Peeling the Onion (5 page)

Teatime now—feels like midnight—fried rice, my favourite. I drop my fork. It's barely hit the tiles before Matt and Bronny are out of their chairs and under the table, cracking heads in the race to pick it up.

'Relax, you two,' Dad tells them. 'You'll have lots of chances to help her.'

'I'm not going to need help for that long!'

I shouldn't have snapped. My first night home; everyone's trying so hard. Too hard.

You'd think it'd be easier having your mum undress you than a stranger. You'd be wrong. Mum's getting me ready for bed. I have a go at my shirt buttons but my good hand has the shakes; she has to do it all, shirt, shorts and knickers. She's as embarrassed as I am, drawing her breath in sharply as she strips off my shirt. Then it's nightie on, unclip the frame, slip on the collar, take off the frame, lie me down, hoist my legs in, and do up the nightgown once I'm safe on my back.

I don't know if I can do this. Matt's not the only one who thought I'd be better once I got home; part of me must still believe in magic and thought that getting out of hospital would be an Abracadabra. No drum roll or fireworks
—
just a tiny little miracle, that's all I wanted.

And I'm warning you, God, I still feel the same way
—
you're not going to cheat me again. I'm going to be better faster than anyone you've ever seen. Beating an injury is just a question of how determined you are, and I'm determined. Six months is plenty
—
I'm not turning eighteen like this. That's a threat, God, or a promise; take it however you like.

Trapped in the blackness again. Suffocating, choking; motionless struggles; screams that take forever to wake me. The lingering terror, my pulse hammering.

'Sleep well?'

'Okay, thanks.'

I'm sitting on the end of my bed, stark naked except for the frame; Mum's kneeling in front of me, trying to stick my fat foot through my knickers. Everyone else has gone to school and work.

The mirror in my bedroom is full length. It's watched me practise karate; inspected me with new clothes and none. Sometimes I even liked what it saw—like the morning of the tournament, the day it happened. I'd been doing warm-ups in my underwear, my hair still loose from the shower: stretch and flex, swivel and kick, boot the butterflies right out of my stomach. I jumped and spun, and just for an instant I saw a stranger in the mirror, the sun touching her hair with gold, her body sexy and strong . . .

'Spectacular,' Mum says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. So she wasn't embarrassed last night; just amazed.

My breasts are mottled yellow and black. Can you get gangrene in boobs? Not that there's much left to drop off—nearly as flat as when I was thirteen. I think the mirror needs a poster over it again.

The district nurse bounces in just as Mum and I are about to start our sandwiches, and doesn't seem to think it's bizarre to walk into a stranger's house at lunchtime and ask her to strip.

Does she ever get mixed up when she goes out to dinner, and rush her friends into the bathroom?

My scaffolding doesn't faze her. 'Just wrap you up like the Christmas turkey,' she says, covering every bit that's not me in cling wrap and garbage bags. She soaps, shampoos, conditions; the hot water runs luxuriously over my neck and shoulders. I won't complain again about stripping at lunch-time.

A knock on the front door. I'm alone in the lounge room doing thumb aerobics—wiggle, wiggle, up-down, up-down—it'll be fit even if nothing else is.

Another knock . . .
I'm not going to the door looking like this
. . . where
is
everyone? Damn! I'll have to do it—maybe it's Jen.

It's a guy. About twenty; not especially tall but lean and fit; arms and legs tanned under the T-shirt and shorts, brown feet in his sandals. Long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a gold stud in one ear—Dad won't be crazy about this. It's Luke, Mum's reliever.

I wait for the usual shocked look, the eyes wandering to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but me—but it doesn't happen. Luke looks straight at me as he introduces himself. 'Heard you've had a rough time,' he says.

'I've had better.'

'I just came to tell your mum how everything's going. I haven't killed any plants, even sold a couple . . . and I got her a great deal on a truckload of garden gnomes.'

'You're kidding!'

'Yeah.'

He's got a way of looking down when he smiles, with a grin that flashes in fast and is gone, then just his eyes checking to see if you got it (blue eyes; surprisingly blue for the dark hair). I can see why Mum likes him.

'Matt, I'll kill you if you don't stop bouncing my bed!'

I open my eyes. The bouncing stops. The little brat is nowhere to be seen. Close my eyes; try to go back to sleep; the rocking starts. He stops again as soon as I open my eyes and shout.

'Matt, I'm warning you—get out from under my bed!'

Mum, Dad and Bronwyn stream into my room—followed by a bleary-eyed Matt.

It's the noise in my ears that's rocking the bed. Open my eyes, and the room is still. Shut them, and I'm on a stormy sea. It'd be funny if I didn't feel so seasick.

'You didn't tell us you had ringing in your ears!' Mum accuses.

'It's only bad when everything's quiet. I didn't think it was important. Sorry, Matt.'

He climbs onto the bed beside me to get a look at my ear. 'I still can't see your earrings!'

'You explain that one, Anna,' Mum says. 'I'm going to make pancakes for breakfast.'

Dad heads back to bed and Mum to the kitchen. She baked a mountain of slices and biscuits yesterday; if she doesn't watch out she'll turn into a regular
Women's Weekly
mother. And we'll turn into a family of hippos.

There could be worse fates. I'm just squeezing the lemon over my third pancake when the phone rings.

'Guess who called last night?'

Only one person could have Jenny out of bed this early on a Saturday morning. 'Brad Pitt?'

'Costa, you idiot! We're going to a movie—tonight!'

'What's on?'

'Us, I hope!'

'Subtle, Jen. What about the movie?'

'Who cares? What am I going to wear? God, Anna, I wish you could come over and help me choose!'

A quick calculation: four steps to the front door, more at the back, a brother who'd stare and a mother who'd fuss
—
I don't think I could face it even if I could get there.
'Bring some of your gear over here to try; maybe you could borrow something of mine . . . what about my new skirt?'

'If I lose a kilo an hour and borrow your legs.'

'You want them, they're yours!'

'Sorry, I forgot. Okay, great, I'll come over.'

She arrives an hour later with her backpack bulging, and spreads her clothes across the bed. She tries on my mini-skirt, the one we bought at the sales the week before the accident, the one she flattered me into, and even if I never have the nerve again it was fun to wear it once. Jenny calls herself Elephant Legs but that's a lie, the skirt doesn't look bad at all—but it comes to a choice between doing it up and breathing, and in the end breathing wins.

'What about my white top with your long skirt?'

The top's clingy, and Jenny's got a good shape to cling to; it's lower on her than on me. She looks gorgeous. Sexy.

'Is it okay?'

'He'll go crazy.'

'Wish you and Hayden could come too.'

'You'll probably figure out something to do without us. Just ring me tomorrow and tell me what it was.'

But when she phones she doesn't really have much to say at all. Quiet and dreamy, barely giggles. I thought love was supposed to be fun, but Jenny's been hit by a sledgehammer. 'I'll bring your top back Monday,' she says. 'I'll tell you all about it then. But it was a good night; the best.'

There are some things you don't need to share even with your best friend. So I ask about the movie—though she doesn't seem to remember much about the storyline; trying not to be jealous; trying not to wonder exactly what turns good into best and if there's some light-years-away future where Hayden and I will have a night like that.

We're in the lounge room with my whole family. Very intimate. Mum's made coffee and handed around a few of the eight dozen biscuits; Bronwyn and Vinita are twirling across the room in their pink ballet leotards, shrieking if anyone looks at them.

Matt wants to know if Hayden's car is fixed yet.

'There wasn't enough left to fix. We're getting a new one as soon as the insurance coughs up.'

'So where's your car now?' Matt demands.

'Actually it was my mum's car . . . it's at the wreckers.'

'Can I go see it?'

'I think you can go play outside,' Dad decides, shooing him towards the door. 'Bronny, you too. Let Anna talk to her friend by herself.' Apparently he and Mum are going to play in the garden too.

Hayden picks up his coffee mug; puts it down without drinking any. 'Your parents are pretty cool—I didn't know if they'd want me hanging around.'

'They probably figure we can't get up to much at the moment.'

'They might be right.' The way he's looking at me is not romantic. I shouldn't have reminded him. 'Do you feel any better now you're home?'

'At least I can sleep! Showers are still weird though.' I tell him my theory about the district nurse stripping her friends when she drops in for coffee. He looks embarrassed, as if he's not quite sure whether or not I'm trying to be funny.

This is such an awful way to get to know each other! Driving to Melbourne for the tournament is the only time we've ever spent together outside the karate hall.

'So what's been happening at karate?'

'Thursday was classic—Sempi Ross was demonstrating a sweep kick—only problem was he swept so hard his other foot shot out from under him and he landed on his bum. Of course for anyone else the whole dojo would have cracked up—but you know Sempi Ross.'

'He wasn't happy?'

'Not much. We really paid for it. We were practising blocking a hit to the ribs; Josh and I were really going well—you know when you get a rhythm up, you know you're doing it right and it feels great ...'

What I wouldn't give to feel that now!

'But he kept us going so long we totally lost it. In the end we were just taking turns punching each other in the guts. I thought I'd broken a rib.'

'That was bright. What did Sensai say?'

'You know: "Technique, boys, technique!"'

It's a good imitation. I laugh more than he did at my district nurse joke.

Dad's brandishing the remains of the grandiose flower arrangement Gran and Pop sent me.

'What are Anna's flowers doing on Ben's bed?' 'I wanted to make it nice for Ben, since you won't let him inside any more!'

Dad softens back into the happy family mode he's been working at so hard all weekend. 'You know Ben can't remember not to jump up. He'd really hurt Anna if he knocked her over right now.'

'He could learn not to!'

Matt still believes in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy and the intelligence of his dog.

As well as gossip and froth, Jenny and Caroline brought books to the hospital and tried to tell me what they'd done in class. But the hospital was too loud, too busy; the hard facts of chemistry and maths bounced off the smooth walls. A novel for English was easier to hide behind, but not much more went in.

Now that I'm home, I tell myself—and my parents—I'll start studying seriously. And I try very hard; I don't want to admit that even without the interruptions, I can't remember the characters' names so I have to keep checking who they all are—then I lose my place and can't be bothered going on.

Monday afternoon Mr Sandberg—chemistry and home room—comes to see me. 'Well, this
is
a pain in the neck!' (He's also the absolute cliche-and-corny-joke king. Even worse than my dad.)

I groan, Mum makes coffee, and Mr Sandberg gets serious. Since it doesn't look as if I'll be back at school very soon, he says, we need to apply for 'deferment of assessments' to later in the year. But as long as I cover all the dot points, I won't need to do every bit of mundane work. There shouldn't be any problem in catching up.

'Especially if you switch the subjects that are heavy on pracs to something more theoretical. What are you aiming for?'

'Phys ed. Phys ed teacher.'

He pulls a face. 'Trust you not to make it easy!'

'Couldn't I do the written requirements now and catch up on the physical in second semester?'

He thinks we should be able to work something out. But chemistry pracs are impossible. 'You could switch to psychology—you're lucky it's early enough in the year that we've got these options.'

I don't want to do psychology! Life's too short to waste on waffle and soul-searching
—
get out there and get on with it, that's my philosophy!

But I don't have much choice—chemistry goes; we fiddle and trim. 'What about a tutor?' Mum asks.

'Let's wait and see. You're bright, Anna—and I've always had the feeling you've never worked quite as hard as you could. In a terrible way this could even be good for you—sometimes it takes trauma to show us what we're capable of when we really pull out all the stops.'

Lucky again.

Being so lucky drives me crazy.

Even in Casualty they said it: lucky the cut didn't get my eye; lucky the poke on the chin didn't knock out my teeth; and of course, breaking my neck has left me so lucky lucky lucky that I should sing like a lotto ad.

Bronwyn still smells like a human vaporiser. Dad takes her to the doctor while Mr Sandberg's visiting Mum and me. She returns looking smug.

'I
have to gargle with salt water!' She dumps a spoonful of salt into a glass and disappears to the bathroom. Martyred coughs and gurgles trickle down the hall.

'There's nothing wrong with her throat,' Dad says. 'The doctor thought this might convince her of it.'

Next morning Bronwyn heads off to school with a scarf wrapped around her neck. 'It makes my throat feel better,' she says.

I don't think I need my new psychology text to work this one out. But Bronwyn's my parents' problem; I've got enough of my own.