You Don't Even Know

by Sue Lawson

  * Mum didn’t have to work three jobs to pay for my treatment.

  * Ash would stop being selfish.

  * I’d kissed a boy.

  * Chemo didn’t make me feel like shit.

  * Chemo worked for me.

  * Everything didn’t hurt so much.

  * I’d never had cancer.

  * It hadn’t spread to my brain.

  * I could let go.

  I remember something from one of the earlier pages, about wishing she’d seen a sunrise or something and slip back out of bed. After shutting the door, I open the curtains. Back at her bed, I squat beside Mackie’s head and check if she could see above the balcony to the eastern sky. I raise the bed until I’m happy she has a clear view over the city to the bay. If she opened her eyes.

  Back in my own bed, while I wait for sleep, thoughts bubble like boiling water.

  What would be on my wish list?

  Only one thing.

  I wish it had been me instead of Mia.

  But I can’t think about her. I search for something soothing. Home? Yeah right!

  During an English class before Easter, Mrs Jenkins had talked about home being a haven. Maybe home had been a kind of haven for me once, but not now. Without Mia, home was shit.

  Dad either avoided or yelled at me. Ethan refused to acknowledge me unless Mum was around, and Harvey had turned into Mini Ethan, right down to his haircut. As for Mum, she was blanketed in a world of pain that she tried to ease with more charity work.

  And school, well last time I was there, I’d turned into one of the weirdo loners who hung out near the science wing. Bash and Coop ignored me and spent all their time with Amado and his mates. Michael Kolo looked straight through me and even the teachers didn’t notice me.

  It was like I was trapped in one of those huge jars that hold pig foetuses and snakes in the science labs. Only it was worse than that, because at least people noticed those jars on the back shelf, took them down and studied them every now and again. No one paid me any attention.

  Until I smashed Bash.

  That day flashes across the inside of my eyelids as clear as a movie. Clearer. The smell of body odour, old fruit and aftershave clinging to the locker room walls and carpet douses the cold hospital smell.

  63

  ALEX

  A bleak, biting wind ripped through the school corridors. In the stuffy locker room, I chucked biology books into my locker and reached for my ham and cheese sandwich. Around me, books thudded against metal and laughter buffeted my skin. Bash’s voice boomed through the laughter. Though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I recognised the tone of his voice. He was bragging. A name cut through the noise as I closed the locker door.

  Tilly.

  Everything came into sharp focus – the lockers, the smell of freshly sprayed deodorant and the voices.

  “Tilly Denaris?” asked Coop.

  “The same. We hooked up at Toby’s party, Saturday.”

  The jeers made my stomach flip.

  “You two on now?”

  “Maybe. See how I feel when she gets back from visiting her sister in Foster.”

  “Does Alex know?”

  “What do I care? He dumped her,” said Bash. “Anyway, he’s gone psycho.”

  I pressed my forehead against the locker. But Bash wasn’t done.

  “Tilly reckons he’s lost it. She said he blames himself for his sister’s death.”

  I wasn’t aware of the rage that had swallowed me until I was on the other side of the lockers, glowering at Bash. With a grunt, I shoved aside the boys surrounding him. I drew my fist back and slammed it into his face.

  A cracking, crunching sound filled the air. Pain exploded in my knuckles and up my arm.

  Hands grabbed and punched at my ribs, kidneys. Face.

  And then I was crumpled on the carpet, pain surging through me, surrounded by school shoes, grey trousers and silence.

  “Geez,” said Amado. “Big hit. Check out the blood and shit.”

  I sat up and the room came into focus. Coop was bent over Bash, and even though his back obscured Bash’s face, I could see the blood soaking Bash’s white collar. Everyone gathered around him. While they concentrated on Bash, I staggered to my feet and stumbled out the door.

  On the main road, I caught a tram and sat with my head against the window. The rattle and shudder of the tram slammed into my rage. It wasn’t until I reached the city that I realised I’d left my phone in my locker. Not that it mattered. There was no one I wanted to message or call and no one I wanted to contact me.

  For the rest of the day I sat on the free tourist tram, wandered along the Yarra River and hung out at the Fitzroy Gardens. I didn’t notice the strange looks people were giving me until I saw my reflection in the public toilets’ polished-tin mirror. My jumper was ripped, my shirt collar bloodstained and my face was battered and swollen. I figured there was blood on my jumper too, but it didn’t show up against the navy.

  Late in the afternoon, I found myself not far from the rec centre, wandering the streets lined with houses, mesmerised by other people’s lives being played out behind glass. A flickering TV screen. A ladder in the middle of an empty room. A man chopping vegies and talking.

  When rain fell, not a shower but massive splattering drops, I headed to the rec centre, but instead of going inside, I huddled at the back between two recycle bins. Knees hugged to my chest, I watched the hail flatten grass and smash into gravel. By the time the rain eased, it was dark.

  Even though Bash had said she’d gone to visit her sister, I walked to Tilly’s place, huddled into myself.

  Except for the weak light thrown by the solar lights throughout the garden, the house was doused in darkness. I slunk down the drive to the old cubby where I sat on the Bananas In Pyjamas sofa. Foam stuck out where the fabric had worn. On the wooden stove lay an abandoned tea set. Which made me think of Mia.

  I burst out of the cubby and ran.

  And then I was home. Wet and freezing, bloodied and sore, I punched the code into the gate and felt between the agave’s leaves for the key I’d stashed a couple of weeks ago. When I unlocked the door, I expected Dad to be in the doorway, arms folded, ready to attack. But the foyer was empty. A lamp shone from the family room. I tiptoed over the slate.

  Mum was curled on the sofa, a rug over her knees. Tucked under her arm was Mia’s rabbit.

  My heart gave a horse-kick beat.

  Mum startled. “Alex! Where have you been? I wanted to call the police, but your father–”

  “Why do you let him push you around?”

  “This isn’t about me, Alex. Where have you been?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Do you have any idea what the time is?”

  I shrugged.

  She swung her legs off the sofa and rubbed her face. When she looked back at me, her mouth formed an O. “God, Alex. You’re a mess.” She rushed over and reached out to touch my face.

  I pulled away. “It’s fine.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s okay.”

  She stepped back and studied me. “That shirt is ruined. Have you had ice on your face?”

  “I said it’s okay.”

  Mum sighed. “Did this happen today, after Bashir?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Ethan. And Mr De Jong rang. For God’s sake, Alex. Bash has a broken nose.”

  “He deserved it.” I hung my head. “So did I.”

  “Nobody deserves to be beaten.” The force in her voice surprised me. Mum moved back to the sofa. “Sit, Alex.”

  It didn’t feel like a request. I wedged myself into the corner where the armrest met the back of the sofa. “Bet Ethan couldn’t wait to spill his guts.”

  “He’s worried, Alex.”

  An image of Ethan while the ambos worked on Mia flashed through my mind. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

  “Alex, this bitterness – anger – it isn’t you. Let me help. Please.”
>
  Once, when I was little, I wrapped a piece of string around and around my finger. After a few minutes, the tip of my finger turned red and throbbed in pain. All I had to do was untangle the cotton and my finger went back to normal. I’d had that same wound up, throbbing sensation, only worse, since Mia. Except it wasn’t my finger bound up, but my whole body. It hurt so much I couldn’t catch my breath sometimes. But how did I tell Mum that? “I’m okay, Mum.”

  “You’re not okay.” Mum ran her fingers through her hair. “Try to talk to me, please?”

  “What’s the point? I stuffed up. Again.” I reached beyond the gap between us to touch Mia’s rabbit. He should have been with Mia. But no one would listen to me.

  Mum stroked my arm. “It wasn’t your fault, Alex. Nobody blames you.”

  I recoiled. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Everybody blames me. Especially Dad.”

  Mum tucked her legs under her so she was facing me. “Alex.”

  “Don’t. Don’t try to tell me he doesn’t blame me. Before Mia, he just didn’t like me, but now … now he full-on hates me.”

  She bit her bottom lip and slid across the sofa, taking my hands in hers. “Alex.”

  “I told you to wake me when he returned.” Dad strutted through the doorway.

  Mum released my hands and slid back to her corner of the couch. “I was about to come and get you.”

  “Where were you?” he snapped, ignoring Mum.

  “Nowhere. Walking. Thinking.”

  “Hiding instead of facing up to what you did.” His lip curled. “I’m ashamed of you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve made that clear often enough.”

  Dad lurched forwards, grabbed my wet shirt and dragged me to my feet. “Want to punch me too, big man? Hey? Go on, take a swipe.”

  My fists clenched and unclenched. I wanted that rush of hate then relief that had swamped me when I punched Bash. The urge to sink my knuckles into Dad’s fleshy gut was so strong, it hurt. Then I remembered the horror after I’d hit Bash.

  “Go on, Alex. Take a shot.”

  My hand twitched.

  Mum was beside us. “Stop goading him, Dylan.”

  “Coward.” Dad poked me in the chest with his index finger. “Absolute coward.”

  I pulled back my fist, but Mum was faster.

  “Enough!” She stepped between us. “Go and clean yourself up, Alex.”

  64

  ROOM 302, NEUROSURGERY UNIT, PRINCE WILLIAM HOSPITAL

  On the breakfast tray, soggy cereal bobs in milk. Beside that, the toast, jam, margarine and orange juice are untouched. I’m over trying to rip off the foil lids on those stupid plastic containers with one hand. Every time I try, I spill stuff all over myself.

  Mackie’s scrapbook is beside the breakfast tray. I meant to take it back before the nurses do obs, but the moment I touch it, I have to read more. The book opens at a page with only a few sketches and doodles.

  In black texta, with the headings underlined, are two more lists, this time with hearts as bullet points.

  BEFORE THIS JOURNEY ENDS I WANT TO:

  * Taste snow.

  * Feel an elephant’s skin.

  * Travel in a plane somewhere. Anywhere.

  * Win the lotto so I can:

  * Buy Mum, Tim and Ash a mansion with lush lawn and trees with glossy leaves.

  * Buy Dad a place at the beach so he can fish whenever he likes.

  * Buy Mum and Tim a car each – Mum a Mazda and Tim a Subaru.

  * Send Tammy and Granger on the backpacking holiday I won’t be able to take.

  * Donate anything left over to cancer research so no one ever has to do this again.

  * Kiss a boy.

  * Visit the

  Visit the what? Why did she stop? Was she too tired? Too sick?

  I read the next list, which is written in blue, pressed so deep into the page that there are holes in the paper. Across the page are splodges of smudged ink and shadowy, transparent letters.

  I WISH I’D …

  * Driven a car.

  * Ridden a horse along a beach.

  * Gone paintballing, zip lining, abseiling, skydiving, skinny-dipping.

  * Kissed a boy.

  * Grown old with someone I love and who loves me.

  * Been to a pool party.

  * Wagged school.

  * Been to a strawberry farm and eaten berries straight from the bush.

  * Been normal. Healthy.

  * Been able to fight harder.

  Something thick and hard lodges in my chest. I cough and clear my throat and slap that flat place above my heart, but I can’t dislodge whatever it is. All I manage to do is stir up the pain in my ribs.

  I take Mackie’s scrapbook back to her table then shuffle around the room for a bit, still coughing and hawking.

  “Do you have a cold?” asks Paul, strolling through the door.

  “Nah, there’s something stuck in my chest.” I rub my sternum with my left fist and head back to my side of the room.

  Paul drags a chair closer to the bed. “How’d you enjoy the surf magazine?”

  “Yeah, good.” I pour a glass of water and gulp it down before sliding onto the bed.

  “Let me know if you want to look up any of those sites. I can bring in my iPad.”

  “Thanks.” I know I’m being weird, but I can’t help it. I feel disjointed or something.

  “How’s physio?”

  “Okay.” What else can I say? “Lots of walking, tiptoeing and squeezing my hand into a fist.” I hold out my right arm to demonstrate.

  “Happy with your progress?”

  “I guess.”

  Paul clears his throat. When I look up, he’s gazing past me, out the window. “Can you believe it’s nearly spring? The almond tree in our front yard is in blossom.”

  “Yeah? We have an almond tree in our backyard. It’s a huge old thing and has this cubbyhouse that the people who lived there before us built. The cubbyhouse not the tree.” I can see the forked lightning splitting the air either side of the almond tree.

  “Did you play in it?”

  “The cubbyhouse? Not really. I used to, but then Dad told me that cubbyhouses were gay … I kind of stopped.” I realise what I’ve said. “Not that, I mean …”

  Paul laughs. “Relax, Alex. It takes more than that to offend me.”

  My face burns. “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t care about that stuff. Dad’s the one with the issue. He’s always crapping on about being a real man.”

  “So what’s a real man to your father?”

  “Not me.” I look at my knees. “Sorry, that sounds tragic. I mean I don’t measure up.” I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the crappy feeling that digs its claws into my skin. “Look, Paul, I don’t mean to sound like I feel sorry for myself or anything. I feel weird today. You know?”

  Paul nods. “Physically weird, or …”

  “As though I have something stuck here.” I slap my chest again. “Something I need to cough up. And it’s like there’s something digging into my back.”

  “Can I run something by you?” He says each word with care.

  My eyes narrow. “What?”

  “It’s a theory. One I’ve heard about a billion times, and I think, well, it seems relevant to you.” His chinos squeak against the vinyl as he shifts position. “People – psychologists – reckon that when emotional pain becomes too much to bear, we hurt ourselves – you know bump our head, cut a finger – because the physical pain relieves the emotional pain.”

  “I’m not one of those psycho cutters, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Nice overreaction.” He leans forwards, elbows on his knees. “Look, Alex, that thing in your chest, your accident – they’re all to do with Mia and how much you’re hurting.”

  I stare at the cast on my arm.

  “Have you ever talked about it? Properly? Cried? Really cried, since she died?”

  I swallow.

  “Did yo
u know you never say her name?”

  Panic soars through my veins. “That’s not …” My words fade away, because I know he’s right. “Can we not?”

  “Because you can’t or won’t?”

  Anger explodes in my head as white shards. “Look, you don’t even know, no one does, I …” A nurse enters the room – it’s Dimity. She looks at me then Paul.

  “Rolling Mackie. Mind if I draw these curtains?”

  “No problem,” says Paul, standing. “I’ll do it.”

  Paul whips the curtains surrounding the bed closed. My brain swirls and twirls, so many thoughts and fears packed into such a tiny space it hurts.

  Paul sits back down. “Alex, I’m not going to force you to talk about Mia, I promise. But I do believe if you can, doesn’t matter who to, it will help.” He leans back and pats his knees. “I hope this hasn’t been too full-on, mate. Okay if I come back?”

  “What the hell is the point of ‘refreshments’ after a funeral?” I stare at my feet, resting against the end of the bed. “It’s a shit idea.”

  I can feel Paul’s stillness.

  “And what kind of twat thinks having ‘refreshments’ at their home is a good thing?” My lip curls. “Oh, I know. My father, that’s who. School offered the hall, but Dad said it was too shabby and that the caterers needed a better kitchen. Caterers. For funeral refreshments? That’s stuffed.”

  If Paul speaks, I’ll stop. But he doesn’t, so I keep going like that Shakespearean character who wanders around talking to a skull.

  “As if you want to be social, you know, eat and drink and stuff, after a shitful funeral. Especially with Dad’s plastic mates.” My right arm is itchy. “Dad started issuing orders, dealing them out like they were cards, as he drove out the crematorium gate.” I imitate his voice. “Harvey, you’re in charge of the children’s food and drinks. Ethan, Alex, you will mingle, clear plates and glasses. Make people feel welcome.” I snort. “Dickhead. Welcome to the house of pain. Would you like a poke in the eye or your heart ripped out with that red wine?”

  I draw my legs up. “I wanted to tell Dad to shove his welcome right up his fat arse. But I didn’t. I was completely and utterly numb. And not only because of the tablet I snuck from the bottle the doctor left Mum. The whole thing – the service, the small white coffin, the stupid pictures of her – they left me dazed. Like none of it was real.”