by Wendy Orr
Jenny mightn't have much to say about exactly what went on Saturday night but I'm learning a lot more about Costa. He's not only the sexiest, best-looking man alive, he's also incredibly sensitive and intelligent.
'Especially when you think that English is his second language—can you imagine doing VCE in Greek?'
'At the moment I can hardly imagine doing it in English.'
'He speaks Greek at home with his family, and English the rest of the time. Don't you think being bilingual gives people an extra depth in their character . . . am I carrying on?'
'Carrying on like someone in love.'
She looks down; twists her feet around each other like a six-year-old. 'Funny how it's such a scary word when you think you mean it.'
Every Wednesday night our family's hit by a tidying frenzy: dirty clothes to the laundry, newspapers into the magazine rack, Lego in the bucket—if they're not tidied tonight, Mum swears they'll disappear tomorrow. Mrs Hervey, the cleaning ogre, comes on Thursdays.
Mrs Hervey is small and bustly. She gets to our house at nine, after cleaning her own house, cooking her husband's breakfast, packing his lunch, and taking her dog for a walk—using the fresh air before anyone else has a go at it, she says.
'Well, you poor dear!' she exclaims now. 'You don't do things by halves, do you!' She shakes her head, 'tsk, tsking' sadly as she collects spray bottles from under the sink. The tsking gets worse as she checks through the house.
'Looks like I'm in trouble,' Mum whispers, and she's right.
'I thought you were staying home to have some nice time with your daughter—not to clean the house! You've hardly left anything for me!'
'I haven't washed the kitchen floor,' Mum says meekly.
'As if that'll take me three hours! I'll just have to wash your windows.' The glass is rain-spotted and dusty; Mrs Hervey cheers up again.
And this is the tyrant we've been threatened with for two years! I catch Mum's eye. You never know when a bit of blackmail might come in handy.
'If you ever tell the kids . . . I'll put you on Lego duty for the rest of your life!'
Well, it was worth a try. I settle down in the lounge room with my book. Mum's still fussing around.
'I'm just going to dash to the supermarket,' she says finally. 'I've put the answering machine on, so don't rush to the phone if it rings. And I'll tell Mrs Hervey—just ask her if you want anything.'
'Mum, would you go! I'll be fine.'
'I know . . . be careful.'
'I'm reading, Mum. I don't think the book's going to attack me.'
In forty-five minutes she's back.
'I'm still alive!' I shout, before she can ask.
'Sitting up like Jackie,' Mrs Hervey confirms, 'reading her book the whole time you were gone!'
Read all about it! Year 12 student home almost alone.
Reads ten pages in forty-five minutes.
Mum makes coffee and puts out a plate of Anzacs and gingersnaps. Even Mrs Hervey stops for one and a chat.
Mum's going to do weekends at the nursery from now on. She says this way it won't cost much more than when she worked the week and had a reliever for Saturday and Sunday, and Luke comes in to see her most nights after he closes, so she knows exactly how everything's going.
There's something about him—the way he acts as if he's got nothing to prove and doesn't expect that you will either—that makes him an easy person to be with. He doesn't ignore all my bandages and braces, he just acts as if I'm normal anyway; I don't mind him seeing me. 'Do you remember that barbecue at our place?' he asks now. 'Years ago—I must have been about fifteen.'
Can't lie; the blush gives me away. 'I was a bit of a brat then.'
'Actually I saw you more as an instrument of fate, out to destroy my illusions. There I was—I'd had two whole judo lessons and was finally going to make an impression on the world—at least on the other kids at the barbecue. Hadn't counted on a skinny twelve-year-old bringing me down to earth with a bump! Ended my judo career with one swift kick.'
'I didn't mean to knock you over! I just didn't have very good control over my kicks yet. Did you really quit judo?'
'Afraid so. I haven't got a great record for sticking at things, have I?'
I don't believe it. Apart from that one morning in hospital, I haven't cried about any of this. Now my eyes are filling up with tears because a guy I hardly know quit judo six years ago. All right, because something I did made him quit.
'You can't take all the credit,' he adds quickly. 'It might have had more to do with Dad leaving us the week after the barbecue. Judo just suddenly didn't seem that relevant.'
Not much to say to that either. Swallow a couple of times; make sure my voice is trustworthy. God, this is ridiculous.
'Anyway, a couple of years ago I discovered Tai Chi. "What about you—did you go on with karate?'
'I'm having a little break at the moment.'
'The cast gives you an unfair advantage?'
That smile again, then Mum's here with the account books and I go back to my room.
My thumb and I are going to see the occupational therapist.
'Do you want to go anywhere while we're out?' Mum asks.
'In my wheelchair?’
But Mum still feels it's a milestone. My first week anniversary of coming home; first time out somewhere. She bakes a cinnamon cake.
'When you said you'd go out with me—did you really mean it? Like, you'd actually go out in a car with me again when you're better?'
He was here all afternoon but he and Dad ended up watching the cricket and in the ads he just talked about karate. At least now we're alone, separated by nothing but the few kilometres of telephone wire between his lounge room and my parents' bedroom.
'I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't meant it.'
'You know what really gets me? If I hadn't slowed down he might have missed us completely!'
Flashes of images; a collage of movie scenes. The concentration on his face, the competence of his hands on the wheel, details imprinted on my brain. Realising we were wrong; knowing I was going to die.
'Or if I'd passed that truck when I had the chance, we'd have been past that corner before he got there.'
'And if I'd never been born I wouldn't have been in the car at all! Look; it happened—like an act of God or something—you're the Catholic, you work it out. But I still want to go out with you . . . hang on a second.' I'm suddenly so cold that I have to wrap myself in Mum and Dad's doona before I can go on. My teeth are chattering.
Hayden doesn't sound much better. Actually I think he's crying. He says goodnight and hangs up. If I could escape from my cage for just a minute I'd run all the way to his house and hold him, nothing more, simply hug and be close to him. But if I could escape I guess he wouldn't be crying.
Is there some parallel universe where those things did happen? Where a foolhardy Hayden raced the speeding car, flying through the intersection a second ahead of it? Is the Anna of that universe still living in a normal body in a normal world—and does she know how lucky she is?
Mr Sandberg drops in again Monday.
'How's the life of leisure?'
'Just what I always wanted,' I say, as my slave brings coffee and biscuits and shoos away two outsize flies.
'And how did you go with the work Jenny brought you?'
No snappy answers for that one.
'Anything specific I can help you with?'
I can't concentrate. Nothing goes in. I refuse to say that, but can't think of anything else.
'She's not quite up to it yet,' Mum says defensively. 'But you've been reading for English, haven't you, Anna?'
Hope he doesn't ask which book. I've read quite a bit of it—just can't remember the tide.
'Give yourself a break—oh, I see you already have.'
Groan.
'Seriously—you haven't been out of hospital for all that long; we don't need to start worrying about assignments yet. Just relax—tell yourself you're
reading for pleasure. Might as well enjoy the lazy life while you can.'
I know it's the only thing I can do. I know he's being helpful. But reading for pleasure is not the same as getting through Year 12.
Haven't heard from Caroline since the day she came over with Jenny.
Why do I feel people have to call me? I'm not such an invalid I can't dial myself. Just do it.
But it's a bad time: she'll call back later.
Later this week, I guess. Call the Guinness Book of Records! Throw a party and put my picture in 'You Can Do it, Girl!' for Modern Ms: I've made coffee for Hayden and me. A week ago I tried and wasn't strong enough.
'You couldn't lift a kettle?’ 'The point is I can do it now! Do you want some cake?
Caroline's mum brought a banana one today.'
He likes the cake, but maybe he should have skipped the caffeine, wandering around the room till he makes me dizzy.
'Would you sit down! You're as bad as Matthew!'
He sits obediently and begins picking up and turning over the magazines on the coffee table.
'How was karate yesterday?'
'Okay; mostly sparring again.' I get the feeling that wasn't what he'd intended to say.
'Isn't there a tournament coming up soon?'
'Well, yeah.' The magazines are now all neatly upside down.
'Are you going?'
'Would you mind?'
'I told you before! Why should you give up because some dickhead broke my neck?'
'I thought it might make you feel bad.'
'I'll feel worse if you don't go.'
'You're great, you know that?'
'I know.'
'Could I have a glass of cordial? I don't actually like coffee.'
'So why do you always drink it here? Do you think Mum won't let you come back if you don't like her coffee?'
How can a sheepish grin be sexy? If he kissed me would I stop being obsessed?
My big treat today is a trip to Mr Osman—and as Mum parks right in front of his clinic, I can walk in myself—no wheelchair!
We're going to have to wait a while. His waiting room is packed. I've never seen so many broken people—at least, people with broken bits—in one place before.
'How's the pain?' Mr Osman asks.
So strong, so overwhelming and constant that I can't remember life before it. My body is a vocabulary of hurting; I need shades of meaning to describe the screaming shriek of my neck, the exquisite torture up the back of my skull, the dull grind of the thumb and the fierce jab of a ten-centimetre nail spearing my heel.
'Not bad,' I say.
March already—first term more than half gone!—and evenings are getting darker again; Matt and Bronny are watching a sitcom before they go to bed. Gross adults and cute kids are stuck in another unbelievable predicament, blaring canned laughter and sentimentality. Mum and Dad say they hate it—but follow enough from behind their paper and book to snort in disgust. I don't bother pretending. The slippery surface of my mind is content with the meaningless action, the empty words which don't expect to leave a trace.
An ad break; Mum puts the kettle on.
'Look, Anna!' Matt shouts. 'A girl with a collar like yours!'
Cut from the sound of smashing glass to a girl with a scarred face crying as she struggles to stand up from her wheelchair. It's an ad from the traffic insurance, meant to terrify—I wonder if Trevor Jones is watching. I wonder if I'm going to throw up. Dad grabs for the remote control and knocks it under the couch. The ad goes on as he scrambles.
Bronwyn's voice is cloudy with tears. 'How did they get there so fast?' she asks. 'To make the film?'
'Will they make one of you, Anna?' Matt wants to know.
'That girl's an actor,' Mum explains. 'It's just pretend. Look at her arms—if it were real they'd be cut like Anna's. The scratches on her face are just makeup.' It's obviously not the first time Mum's watched this ad in fascinated horror.
Bronwyn's face is still pale and pinched. 'Come and sit on my lap,' I beg.
Delicately, she leans over and gives me a hug, the butterfly embrace of one frail old woman to another. 'I'll hurt you,' she says, and has a cuddle from Mum instead.
Just as well—I've got the shakes again. My coffee slops darkly over my shirt.
'Caroline! It's so great to see you!' And such a surprise that I feel ridiculously flustered. 'Do you want a coffee?'
'I've given up caffeine—it's amazing how much better you feel when you get all those toxins out of your system.'
Guess I won't put out the Mississippi Mud Cake. 'So how's everything at school?'
'I hate my new home room—you know I'm not with you guys this year? And school's such a drag without you there, you better come back soon or I'll go crazy! There's no one to talk to!'
'Aren't you talking to Jenny any more?'
'You have to be named Costa if you want to talk to Jenny right now.'
'Meow, meow.'
'No really, it's sweet. But we all miss you; our last year together—we just want you back!'
So I go into my happy little vegemite act. I feel great, it hardly hurts at all; this frame is just a nuisance really—a precaution—doctors have to be so careful, don't they? And the cast, well nothing could hurt inside that! I'll be back at school in about four weeks.
A question mark flits at the back of my mind. It's four weeks since the accident—will I really be better, school-better, in another four?
But there was all that time wasted when they didn't know my neck was broken. Now that everything's sorted out it'll happen fast. School the beginning of April, Black Belt in October. If you want something badly enough, you always get there in the end.
CHAPTER 6
My thumb is the first to let me down. It's done so many exercises it should look like Elle MacPherson—but after three weeks of workouts it still can't tell the difference between 'bend as tight as you can' and standing up straight.
'Twenty-five degrees,' Mr Osman says, and studies the new X-rays.
Twenty-five degrees is what the therapist said the first time she measured it.
'The bone's healed well,' Mr Osman says now, 'unfortunately ...'
Unfortunately the joint in the middle of the thumb—the one that wasn't supposed to be damaged—is affected too. Stuffed, though that's not the word he uses.
'You'll have arthritis in it, of course. If the pain gets too bad we'll operate and freeze it into a better position. In the meantime the OT can make you a splint.'
He hesitates. Arthritis, operations—hasn't he run out of bad news yet? 'It's an unusual break; I've never seen one just like it. Were you holding anything in your hand?
A trophy.
If he says something funny I'll kick him with my fat plaster foot. But he thinks about it and nods. He's satisfied.
I'm seventeen. I refuse to think about arthritis. I'll worry about that if I manage to get old.
The splint looks obscene. I think it's only my dirty mind, but Jenny gets the giggles when she sees it. Even Dad hides a smile.
'Only use this to do the exercises,' Julie said when she gave it to me. 'Don't wear it all the time.'
I think I'll be able to restrain myself.
Caroline hasn't been to see me again. I ring her occasionally, but it's always a bad time. She's about to go out, or have dinner, or has a friend over.
Hayden's another reason I've got to be better soon. I want to know what he feels about me and what I feel about him. And I don't know how I'm going to find out if we're never alone.
But tonight the kids are in bed, Mum and Dad watching TV in the lounge. Hayden's sitting on the family room floor by my chair; I remember the feel of his hair when he cried in the hospital, and I stroke it again now. Does he remember his head on my breast?
He lifts his arm across my knee and rests his head against it. 'I'm not hurting you?'
'My knees are okay.'
Why do I think about sex now, when my body's trapped and undesirable?
>
Very lightly, he strokes the inside of my knee, and I have a sudden flash of memory—the last thing I want to think about right now—of Hayden putting his hand on my leg as we drove, and my laughing and returning it to the wheel, then crossing my legs away from him, for emphasis. The right knee crossed over the left, the right foot against the door. Seconds before we saw the white car.
So that's why my right foot was smashed worse than the left. I'd wondered about that.
Two hands on the wheel didn't help anyway. I should have left his hand where it was.
How could Luke quit uni after doing two whole years? How can he bear not knowing where his life's going now? Just drifting, letting things happen; working in Mum's nursery could hardly be a long-term ambition.
'Sometimes it's not such a bad way to go,' he says, 'seeing where life takes you.'
'But how can you plan anything?' Because that's one of the worst things about the way I'm living now—not knowing for sure exactly how soon I'll be back to normal and able to organise my life again.
'Sometimes it's good to go without plans.'
'So you don't have to change them when things go wrong?'
'That's a bit negative! More like the difference in philosophy behind karate and Tai Chi.'
'You've lost me.'
'Karate's goal-directed—if it's an opponent, you hit them; if it's a brick or a plank or whatever, you break it, right?'
'That's the general idea!'
'Tai Chi is more inner-directed; it can be used as a martial art but it's based on Taoism . . . if you think of life as a river, no matter how huge a boulder is, the river flows around it—might have to change course a bit, but it still gets where it's going—and the rock gradually gets worn away.'
'Doesn't sound like much of an adrenalin rush!' Which is the best part of karate, even something as artificial as brick-chopping—part of your mind knows that it's impossible to smash that brick with your bare hand, and the rest of you knows that you can, and you concentrate, visualise—and let loose and do it, do the impossible . . .
He's grinning. 'So what are you breaking now?'
'My plaster,' I admit—does he read everyone's mind, or just mine? 'You still haven't told me why you left uni.'