Peeling the Onion (18 page)

'So what's the worst that can happen?' Luke wants to know.

I hadn't thought about it so concretely. 'Just going and not being able to do anything that I wanted . . . or being sick on the plane. If I'm so dizzy I can hardly stand after driving to Melbourne, how am I going to be with a thirty-six-hour flight after that?'

'You could always use a wheelchair.'

'A wheelchair! This was supposed to be my dream cycling trip, and you tell me I can go in a
wheelchair?

'You know what I think the very worst would be? If you didn't go at all—if you were so scared of not managing perfectly that you didn't try. I never thought you'd let this thing beat you like that!'

'I'm not letting it beat me!' My coffee cup shatters in the sink, brown stains spraying across the tiles; Luke's sucking a splash off his wrist. I can't even remember throwing it.

He's put his own cup down—more gently than I did—and his arms are around me; I didn't know I was crying, but I am; he's telling me to stop, it's okay. 'I just meant,' he says, 'that if that was the worst thing, it'd still be better than not going. And you
are
getting stronger, if you went after school next year, you might manage fine.'

'I won't be cycling, though.'

'Doesn't sound like it. Lousy weather for cycling anyway, Holland in December.' And then we're on the couch again—
seems like there are some things you can do every day and never get bored
—and plane trips and falling over disappear right out of my mind.

'And I could go with you,' he says suddenly, coming up for air.

'To push my wheelchair?' I tease, leaning back in the circle of his arms, precarious and safe, tracing the line of his mouth with my finger for no reason other than that suddenly, amazingly, I have the right to do it.

'If that's all you want.'

Mia calls out something as I'm leaving after English; I forget the rule about not doing two things at once, turn to answer—and crash to the ground.
I never used to think that turning your head and walking were two separate activities!
My kneecaps feel as if they've cracked, and my right wrist throbs.

'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.