I wish Indiana would stop talking. It’s only making things worse: the pain, the regret, the all-encompassing fear that the last time I saw West I didn’t tell him I loved him. It doesn’t make sense. Things like this don’t happen to people like West. My body shakes uncontrollably. Still, I don’t cry.
‘I’ve got to go. Are you going to be okay?’ asks Indiana, squeezing my hand.
I nod.
‘Have you got your phone? I’ll put my number in it. Call or text me if you need anything.’
I give her my phone. This is not the Indiana that I know.
‘Good luck,’ she says, giving it back. ‘I hope his parents let you in to see him.’
I text my parents and tell them what has happened. They want to come and stay with me but I say no. I lie and tell them I’ll be home soon. The truth is I can’t leave until I see West.
I keep my eyes fixed on the closed doors that separate the waiting room and the ICU, hoping West’s parents will emerge. Every now and then a new person arrives in the waiting room. They pick up the phone next to the doors and ask to see a particular patient. Sometimes they are buzzed straight in and at other times they sit down for a few minutes until a nurse calls them. People come out too but not West’s parents.
What if they don’t come out? Maybe they’ll stay the night in ICU with West. Are there extra beds for family in there? Surely, his parents will have to leave to get a coffee or food at some point. What am I going to do when they do come out? I can’t just walk up to them and ask to see West. I need to have a note ready, something that will convince them.
I find a pen on the table among a pile of magazines and I use the back of a handout on a counselling service as paper. Actually, I use several handouts. Each time I write something, I cross it out or screw up the paper. I can’t get my thoughts in order.
I keep picturing West in a hospital bed and connected to machines that are keeping him alive.
‘How hard is it to make a good cup of coffee?’ says a man in his sixties or seventies a few seats away from me.
When I realise that he is talking to me, I shrug.
He puts the coffee cup on the floor beneath his chair. ‘Tastes like old boots.’
I don’t know what old boots taste like, but I’ll take his word for it.
‘Have you been waiting long?’
I shake my head.
‘My wife had a stroke a week ago and she’s still here. It’s a bloody awful place and the coffee is not much better. Who are you waiting to see?’
I look away and then down into my lap.
‘Teenagers these days,’ the man mutters. ‘Can’t get a word out of them.’
Heat rises to my face. I want to scream and ball my eyes out. None of this is what I want but no amount of dandelions can help me now. I hold back my tears.
The ICU door opens and West’s mum walks out. Her eyes are hollow. I quickly write the only thing I really need to say and stand up. She stops when she sees me coming towards her and stares coldly.
I hold out the note. She crosses her arms and doesn’t take it. ‘You can’t see him.’
I exhale as if I’ve been punched in the stomach and press my hands against my face. Tears run between my fingers. Just tell me he is okay, I plead with my eyes.
‘Go home, Piper. You’ve done enough.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea that you go to the hospital today,’ says Dad, putting his coffee cup in the sink.
I pick up the car keys. ‘Why not?’
‘You’ve already said that West’s parents won’t let you in to see him. You can’t just sit in the waiting room all day.’
‘Yes, I can. They’ll have to let me in eventually.’
Mum throws down her magazine. ‘This is ridiculous, if you ask me. Why can’t she see him?’
‘It’s still early days,’ says Dad. ‘Maybe when he is not so critical, they’ll change their minds.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t wait that long.’
Dad sighs. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not up to you, honey.’
‘She’s not asking much, just a few minutes with him,’ says Mum. ‘It won’t affect his condition.’
I look away, remembering what West’s mum said to me. What did she mean by you’ve done enough? Is it my fault the accident happened? What if everything I put him through affected his concentration and focus? Before West’s mum said anything, this thought was lingering at the back of my mind. I need to see him. To tell him how sorry I am.
‘I don’t want our daughter sitting in the waiting room all day. It’s not good for her.’
‘Then you and I will go to the hospital and talk to his parents. I’m sure they’ll listen to us.’
Dad doesn’t look convinced.
‘We’ll talk to them, parent-to-parent. It’s not just their son who has been affected by this accident.’
‘Okay, okay,’ says Dad. ‘We’ll go talk to them.’
‘Thanks for doing this,’ I say. ‘I know how you feel about West and me.’
‘Sometimes we’re wrong,’ says Mum. ‘Just don’t tell Jackson I said that.’
I try to laugh but it falls flat. I hope Mum and Dad will be able to do what I can’t.
They leave for the hospital and I sit on the lounge downstairs with my laptop, researching traumatic brain injuries. The problem is there are many different types of brain injuries and I don’t know any of the details surrounding West’s condition.
‘What are you doing?’
Evie stands in the doorway.
I close my laptop. ‘Nothing.’
‘Do you want to play something?’
I’m not really in the mood for playing games but I need a distraction.
‘Do you want to help me make dinner?’ I ask Evie. It’s not even quite lunchtime but we could do the prep.
Evie nods enthusiastically.
‘What do you think we should cook?’
‘Dominos?’ suggests Evie, cocking her head.
I laugh. ‘You don’t cook Dominos. You order Dominos. But we could make pizza, like the dough and everything.’
‘Yes, pizza!’
Everything we need to make pizzas is in the kitchen except for cheese, so I drive us to the shops in Dad’s car.
‘Can we make cake for dessert too?’ asks Evie as we walk in.
I nod. We’re in a public place now so it’s back to non-verbal responses. It’s like a switch goes off in my brain without me consciously controlling it. I take Evie’s hand and we head to the section with packet cake mixes.
‘Chocolate or vanilla?’ asks Evie, holding up two boxes. She knows I won’t answer verbally. My whole family have adjusted their behaviour to mine, even my six-year-old sister.
I point to the chocolate.
‘Piper?’
I turn around. It takes me a moment to recognise Dr Hayes. Her hair is lighter and shorter. She gives me a hug. ‘It’s so good to see you, Piper. How are you?’
Seconds pass and I don’t answer. I glance around. There’s a woman further down the aisle and a boy coming towards us. The boy looks a bit like West, same height, same colour hair. If I speak, they might hear me but being overheard doesn’t seem like such an enormous deal any more. Not after West, not after the video and everything else that has happened. I mean, I’m not about to go up to the woman and ask if she knows what aisle the breadcrumbs are in, but I think I can speak to Dr Hayes and risk being overheard.
I am able to do this, starting now.
‘I’m okay,’ I say very softly. That’s not true. I want to tell her about West but not here.
Dr Hayes beams. ‘Well, you look great. I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since our last session. We’ve got an appointment next month, don’t we?’
I nod.
‘I arrived back in the country only yesterday. There’s no food in the house, of course, so I’m stocking up. But all I really want to do is go for a lovely walk. It’s so nice to be back to the Australian weathe
r. You must be busy studying for your exams.’
‘Sort of.’
‘Have you decided what course you want to study next year?’
The boy stops near us, looking at the canned fruit and vegetables but I keep talking.
‘Not yet. I’m still thinking journalism but I’m not quite sure.’ Each word I say fills me with helium. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.
‘Do you want my opinion?’
‘Okay.’
‘You should think about studying psychology. So many professionals have a poor understanding of Selective Mutism. You could make a difference to the field. There are lots of areas you can go into afterwards. Research, education, health services. You’re so different to the girl I first started seeing.’
‘I’m not that different,’ I mutter. ‘This is the most talking I’ve done in public in a long time. All my problems lately seem to come from not being able to speak when I need to.’
‘Is that really what you believe?’
I don’t know how Dr Hayes does it, with one question she makes me rethink everything. ‘I guess not. But things would be a lot easier if I could speak when I want to.’
‘Easy is a banned word.’
I’d forgot about Dr Hayes’s ‘banned’ words. I laugh.
Dr Hayes’s gaze shifts. ‘Sorry, we’ve been ignoring you,’ she says to Evie. I’d forgotten that she was still there too. It’s unusual for Evie to be so quiet. ‘We haven’t met yet. You must be Piper’s little sister. I’m Liz.’ She holds out her hand and Evie shakes it.
‘I’m Evie. I like your glasses.’
‘Really? My daughter got them for me, but I think they’re too hipster. Anyway, I should let you two go. I’ll see you next month, Piper, if you really think you still need me.’
I nod, thinking about her words. Do I really need Dr Hayes? Maybe I finally am ready to beat this on my own.
‘Okay. If you’re looking for a nice walk, anywhere around Peace Rock is lovely.’
‘Thanks, that’s a great idea.’ She gives me another hug. ‘Bye, Evie.’
‘Bye,’ calls Evie.
I watch Dr Hayes walk away. Once she has moved down the next aisle, Evie turns to me and jumps up and down. ‘You did it!’
‘Did what?’
‘You let it go.’
I smile at Evie. I don’t tell her that I could already speak to Dr Hayes. I’m so afraid of people making a big deal about hearing me speak but maybe I need to start making a big deal about it. I haven’t spoken to someone in a public place in almost a year, since my sessions with Dr Hayes at the cafe. So this is a big deal. I’ll tell Mum and Dad when they get home. I’ll ring Tanvi and Cassie later. I’ll write a Facebook post about it on the support group page.
I squeeze Evie’s hand. ‘Yeah, I did.’
Dear Myrtle,
I feel like I can’t breathe all the time now, like there will never be enough air until I see him. You’re a tree, you make oxygen, why can’t any of this be easier? I hate the ICU waiting room. I sit in the same chair each day, one that faces the doors to the ICU so that every time his parents come out they see me. I’ve been here every afternoon since the accident. I’ve memorised the marks on the lino and the faces of the nurses who go in and out of the doors.
My parents don’t like me being here. I hate seeing their sad expressions when I leave the house, but what can I do? Even they couldn’t convince West’s parents to let me in to see him. Mum and Dad didn’t tell me exactly what happened at the hospital when they confronted West’s parents but apparently there were raised voices and eventually the nurses had to ask my parents to leave. Needless to say, West’s parents still won’t let me in to see him. They don’t think it’s in his best interest. Since when do they care about West’s best interest? They’re acting like devoted parents. They were the ones that made him play soccer. The accident wouldn’t have happened if they’d listened to what he wanted. His mum said that I’ve done enough already, as if I caused this. I blame myself for a lot of things but not the accident.
I need to see him. Even just once. You understand that, don’t you? I know I don’t really deserve it. I pushed him away but I only did it to protect him. I thought I was doing the right thing. I keep thinking about the last time I saw him. It was at the graduation. He said all those things about me but it felt like he was talking to me. There are so many things I never said to West. What if I never get to say them?
Piper
Dear Myrtle,
It’s the first day of STUVAC. Most seniors are at school or at home studying, but I’m still in the ICU waiting room. I’m trying to study but it’s hard to focus, sitting on this hard, plastic chair and knowing that West won’t be starting the exams with us next week.
Indiana turned up a few hours ago. I can’t quite believe that she is the same person who I spent most of the year hating. She sat with me for a while, talking about her exam timetable and how the yearbook is going. She didn’t ask about the cover but I could tell she was thinking about it.
A couple of months ago, I’d asked Jackson to talk to his friend about my graffiti idea for the cover but I didn’t get an answer. Then West and I broke up, and now that he’s fighting for his life, it doesn’t seem important any more. We were supposed to design the cover together . . . and I can’t face it without him.
Indiana also told me that she has started a Get Well, West Facebook page. After she left, I had a look at it. The page is filled with messages from people at the school. Some are touching and some are funny. Reading them made me cry and several people in the waiting room gave me sympathetic looks.
I wonder what they think of me, just sitting here all the time, as if I’m camping out for concert tickets. I’m surprised how many visitors come in and out of ICU. The waiting room is never empty. There are regular visitors, an older man who visits his wife who had a stroke, a young couple who are both really attractive, a middle-aged man who wears fluoro work shirts.
Most of the time they go straight into ICU or wait five or ten minutes. I never go in. Whenever West’s parents come out of those doors they don’t look at me. They don’t even give me any indication of how West is doing. I don’t know if he’s improving or getting worse or neither. I’m really scared he is going to die.
West is too young to die.
How long do smooth-barked apple myrtles live? I know some trees live hundreds of years. They very rarely die before their time. Why can’t people be the same?
All I want now is for him to get better. I would give anything to make that happen. I could live with never seeing him again if it means he gets to live.
Piper
Dear Myrtle,
I’m crying again. Silent tears so no one in the waiting room hears me. All because of these damn Post-it notes I found at the back of my German book. I kept them because they reminded me of how West saw me but now they just make me sad. All the happy memories I had with West are now sad memories. I’m not even the same girl he described. I think I’m being strong by sitting here day after day, but if I was truly strong, I would do something instead of just sitting here. But what can I do?
Piper
It’s still dark when I arrive at school on Friday morning with Tanvi. It’s a lot creepier than I imagined it would be. Most of the buildings are lit up inside, but that just seems to make the rest of the place darker. I relax when I spot Jessica, Celia and Wai waiting for us in the quad. They look unsettled too.
‘How long have you been here?’ asks Celia, glancing around.
‘We just got here,’ answers Tanvi.
Celia hugs herself. ‘I’m sure I saw someone go past ten minutes ago.’
‘Relax,’ says Tanvi. ‘It’s probably just one of the cleaners. Look, the sun is starting to come up. We should get started if we’re going to have it all ready by seven-thirty.’
‘Do you have all the stuff?’ asks Jessica.
‘Piper’s got the Post-it notes and Indiana’s bringing the Sh
arpies. She’s still coming, isn’t she?’
I nod.
‘Indiana? You mean . . .’ Jessica flicks her hair like she is trying to shake off a bug. ‘Indiana?’
‘The whole idea of this is to forget all that and focus on the good in everyone,’ says Tanvi.
‘The hair flick goes a bit more like this,’ says Indiana, seeming to appear out of nowhere. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and her face cracks into a grin. ‘Sorry we’re late. I left home without the Sharpies so I had to go back. I invited Taylor. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Well, actually I invited myself,’ says Taylor with a shrug. ‘I know I’m a bitch. I’ve said things to people I shouldn’t have. So I’m trying to be a better person.’
I look at her closely. She looks exactly the same, right down to the layers of eye make-up that she must’ve started applying at five in the morning. Then I remember one of West’s Post-it notes: You are forgiving. Finally, I nod.
Tanvi empties out the bag onto the table. ‘That’s a lot of Post-it notes,’ says Taylor. ‘Shotgun purple.’
‘So Piper’s idea is that we write something uplifting on each Post-it note and stick them on each locker before everyone arrives for school. Just three words on each square. You are . . .’
‘Smokin’,’ says Jessica. ‘Bangin’. Bootylicious!’
We all laugh.
‘I think Piper was going for words like smart, kind, important.’ Tanvi looks in my direction. ‘Is that right?’
I nod. I’m glad she has taken control. When I told Tanvi my idea, she was straight on it. The other girls were keen too. I don’t know what made me ask Indiana to be a part of it. Maybe it’s because she’s different now. Or maybe it’s because I’m hoping that I can take photos for the yearbook cover, if this works out as I’ve planned in my head.
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