Peeling the Onion

by Wendy Orr

  'Sometimes I think I'd be better off if I was in a wheelchair!'

  I snarl, as Luke starts the car. 'At least I wouldn't fall over all the time!'

  Luke doesn't answer, but stops the car near the Coffee Connection.

  'You think a caffe latte will stop me feeling sorry for myself?'

  He takes my hand. 'I've got a better idea if it doesn't.'

  'Bad idea on Thursdays.' Dodging vacuum cleaners and mops does nothing for romance—though he's obviously remembered Mrs Hervey, or I suspect we'd be at home now.

  There's a whirring noise behind us; sounds like a herd of bikes charging up the footpath. Can't they see I've got a walking stick? They'll have to get out of my way, it's too hard for me—and they're not supposed to be on the footpath anyway. If you do it well enough, self-pity can give you a real high.

  With a whirr of fluoro spokes, pink and green, they swerve around and past us—two young guys, laughing and shrieking abuse at each other as they race their wheelchairs down the footpath. Frank at the fruit and veg shop races out to the front to shout at them, stops, and stands looking confused. An elderly couple click their tongues and walk on, shaking their heads.

  'I don't know what the world's coming to,' Luke whispers, 'disabled people never acted like that in my day!'

  I start to giggle. I laugh until I fall over again and have to sit on the kerb, and Luke sits beside me with his arms around me and I laugh until I don't know if I'm laughing or crying. But I know I'm ashamed, and I know I'm lucky after all, because no matter what the doctors say I'll never give up trying and hoping, and you can do lots of things in a wheelchair but I'd rather have legs.

  And I know I love this man.

  I write to Aunt Cisca and Oma and Opa. What a fantastic present; I'd love to come when I finish school next year—Christmas in Holland would be wonderful. Can they guarantee some snow? I'll practise a bit of Dutch so Cisca doesn't have to translate everything.

  Seems a bit early to mention travelling with a boyfriend, when Mum and Dad still don't know I have one. But we're going to a movie tonight . . .

  'I'm going out with Luke,' I announce at dinner.

  'I know,' Mum says, and laughs at the expression on my face. 'Luke comes back from physio looking like Matt at Christmas; you've actually been smiling—it wasn't that hard to guess. Anyway, I'm glad you've sorted everything out.'

  'Sorted what out?' Dad demands. 'You've broken up with Hayden; now you've got a date with Luke, which for reasons best known to herself, your mother thinks is wonderful. Or is there something I'm missing?'

  'No, Dad—that's about it.' I keep a straight face till he leaves the room.

  'I think,' Mum says, 'your father saw some advantages in his little girl going out with a boy who was obviously terrified of touching her. Luke's a man—and he's not afraid of much.'

  Mum's actually better at straight talking than I am. I can feel myself getting redder.

  'I probably don't look at things in quite the same way—and I've seen you and Luke together more than your dad has; honestly, Anna, I sometimes despaired of how long you were going to keep Hayden dangling around the house like a wet blanket! But take it easy. You're such good friends that things could move quickly . . . if it's right, it won't hurt to go slow. You've got all the time in the world.'

  Jenny's so happy for me she's crying.

  That's what she says—it looks more like she's lying across my bed sobbing her heart out. I didn't think people cried quite like that for happiness. After five minutes I'm sure of it.

  'Come off it, Jen—what's wrong?'

  'I didn't want to tell you when you were so happy!'

  I feel sick. Jenny and Costa always seemed perfect together; they're my standard of what love should be. 'Have you guys broken up?'

  'I don't know! It's his parent's twentieth anniversary on Sunday and all the rellies are coming down from Sydney for the weekend.'

  'You had a fight because you don't want to go?'

  'He doesn't want me to! He says everyone will be speaking Greek and I won't know anyone . . . ' 'Sounds logical.'

  'But it means we're not going to see each other for the whole weekend! Anyway, if he loved me he'd want me to meet them—I think he's ashamed of me.'

  'Jen, you're being ridiculous!'

  'I'm not! You've got to admit that Costa's about the best-looking guy around—his family's going to expect him to have a really gorgeous girlfriend. Look at me—short, fat and mousy.'

  'His family thinks you're great! And come off the fat bit—at least you've got boobs. But you're special, Jen; you're so warm and open and happy, people feel good around you—isn't that more important than looking like a model?'

  'Not to guys.'

  Bastard, bastard! I scream silently at Costa. 'Jen, do you think maybe you both just need a little space?'

  'We didn't use to want space!'

  She goes on crying. I feel incredibly helpless.

  'Do you want to spend the night?' I suggest at last, and she sniffs a yes.

  Costa arrives an hour later. He looks so tense and unhappy that I don't slam the door in his face after all. Jen disappears with him.

  'I thought Jenny was spending the night?' Dad asks.

  'She had to go out.'

  Mum looks anxious. 'I'm not covering for your friends spending the night with boyfriends.'

  'Jenny wouldn't do that!' Dad splutters. 'Would she?'

  'Of course not,' I say hopefully, and eventually the doorbell rings again. Costa waves and shouts goodnight; Jenny comes in, looking washed-out and happy.

  'What happened?'

  'Everything's okay.'

  'I guessed that!'

  'You were right about space . . . you remember how I was afraid that if we made love I'd be so committed that I'd sort of lose myself?'

  'You did it?'

  'Mm; Tuesday night.' She doesn't look embarrassed, just private. 'And now it's actually happened, he's the one who was scared by how much he felt—he thought we should just back off for a bit.'

  'And?'

  'And then he started thinking about not seeing me for a whole weekend, and started imagining how he'd feel if I broke up with him . . . '

  'So you're going to the party?'

  'Looks like it. He says we're going to be together a long time, and I'll have to meet his crazy relations sooner or later.'

  Mum and Dad are going out for dinner and I'm babysitting. They've both been a bit frayed around the edges lately, and some of the snapping and bickering makes Matt and Bronny's arguments sound adult—an evening out on their own might do them some good.

  'What kind of cake did you make?'

  Mum looks confused.

  'It's the first time you've left me alone with the kids since my accident.'

  She blushes. 'As a matter of fact, I did make a chocolate apple cake. It was a new recipe I wanted to try. Let me know what you think.'

  'Can we have it now?' Matt wants to know the instant the front door closes.

  'We have to have dinner first,' Bronny says primly. She's in her 'help look after Matt' mood. I wish she'd just be more like a little kid and let me be the grown-up.

  I start the kettle and rip open an instant pasta meal. 'Okay, dinner first. Then we can have cake for dessert, or we can build a bonfire and have cake outside.'

  I say 'or', but the bonfire's not an option. It's happening.

  'We'll build it in that new bed Mum's just dug up.'

  Bronny starts to look excited in spite of herself. Matt's ready to explode. I set him to work scrunching up newspaper till the microwave timer goes and he can bolt down his pasta.

  We get torches, Matt's newspaper, kindling and firewood.

  I'd rather rip up a few small trees, giant branches, build a huge pyramid of conflagration. A Hindu funeral pyre.

  It starts slowly; I throw on more kindling—I want it to crackle and roar. Matt throws on the Saturday Age and nearly smothers it. I poke around till it begins to look like
a bonfire.

  'Sit further back and don't put anything on for a minute—I need something from the house.'

  Butcher's knife from the kitchen, and out to the carport. Hold the elastic cord with one hand; slice with the other. It's not easy to cut; takes a minute to chop through both ends. The fire's going nicely by the time I get back. Bronwyn and Matt are staring.

  'That's your new punching bag!'

  'Not any more.' And I drop it on the fire.

  'It stinks,' says Matt.

  'What're Dad and Mum going to say?'

  I don't really care. This is for me. This is an exorcism. But anything I could have said is drowned out by a boom like a gunshot. Bits of red leather, cord, and plastic shower down on us. Ben tears around the garden, trampling the flower beds and yapping like a puppy; Matt is shrieking with excitement, dancing his own primitive fire dance. Bronwyn snuggles up to me, 'I guess you did that because you're not allowed to hit it any more.'

  We watch the flames a little longer. They're dying down; I push them up with the rake. A siren wails in the distance.

  'Here comes the fire truck!' Matt screams. 'The fire truck, the fire truck!'

  But the wailing is disappearing into the distance.

  'Too bad, Matt. I'll do better next time.' But I remember the cake, which we never did bring outside, and he cheers up again.

  Can't skip baths after that smoke, but eventually I get them into bed. I'm tired, but still revved—I've done the wrong thing, and it feels great. I'm still up when Mum and Dad get home.

  'Kids behave themselves?'

  'Even Matt. And the cake was a three-star. How about you?'

  'Wonderful; we'll have to do it more often.'

  I'll wait till morning to tell them about the punching bag. I hadn't expected to speak to a machine, but maybe the message is easier this way; machines don't ask questions. 'Sensai? It's Anna Duncan. I won't be coming back to karate. I just phoned to say goodbye.'

  I'm crying, though, when he rings back a few minutes later. After all this time of holding them in, tears flow so easily now I feel like an ornamental fountain.

  'What's this about quitting? I'd heard you were doing quite well.'

  I explain a bit of the doctors' bad news—the precarious vertebrae, the wobbly balance. 'So I'm getting better, but it looks as if there're some things I'll never be able to do.'

  'I can't believe it. For someone so fit—it's a tragedy. Bloody awful luck.'

  'I'm getting used to it.'

  He forces a little jollity into his voice. 'And how's that young man of yours?'

  'We broke up last week.'

  'Shit. Excuse me while I change feet.'

  'It's okay, truly; it was the best thing for both of us. I wish he'd go back to training, though.'

  'You and me both. But look, we can't have you just slipping out of karate like this . . . tell you what, barbecue at the dojo, Friday week. Right?'

  'Yes, Sensai.'

  This is the third time I've been to hydrotherapy. I meet the physio at the indoor pool and when I've finished my exercises I can have a swim.

  Tried freestyle the first time—one lap and the building was spinning. The ladder spun out from the wall as I grabbed it—looked again—both rungs still firmly set in concrete.

  And when your body starts lying—I mean, real, full-on Academy Award performances about what's happening outside and what's in your poor screwed-up head—you learn a whole new meaning of terror.

  Brian hauled me out and dumped me unceremoniously on a bench against the wall. 'I forgot what turning your head does to you! You might give freestyle a miss till the dizziness settles down.'

  Breaststroke wasn't much better—three strokes and I couldn't lift my head out of the water. But pain's easier to beat than dizziness, and I'll get stronger . . . four strokes next time.

  But backstroke I can do! I've done three laps and Brian says I have to stop, but I could do more if he let me. 'Next week,' he says. 'Don't want to overdo it too soon.'

  Once I'm out of the water my ankle hurts so much I can barely hobble to the changing room, but as I sit on the floor of the shower stall, too wobbly to stand, I feel fantastic. I've never liked swimming much, but I think I could learn to.

  Martin's pleased with my English work. 'You obviously made the right decision, dropping the other subjects,' he says, 'but your concentration's improved too. Life's looking up, is it?'

  'You could say that.'

  'Oh God, romance! I should have known. Anyway, if you can get your mind out of the gutter for a moment—' 'It might be a very spiritual romance, Martin!'

  'With that look on your face? Anyway, have a look at this—you're not the only one who's been working hard lately.' He tosses a fat manila folder onto the table—'Six Months at Sea,' by Martin Weiss.

  'You've finished!'

  'I was wondering ...' (Martin, shy and embarrassed?) 'um, would you read it before I send it to a publisher . . . tell me if it sounds all right?'

  'I'd love to.'

  'I was thinking, too—this might be the sort of thing you could consider for the future.'

  'Round-the-world sailing?'

  'Very funny. Editing—books or magazines. You've got a good ability to analyse stories; a reasonable feel for words—and editors don't need to run around much, I wouldn't think.'

  'But I don't really like reading!' 'It was just a thought.'

  'Did you start caring about me because you felt sorry for me?' We're on the track by the river, the same one we took when I first got a stick, but whether it's holding hands or the orthotic in my shoe, it doesn't seem nearly as rough today.

  'No.'

  'You didn't feel sorry for me?'

  'Of course I did! I'd have had to be inhuman not to. But the first time I saw you, in that split second before I registered the mess you were in, it was as if I recognised you—nothing to do with when you were twelve, just a feeling of "so there she is", like something I'd been waiting for. Then I noticed all the rest of it, and realised how awful it was and how you hated it—but that was nothing to do with the way I felt in that first instant.'

  I wish that I could say something as wonderful back to him, but it wouldn't be true. I didn't recognise him; I just thought he was nice. And I felt comfortable with him. Though I used to think about his eyes, and his voice, and his hands . . .

  We've reached the log; far enough to sit down. 'Do you want to know when I first . . . when I should have known how I felt?'

  'Please,' he says, so softly, so gently, that it twists inside me, and I have to kiss him before I can go on.

  'The first day you picked me up at school. You looked so sexy . . . ' I felt unbelievably happy . . . '

  'And you still persisted in going out with Hayden. And I encouraged you.'

  'You were noble.'

  'I was an idiot.'

  'We were both idiots.'

  'We'll have to make up for our mistakes somehow.' Mid-September's not bad weather for a barbecue, warm enough for people in jeans and windcheaters and still too cold for mosquitoes and flies. The park behind the dojo actually belongs to the football club, but the gas barbecues and wooden picnic tables are so convenient that we think of them as ours. (Thought not think. This isn't mine any more; this is the past.)

  Luke's with me—because I like being with him; not because I've got anything to prove. Well, maybe a tiny bit. Whatever way you look at it, my new life is not that great—I might as well show off the one good bit of it.

  Everything's a bit stiff at first; I haven't seen most of these people for nearly eight months, and nobody knows what to say. A couple of guys, sounding slightly amazed, tell me that I look great; one's honest enough to say that when he'd heard I had to quit he'd thought I'd look worse. 'But it's brain damage, is it?' he asks innocently. 'I guess that doesn't show.'

  Luke squeezes my hand as I mumble defensively about my neck and ankle. (So what am I saying—it's okay to break bones, but somehow immoral to bump your head? As if i
t was my choice?) 'But I guess the head injury didn't help,' I add, and quickly escape to get a drink.

  Luke thinks I need a kiss more than a coke.

  'What's that for?'

  'Being brave.'

  'I handled that really badly! Why do I have to feel sick whenever anyone says the words "brain damage" ? The poor guy didn't want to know all that stuff about my neck and my foot—he was just trying to be polite!'

  'Tough,' says Luke. 'People shouldn't ask heavy questions if they don't want the answers.'

  Sensai gives me a hug; I'm introducing Luke as I see Hayden pull up in his car and sit for a moment as if deciding whether or not to get out.

  'He's come back to karate?'

  'Coincidence, isn't it? I phoned and told him about this—said it could be a farewell for him too, if he couldn't make it back. Next Tuesday, there he was at training as if he'd never been away.'

  He's so obviously pleased with himself that I can't help laughing. 'I'm glad.'

  'Best thing for him. You're obviously getting on with your life; he ought to do the same. Now, speaking of getting on with things, we've got a little presentation to make.'

  I hate this. Everyone stops talking and gathers around while Sensai hands me a small, heavy, wrapped present and makes a speech about my skill, my contribution to the club, how sorry they are to see me go. He's a bit stilted; the phrases are cliched—and suddenly my eyes fill with their treacherous tears and I'm incredibly moved. I've always felt like I'd snuck out of karate—quit like a yellow belt who can't take the discipline—and this speech, this gift-wrapped leather purse, have given an honourable ending to what was one of the most important things in my life.

  Oh, God, they want me to say something too. Now I do hate it. Say thanks—for the present, the evening; for five years of training and companionship. Then incredibly, I hear myself add, 'I've just been through the toughest year of my life, and knowing that I'll never get my black belt has been one of the hardest things in that. But even if it wasn't my choice to leave karate, I'm lucky enough to have found something else' (Hayden winces, and I stumble on quickly, because that wasn't what I meant); 'I'm taking up Tai Chi.'

  Luke lifts an eyebrow but nods as if he'd known all along. It's not till we're in the car that he asks if I just made that up so no one would feel sorry for me.