Peeling the Onion (16 page)

'Come on,' she croons, stroking gently, soothingly; 'come on, you'll be all right.'

And I know I'm here on my bed with my mother comforting me, but now I'm somewhere else as well... 'I'm choking!'

'How do you mean?' Mum asks, gently massaging my left shoulder.

'I'm choking! Like I can't swallow.'

She goes on rubbing quietly. 'Just feel it,' she says. 'It might help.'

'It's the seat belt,' I say, and now I can see the me that isn't in my bedroom, the me that's strapped into the seat and the people running around outside the car, panicky. Hayden is there, and another man, white-faced, the man I've just seen. They're rocking the car, 'with a jemmy,' I tell her, 'trying to get the door off,' and as the pitching gets more violent I grab the side of the bed so I don't roll off it and Mum tells me to stay with it, it'll be okay.

Then the rocking stops, changes to a spiralling inside my head, as if my brain is a two-dimensional disc, a frisbee spinning inside my body. And the body in the car is floppy—

'Floppy?' Mum asks.

'The stuffing's come out.' Now I see the black tube leading from the floppy body up out through the car roof and I'm slipping into it.

'Mum, I don't want to die!' But I go on up the black tube; it's tight, squeezy and I don't belong in it. 'I don't want to be here!' Now the body is gone; dissolved into a formless black mass, and all of me is in the tunnel.

'I'm not supposed to be here,' I repeat.

'Where do you want to be?'

'With the people. Outside the car. With Hayden.' Another fear. My body's losing control; I'm going to wet my pants, oh God, worse, please no. Please not that.

Mum's voice is an anchor, a reminder that the story's already happened and that it had a happy ending. 'What's happening now?'

I can't answer. I'm still in the tube. I'm nearly at the end, I can see the light ahead—brilliant, brighter than sunshine, clear and golden—and my head is ready to pop out of the tunnel and into its glow . . . Suddenly I'm slipping down, like a rush of water released from a dam, a relief that's so sweet it tears at my insides. 'I'm going back into the body . . . I'm there.'

And I know that this is the point where the nightmares begin, the clawing through unconsciousness, fighting the blackness that threatens to swallow me—the blackness that's death. But I don't have to go through that again—I'm back on my own bed with Mum beside me and her arms around me.

I'm shaking, shaking all over, so hard the bed is trembling too, my heels drumming a tune of fear on the bedspread. 'Oh my baby,' Mum says, 'it's okay, you're okay.' She covers me with a blanket, rubs my hands and feet, and cuddles me. She's crying and shaking a little too.

C
HAPTER
13

I
don't know why I made up something like that!' 'You know perfectly well you did
not
make that up! Something happened to you that was just too much—no wonder you didn't want to remember! But I guess it's been niggling away at the back of your mind, and when you saw Trevor Jones you couldn't hold it back any longer.'

'Maybe.' I'm still crying, just the occasional tear, it's okay. 'How do you know so much about it?'

'I read the books Lynda lent you,' she says dryly. 'As well as a fair bit of thinking—and talking to Laura.'

'Did you know she was seeing Trevor Jones?'

'No! She keeps everything completely confidential. Just a coincidence that we both chose her.'

'Do you think I'll have to go through that again if something else reminds me?'

'Not from what I've read. The theory is that now you know what your subconscious has been dealing with, you can do what you like with it.'

Do what I like with it.
It's a funny way to look at dying, even a mini-dying, but it's good.

'Mum—if the doctors are right I'm never going to be fit enough to do karate again. Or teach phys ed.'

She wipes away tears, flicking them abstractedly across her cheeks with a finger. 'I know.'

'You don't think I'm giving up—letting you down?'

The tears are too strong now to be wiped with one finger. 'Letting us down! Darling, we're
proud
of the way you've fought this, this terrible thing that we'd have given anything—anything at all—for you not to have gone through. But now . . . it's not giving up, it's confronting the truth . . . and right now that's not only the most courageous thing, it's the
only
way you're going to move ahead.'

'I really liked karate, Mum.'

'I know. And maybe nothing will ever take its place. But the real waste would be to be so fixated on karate that you never tried anything else that you
could
manage.'

'There'll never be anything that's the challenge karate was.'

'I think your life is enough of a challenge—a more restful hobby mightn't be all bad!'

I smile at that. Mum's still crying. 'At least Mario came up with the perfect job—growing my hair for wigs!' I must still be crying too because now I'm laughing and it sounds hysterical. 'Good thing you've got a year to come up with something better.'

She sits a while longer, her hand on my shoulder, till we've both blown our noses a few times and the tears have stopped.

'I guess I should go. Luke will be wondering what's happened to me.'

'He won't mind. Luke's good.'

'He is. I'm glad you've noticed.'

The memory of that kiss is suddenly so strong that I know I'll blush if I ask her what she means. I put it away to think about when I'm alone.

She's hesitating; there's something important she wants to say. 'That promise you made me . . . now that you know how hard you fought to stay alive, aren't you glad you didn't waste it?'

She's right. The worst of this whole thing has been the total powerlessness, being controlled by my broken body—its pain, its X-rays, diagnoses and bad news doctors. But I was the one who decided to stay alive. And if I won that fight, losing some of the smaller ones doesn't seem so bad. Throwing in the big one now would have been really stupid.

Mum drags Dad out for a long walk as soon as he gets home, sneaking out without dog and kids. I guess this afternoon was a bit heavy for her too.

And for Dad, once he's heard it all. He's very quiet and looks pale, goes straight from the garden to his office and shuts himself in for an hour, reappearing suddenly to give me a hug. 'Thanks for coming back,' he says.

'Wow!' Jenny exclaims. 'That's creepy.'

My throat is dry. It hasn't been an easy phone call, even to her.

'And you could see what was happening around the car?'

'Not while I was actually in the tunnel—then I was just concentrating on not wanting to be there. But before . . . I know how strange it sounds, Jen, but I could see the people running around outside, looking in the windows—and I hated them staring at the poor body when there was nothing she could do about it.'

'Why do you keep saying "the body" ? It was you, wasn't it?'

'I guess so . . . it was my body, but it wasn't me. I wasn't in it.'

'I'm just trying to think what you'd be saying if something like this had happened to me.'

'Okay; I'd try to get you to be logical and work out a scientific explanation—but I don't want that now. It's just
there
—I don't need it explained.'

'When you were in the tunnel and said you were supposed to be with Hayden—do you think that's why you're so determined to stick with him?'

'Maybe. It's a pretty powerful sign, isn't it?'

'Powerful sign, bull! You say you'd rather be down on the ground with Hayden than go on up the tunnel and die! It wasn't exactly a win-win situation!'

'You think I was just talking about being outside the car?

Like I was saying, "I'm supposed to be alive, like everybody else" ?'

'I think if you'd had the dog and cat with you, you'd have said, "I'm supposed to be with Ben and Sally." Think about it.'

So much to think about. I think I've reached the bottom of Laura's chasm—and I've survived. Maybe that was the miracle I was looking for.

I'm even starting to believe the other thing she said—that once I reached the bottom I could start climbing up again. That I was going to make it.

I'd really love to know what Luke thinks about all this.

But a truckload of potting mix arrives at the nursery just as English finishes, so Luke's in a rush to drop me off and sort it out. And Mum wants to be home on my birthday so she's swapped him tomorrow for next Wednesday . . . I won't see him till Monday.

Right now it seems a long time away.

Stuff the potting mix!

'Wine science,' I tell Hayden, dropping the careers handbook as he comes in. 'That wouldn't be bad. I could taste as much as I liked because everyone always thinks I'm drunk anyway.'

But Hayden's wearing his solemn face and my joke doesn't crack it. 'I've been thinking about it too.'

'Wine tasting?'

'Anna, I'm trying to be serious! About next year . . . If you're still going to be in school, I don't know if I should go to Melbourne. I was thinking maybe I should stay here.'

'I thought Yarralong TAFE didn't offer surveying!'

He shrugs. 'I could get a job.'

'Like what? And why? Your marks are okay.'

'Why do you think? Because of you. I want to be here ...'
Why aren't I feeling mushy? Why isn't this the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me?

'... to look after you.'

Waves of panic and claustrophobia wash over me—
that's why!
I've just started to sort myself out, I can't deal with this right now. I need some space, some time!

A hyperactive eight-year-old charges between us and out to the garden, whirling a collar and leash over his head. 'Ben! Let's practise for school!'

In one second flat, Ben's gone from a peacefully curled-up shape on the back verandah to a whirl of shrilly barking excitement tearing round and round the garden. Every few laps he pauses to lick Matt's hand and his leash before dashing off again.

'The teacher says he's very good,' Matt says proudly. 'He's all the way through Level 1 already!'

'Level 1 must be enthusiasm,' I whisper. Hayden laughs at that, and by the time the noise calms down he has to go. He checks what time we're going out for dinner tomorrow, says he has some shopping to do and leaves.

My panic's gone too, but the vague uneasiness stays. No more excuses; Jenny's right—I have to think about this relationship and why I want it so badly.

The familiar images crowd into my mind; Hayden and me at training—watching him watching me; that last tournament, the incredible feeling of winning, of being a
winner;
Hayden cheering for me; kissing me . . . If you had to choose one moment for your life to be stuck on, that would be mine.

Isn't that exactly what you're doing?
asks a nasty little voice.

But that's not all we have. We're more than one kiss, one incredible day. It's Hayden I'm in love with, not being a winner.

It is?

I'm starting to feel panicky again, but I've got to think this through. And push away the thought of Luke, of that other kiss. Sort out one thing at a time.

'Can I go to Vinita's after Anna's opened her presents tomorrow?' Bronny asks.

'Don't see why not,' Dad says, but we're all a bit surprised. The two of them normally spend Saturdays lying in wait for Hayden and thinking up witty things to say that will make him notice them.

Mum's quicker than I am. 'And how's Rajiv settling in?'

she asks.

Bronwyn giggles.

Looks like Hoyden's been dumped!

Lynda phones in the evening to say an early happy birthday.

'I've got some news too,' she says. 'I'm changing jobs.

Guess where I'm going!'

'Health food shop?'

She laughs. 'I thought about it! You know how frustrated I get with conventional medicine. But in the end I figured that's what I know about . . . so I'm going to be part of a medical team setting up a new hospital in—your dad's going to freak out!—Mozambique. Their health services were pretty well destroyed during the war, and now they're trying to get things running again. And it's incredibly beautiful—tropical beaches, coconut palms ...'

'That's fantastic! When do you go?'

'January. Now hand me over to my dear conventional brother. I'm not sure he'll agree with "fantastic".'

But Dad surprises us. He says of course he'll worry and he doesn't believe one word about her being sensible. He also says it's her life and he can understand that she wants to accomplish something in it. 'Good for you, Lynda,' he says. 'Get out there and do it.'

Wake up this morning and I'm an adult! A grown-up. One day older and I'm old enough to vote, drink, drive and sign my own disclaimers.

Mum and Dad are clearly worried that I might crack—the reminder that the best of my life is over instead of beginning might send me back down into that black hole of gloom.

But I've had enough of cracking—there's only so much falling apart you can take before you have to start putting it all back together again. And I know exacdy how I have to start.

Or I could wait till tomorrow and not spoil my birthday.

Chicken!
It's the best present I could give myself. Do it and get it over with, so we can all get on with our lives.

Bronwyn, carrying the cat, is sneaking into my room, inching the door open to see if I'm awake.
(She doesn't seem to have any bandages on! Something's worked for her
—
maybe it will for me too.)
'Sally wants to say happy birthday.'

They both snuggle in with me. Matt follows a second later, bouncing, wiggling . . . . time to get up.

The kitchen table's full of presents, flowers and cards—aunts, uncles and friends, everyone's remembered this year. I'm not sure if it's just because it's my eighteenth, or if it's a way of saying they're glad I stuck around for my birthday.

Why do people say 'when I get old' and 'if I die'? Don't they know it's the other way around?

A beautiful jumper from Mum and Dad. Body Shop bath oil from Bronwyn (sounds like a B sentence from 'Sesame Street'), a nailbrush shaped like a pig from Matt, an aromatherapy kit from Lynda, a heap of twenty- or fifty-dollar notes from other aunts and uncles and Nan and Pop. (None of them have heard of not sending cash in the mail.) Nothing from Oma and Opa—they must have spent their money on phone calls, talking to Mum for so long that she complained her throat hurt from speaking so much Dutch.