really are the best friend a bloke could ever hope for. You can go home now.’

  She felt flat thinking about leaving him – and about being simply his friend. ‘I wasn’t trying to prove anything.’

  Tom’s face changed. ‘I know you weren’t. But you did anyway.’

  She stood up. ‘You’re right, I’d better go, or I’ll miss the plane. Those bullocks in the southwest corner aren’t going to muster themselves.’

  ‘True.’ He looked at her with regret and a hint of mischief crept into his expression. ‘Do I get another hug? I know it’s not your usual thing, but it seems you’ll bend the rules in these sorts of circumstances.’

  ‘What, helicopter accidents?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s extreme, I know, but I really wanted a hug.’ He held out his arms, a teasing glint in his eye.

  She laughed nervously and went in for the hug. He held her tight and it was both wonderful and terrifying. No wonder Phoebe was keen. Tom gave the best hugs she’d ever experienced. He released her but only a little bit so she was left looking into his face, just centimetres away – a rabbit in the headlights.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice a little strange.

  Her eyes had filled again. She pulled out of his grasp and grabbed her stuff.

  ‘See you back home,’ she managed. ‘You take care.’

  She got out of there.

  That night, having been out at Quintilla and then working without a pause at Patersons all day, Willow went into her room to write a letter to Tom. The letter. This would be the letter; the one that said exactly what she needed to say, without being too over-the-top, too casual, or too restrained. When he got home next week, she would be brave and give it to him. She pulled out the other letters she’d written and stared at them, trying to work out what was missing so she could write the perfect letter this time.

  Dear Tom, she began, and stopped, gazing at the blank page.

  Her phone beeped and she checked the screen, grateful for a distraction. It was a text message from an unknown number.

  Got a new phone! This is my number. Hope you’re home and rested. Talk soon. Tom.

  She hastened to reply.

  Got your number, thanks! Glad you’re back in the ether. Drowning in work here but home safe and yes, I’ll be glad to be back in my own bed. How’s the leg today?

  Still hurts like a bastard but doc is happy with it. Looks horrible. Definitely won’t be wearing a bikini this summer.

  She laughed.

  Not with that tan line.

  He sent her a smiley face.

  I spoke to our staff a few minutes ago and the head stockman said you were at Quintilla again today. What the heck? THANK YOU, Banjo. You’re amazing.

  Anytime. Seriously. Anything at all, just ask.

  Willow’s finger hovered over the X key. Should she send a kiss? She thought about Phoebe’s kissy message on the card, hesitating. Then she’d waited too long and the moment passed. Tom’s reply beeped through.

  Ugh, the nurse wants me to go to sleep now. *eyeroll*

  Do as the nurse says, young man.

  Yes, ma’am. Goodnight!

  Willow returned to her blank page. She was so damn wrung out after the last week. She didn’t know what she wanted to say any more. Texting and talking with Tom was much easier, much more natural. Maybe this letter-writing idea was all wrong. Would it be better just to wait until he was home and then go and see him, and tell him to his face how she felt? She visualised herself choking on the words, and her despair grew. She understood rationally why she’d denied her feelings for so long, but it was like the habit was too strong to fight. She brought the pen to the page.

  She groaned and shoved it into her bedside-table drawer. Another one to add to her growing pile of completely unsuitable written declarations. How many more would she have to write before she got it right? She imagined herself years in the future, surrounded by towers of unsent letters, while Tom lived over at Quintilla, happily married to Phoebe from the bank. It was a stupid vision but it still made her want to weep with frustration.

  Screw this. She lay down and switched off her bedside lamp.

  Willow worked extra hard for the next few days to catch up on things at the station. She texted back and forth with Tom each evening when she was in bed, but their conversation stayed on jokes, cattle and his healing process. She didn’t know how to take it any other direction. It reminded her of the late-night texting sessions they’d had as teenagers.

  Bob returned to Quintilla, so she was only needed when he couldn’t work out one of the more sophisticated computer systems Tom had installed. Then, within a few days, Tom was discharged. He and Cathy came back to Mount Clair. Bob collected them from the local hospital and they all dropped into Patersons on their way home, Tom swinging gingerly into the house on crutches.

  ‘You certainly gave us a week to remember, young Forrest,’ Barry said, handing Tom a cup of tea.

  ‘Yeah!’ Free was honestly outraged. ‘I was, like, utterly traumatised!’

  ‘Sorry, Free,’ Tom said. ‘Can you use the emotional trauma for artistic inspiration, though?’

  She brightened. ‘I did draw so
mething pretty kickarse.’ She jumped up and headed for her studio.

  ‘Hear that, Banjo?’ Tom caught Willow’s eye. ‘I inspired Free to produce some art. What about you, did you do anything? Write a poem? Bake a cake?’

  ‘You inspired me to organise a fourteen-day muster to collect some bullocks in the southwest corner,’ she told him and he grinned.

  Free came back in with her drawing. It was a charcoal piece, very moody – an abstract aerial view of rock gorges with a helicopter blade cutting across one corner of the page in a sinister manner. Willow had to turn her eyes away, holding in a shudder.

  ‘Ghoulish,’ Tom commented, and his parents seemed to agree. Free took it as a compliment.

  The Forrests departed and the days wore on. She desperately wanted time with Tom but the station demanded all her hours now that it was the peak of muster season. She contemplated sending one of her letters but deep in her heart she knew she wouldn’t. They were such poor representations of the huge, swelling love in her heart. But the decision not to send them made her hate herself, too. How would she tell him the truth? She had to talk to him, to express that she wanted to get closer. Friday, she thought. I’ll go and see him Friday. But Friday came and went without her finding a moment to herself. She fell into bed at eleven, unshowered and exhausted. Saturday was no better. She sent him a message on chat when she was about to go to bed, hoping he was awake.

  The best to the worst friend in four days flat. I’m sorry! I’ll be round there ASAP. You going stir crazy yet? What can I bring? I have some excellent books on cow insemination.

  But his grey offline dot stayed grey. It wasn’t until morning that she had a reply.

  Nah, I get it. Muster season is frantic. Yes, to stir crazy. No, to books on cow insemination. I’m keeping myself entertained with spreadsheets and copious television watching. Do you know how many channels we have these days? Beats the three we had when we were kids! Come visit and alleviate my boredom as soon as you get a second to breathe.