Peeling the Onion (6 page)

An hour later an officer from the insurance company arrives. ('Officer' is right. She looks like a sergeant in some war training comedy. Older than Mum; short and stocky, grey hair chopped short—and the hairiest legs I've ever seen. Also slightly less sense of humour than her briefcase.)

She starts to explain how the system works: long-term assessments, disability percentages, compensation for permanent damage . . . What's it got to do with me? My stomach's in knots just listening to her.

'Why would I have assessments
two years
from now?'

Hairy Legs glares. Just my life, I'm not supposed to speak.

'In my experience,' she pronounces, a fat grey prophet of doom, 'it's best to face facts early. It's my duty to let you know rights and procedures under the Act.' She starts on the spiel again.

'What facts?'

Hairy Legs turns back to the front page of her manila folder. 'Closed head injury, fractured C2'—she gestures at guilty me, caught rednecked with frame, bandage and plaster—' it's not impossible that Anna will be left with some residual difficulties.'

'Mr Osman,' Mum says firmly, 'expects that Anna will be fully recovered in six months. And so do we. Just tell us what we need to know now.'

What we need is forms: multi forms, long and involved, in triplicate. She hands them straight to Mum. Some advantages in being too young to take control.

Insurance, apparently, will cover all my medical and rehabilitation expenses; pay for a tutor if I need one; provide someone to stay at home with me during the day so my mother can go back to her nursery.

A babysitter. Some nice kind person coming to look after poor little Anna!
Inexplicable panic slaps me.

'I'm enjoying the time at home,' Mum puts in quickly, seeing my face.

'It's up to you what you want to accept,' Hairy Legs says. 'A lot of my clients feel they'd rather manage on their own than have too many strangers in their lives.'

Was that a truce? Mum thinks so; she puts the kettle on.

I'm less forgiving. I'm not Road Accident Client number 304; injured-person-with-problem; I'm just
me.
Can't she see that?

Or maybe the panic is just because I haven't had my afternoon rest. Cranky baby; put me to bed before I cry.

Mum thinks I need a treat too. She brings Sally in and puts her on the bed beside me. The cat sniffs suspiciously and promptly jumps off.

'You must still smell of hospital,' Mum apologises.

But Sally's just asserting her right to find her own nap places. As soon as Mum leaves she jumps back on and curls up in her normal place by my left shoulder. Unhygienic, maybe, but comforting.

C
HAPTER
5

C
aroline, Jenny and I: 'The Three Amigos,' Dad teases, waiting for the groan—all part of the ritual.

I can almost believe that life is normal again, gossipping with my two best friends. Apparently the rest of the world didn't stop on the twenty-ninth of January—people are getting on with their lives, and one day I'll rejoin them. Meanwhile there's a lot to catch up on!

Mia's claimed the Canadian exchange student, who's a real spunk but goes feral if anyone thinks he's American. 'So of course Brad calls him a Yank whenever things are getting boring!'

'And Mrs Moore quit last Friday—three weeks into the term and she just walked out!'

'Why?'

'The school's not saying. It's all a bit weird.'

'She must have had a nervous breakdown.'

'After three weeks? Year 7s can't be that bad.'

Mum interrupts to bring us a jug of juice and biscuits. 'You're not getting tired, Anna?' she asks, but I don't
mind
being tired, don't mind being not quite able to follow the banter, it's just so good to sit here and listen to it.

We settle down with our drinks and Jenny picks up where she left off, which is how extra unbearable Chris has been since she was elected school captain.

The juice is quivering in my glass, the shaking worse with holding it so long; better put it down; the coffee table's right in front of me . . .

Juice all over my lap, my legs, the carpet. Jenny runs to the kitchen for a cloth and starts mopping me up. 'Good thing it was apple juice,' she says cheerfully, 'it shouldn't stain like orange. Your shorts are pretty wet, though—do you want to change?'

'I'm right.' I'd rather sit here damp and pretend it didn't happen. Pretend I didn't see the look on Caroline's face as she sat, frozen and embarrassed, totally unable to handle it. Sick and shaky is okay for hospital, but now I'm home I'm supposed to be me—me with broken bones, but not spastic. Caroline likes rules, and I've broken this one.

'Dad,' says Matt, 'if Ben went to obeying school he'd learn not to jump up, wouldn't he?'

'Obedience classes! Well, yes—that's the theory.'

'So can we go?'

'I'll look into it,' Dad promises weakly.

It's the first time I've talked to Hayden on the phone, and it feels so good—so normal—just like any other girl talking to her boyfriend. I tell him about Hairy Legs, trying to pull something funny out of my not-so-exciting life, but he's more interested in exactly what the insurance will pay for. 'Even physio afterwards?'

He's not just being polite—he's actually worried about the price of physio and relieved about insurance.
Should I feel guilty that I've been so focussed on my problems that I've never even thought about their cost? Did he think he ought to pay? Anything I say is going to make it worse
. . . Ask about life at St Pat's.

Much like life at our school, apparently. Someone suspended for smoking in the library. Assignments being handed out thick and fast; lots of lectures on the importance of structuring your time, planning, motivation—and in case no one had noticed—how important this year's marks are for your future. But don't forget to schedule time to play sport and relax.

And just for a minute he's forgotten to feel bad that I'm not even going to school, much less playing sport, and I can play the normal-girl-and-her-boyfriend game again.

Jenny mightn't have much to say about exactly what went on Saturday night but I'm learning a lot more about Costa. He's not only the sexiest, best-looking man alive, he's also incredibly sensitive and intelligent.

'Especially when you think that English is his second language—can you imagine doing VCE in Greek?'

'At the moment I can hardly imagine doing it in English.'

'He speaks Greek at home with his family, and English the rest of the time. Don't you think being bilingual gives people an extra depth in their character . . . am I carrying on?'

'Carrying on like someone in love.'

She looks down; twists her feet around each other like a six-year-old. 'Funny how it's such a scary word when you think you mean it.'

Every Wednesday night our family's hit by a tidying frenzy: dirty clothes to the laundry, newspapers into the magazine rack, Lego in the bucket—if they're not tidied tonight, Mum swears they'll disappear tomorrow. Mrs Hervey, the cleaning ogre, comes on Thursdays.

Mrs Hervey is small and bustly. She gets to our house at nine, after cleaning her own house, cooking her husband's breakfast, packing his lunch, and taking her dog for a walk—using the fresh air before anyone else has a go at it, she says.

'Well, you poor dear!' she exclaims now. 'You don't do things by halves, do you!' She shakes her head, 'tsk, tsking' sadly as she collects spray bottles from under the sink. The tsking gets worse as she checks through the house.

'Looks like I'm in trouble,' Mum whispers, and she's right.

'I thought you were staying home to have some nice time with your daughter—not to clean the house! You've hardly left anything for me!'

'I haven't washed the kitchen floor,' Mum says meekly.

'As if that'll take me three hours! I'll just have to wash your windows.' The glass is rain-spotted and dusty; Mrs Hervey cheers up again.

And this is the tyrant we've been threatened with for two years! I catch Mum's eye. You never know when a bit of blackmail might come in handy.

'If you ever tell the kids . . . I'll put you on Lego duty for the rest of your life!'

Well, it was worth a try. I settle down in the lounge room with my book. Mum's still fussing around.

'I'm just going to dash to the supermarket,' she says finally. 'I've put the answering machine on, so don't rush to the phone if it rings. And I'll tell Mrs Hervey—just ask her if you want anything.'

'Mum, would you go! I'll be fine.'

'I know . . . be careful.'

'I'm reading, Mum. I don't think the book's going to attack me.'

In forty-five minutes she's back.

'I'm still alive!' I shout, before she can ask.

'Sitting up like Jackie,' Mrs Hervey confirms, 'reading her book the whole time you were gone!'

Read all about it! Year 12 student home almost alone.

Reads ten pages in forty-five minutes.

Mum makes coffee and puts out a plate of Anzacs and gingersnaps. Even Mrs Hervey stops for one and a chat.

Mum's going to do weekends at the nursery from now on. She says this way it won't cost much more than when she worked the week and had a reliever for Saturday and Sunday, and Luke comes in to see her most nights after he closes, so she knows exactly how everything's going.

There's something about him—the way he acts as if he's got nothing to prove and doesn't expect that you will either—that makes him an easy person to be with. He doesn't ignore all my bandages and braces, he just acts as if I'm normal anyway; I don't mind him seeing me. 'Do you remember that barbecue at our place?' he asks now. 'Years ago—I must have been about fifteen.'

Can't lie; the blush gives me away. 'I was a bit of a brat then.'

'Actually I saw you more as an instrument of fate, out to destroy my illusions. There I was—I'd had two whole judo lessons and was finally going to make an impression on the world—at least on the other kids at the barbecue. Hadn't counted on a skinny twelve-year-old bringing me down to earth with a bump! Ended my judo career with one swift kick.'

'I didn't
mean
to knock you over! I just didn't have very good control over my kicks yet. Did you really quit judo?'

'Afraid so. I haven't got a great record for sticking at things, have I?'

I don't believe it. Apart from that one morning in hospital, I haven't cried about any of this. Now my eyes are filling up with tears because a guy I hardly know quit judo six years ago. All right, because something I did made him quit.

'You can't take all the credit,' he adds quickly. 'It might have had more to do with Dad leaving us the week after the barbecue. Judo just suddenly didn't seem that relevant.'

Not much to say to that either. Swallow a couple of times; make sure my voice is trustworthy. God, this is ridiculous.

'Anyway, a couple of years ago I discovered Tai Chi. "What about you—did you go on with karate?'

'I'm having a little break at the moment.'

'The cast gives you an unfair advantage?'

That smile again, then Mum's here with the account books and I go back to my room.

My thumb and I are going to see the occupational therapist.

'Do you want to go anywhere while we're out?' Mum asks.

'In my
wheelchair?'

But Mum still feels it's a milestone. My first week anniversary of coming home; first time out somewhere. She bakes a cinnamon cake.

'When you said you'd go out with me—did you really mean it? Like, you'd actually go out in a car with me again when you're better?'

He was here all afternoon but he and Dad ended up watching the cricket and in the ads he just talked about karate. At least now we're alone, separated by nothing but the few kilometres of telephone wire between his lounge room and my parents' bedroom.

'I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't meant it.'

'You know what really gets me? If I hadn't slowed down he might have missed us completely!'

Flashes of images; a collage of movie scenes. The concentration on his face, the competence of his hands on the wheel, details imprinted on my brain. Realising we were wrong; knowing I was going to die.

'Or if I'd passed that truck when I had the chance, we'd have been past that corner before he got there.'

'And if I'd never been born I wouldn't have been in the car at all! Look; it happened—like an act of God or something—you're the Catholic, you work it out. But I still want to go out with you . . . hang on a second.' I'm suddenly so cold that I have to wrap myself in Mum and Dad's doona before I can go on. My teeth are chattering.

Hayden doesn't sound much better. Actually I think he's crying. He says goodnight and hangs up. If I could escape from my cage for just a minute I'd run all the way to his house and hold him, nothing more, simply hug and be close to him. But if I could escape I guess he wouldn't be crying.

Is there some parallel universe where those things did happen? Where a foolhardy Hayden raced the speeding car, flying through the intersection a second ahead of it? Is the Anna of that universe still living in a normal body in a normal world
—
and does she know how lucky she is?

Mr Sandberg drops in again Monday.

'How's the life of leisure?'

'Just what I always wanted,' I say, as my slave brings coffee and biscuits and shoos away two outsize flies.

'And how did you go with the work Jenny brought you?'

No snappy answers for that one.

'Anything specific I can help you with?'

I can't concentrate. Nothing goes in.
I refuse to say that, but can't think of anything else.

'She's not quite up to it yet,' Mum says defensively. 'But you've been reading for English, haven't you, Anna?'

Hope he doesn't ask which book. I've read quite a bit of it—just can't remember the tide.

'Give yourself a break—oh, I see you already have.'

Groan.

'Seriously—you haven't been out of hospital for all that long; we don't need to start worrying about assignments yet. Just relax—tell yourself you're reading for pleasure. Might as well enjoy the lazy life while you can.'