Brett Spender grunted as the carer transferred him to his bed. ‘I want the computer,’ he barked, irritated that his carer was paid until nine o’clock but cheated him of at least fifteen minutes every Friday night.
‘Wouldn’t hurt you to use manners.’ Rosalie straightened both of his legs and tucked him in like she would a child, top sheet up to armpit level. ‘One of those Scary Movies is on tonight. You might actually get a laugh out of it and release some endorphins for a change. Could be just what you need.’
He knew what he needed, and it was not staying home by himself in front of a second-rate comedy.
‘If you want,’ he tried to sound casual, ‘you could stay and watch it here. There should be more spritzers in the fridge and a couple of bags of chips in the cupboard.’
She fussed with the sheet some more and pulled it tighter, despite the fact that he couldn’t have rolled out of the bed even if he’d wanted to.
‘I told my parents I’d stay home with them tonight. They keep complaining I treat the place like a motel since I started working evenings for you. They’ll probably make me watch some depressing SBS documentary with them.’
‘Bullshit!’ Brett hated being patronised and lied to. He felt his blood pressure rise. ‘I’m not blind or stupid. I see how you put your make-up on and you drown yourself in that cheap perfume. You smell like toilet spray. It’s disgusting.’
He saw the muscles on her face tense, and knew he’d cut her down. The truth was, he didn’t want to hurt her. She looked and smelt great. Every time she bent over him he liked to smell the strawberry shampoo in her long, soft hair. The musk perfume she wore on special occasions was subtle, not cheap at all. The only thing wrong was the cherry red lipstick she had trowelled on. When she smiled, it made her teeth look yellow. She must have applied it when she was supposed to be cleaning up after dinner – on his time, not the boyfriend’s.
‘OK, then, if you really want to know, we’re going to dinner in Chinatown then dancing. I’m staying the night with Alfonso.’ She licked her lips. ‘I’ll leave it to your imagination as to what we’ll be doing at his place.’
Since she’d started going out with Alfonso, Rosalie had stopped the long discussions they used to have. She was the first girl Brett had ever really got to know and become friends with, rather than just wanting to have sex. Before the accident, he wouldn’t have looked twice at his carer, but the chubby woman had grown on him. It was just like they say about fat chicks – she had a good personality. Only Brett really meant it with Rosalie. Until Alfonso had changed her – he didn’t like what she had become or how vulgar she had started acting.
‘I pay your salary, remember, so you can afford to go clubbing, drinking and whatever.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say what he resented most. He flicked his head to move the fringe from his eyes by using his neck muscles – the only ones left in his body that still worked. Paying for a haircut was no longer a priority for him, especially since being on his back so much meant he had rubbed a bald spot on the back of his head. ‘I don’t care what you do. I’m thirsty.’
Rosalie straightened and took the plastic cup from the bedside trolley, holding it to Brett’s mouth and placing the straw between his lips.
‘How many nurses have you worn out over the last few months? Three, or was it four?’ She waited for him to finish sipping. ‘Look, nobody wished this on you. It was an accident, but you’re still young and at least you’re in your own place, not withering away in some urine-soaked nursing home.’
Just rotting in here, he thought, totally dependent on cows like you. He jerked his head to dislodge the straw and knocked it out of the cup, his anger welling.
‘Suits you, being able to come and go and piss off early whenever you want. I’ll be docking your pay for this.’
She leant over, giving him a view of her ample cleavage. ‘This whole self-pity routine is wearing pretty bloody thin.’ She spoke softly, as though someone else might be eavesdropping. ‘If you were civil I might stay and watch a movie with you one night. Just don’t expect me to stay and listen to your “woe is me” crap. If you feel better slagging me, go ahead, but what goes around comes around.’
He blew the air out of his mouth in a hiss. His neck arteries began to throb as his anger rose. No one spoke to him like that.
Ignoring him, Rosalie placed the computer mouthpiece to his left, within easy reach when he turned his head. The screen was attached to a metal arm on the side of the bed. Since Brett was incapable of rolling over, there was no chance of him bumping it in the night.
She stood back and sighed. ‘Why do we go through this before every weekend? Listen, if you want someone to live in – company – you can always hire a full-time nurse.’
He did not respond.
She left the room for the ensuite and returned with a cup of fresh water. In silence, she moved the bedside trolley close enough for him to turn his head and reach the straw in the night. She took a cigarette from his packet and lit it with his lighter. He stared at the ceiling as she held it near his mouth.
‘The local church offered to send visitors for company, remember? If you want, I can organise it.’
He inhaled as much smoke as he could but with his respiratory muscles so weak, the effect was minimal. Another of life’s simple pleasures that would never be the same.
‘I’ll be stuffed if happy clappers patronise this cripple.’
‘Have it your own way.’ She checked the catheter bag and turned on the TV suspended from the ceiling to maximise his view, then stood staring at a singing banana in a car ad.
‘At least the Christians are doing something for other people. I don’t see your old friends going out of their way to come and visit.’ Her jeans rubbed together at the inner thighs as she lumbered towards the bedroom door.
‘I’ll see you Monday.’ She paused to flick off the light, the part-smoked cigarette still in her possession. ‘Try to have a good one.’
Brett turned his eyes. He didn’t need pity. Not from anyone. ‘Don’t bother coming back, you fat, ugly bitch,’ he called out. ‘You’re fired. Fuck off. Leave the key on the kitchen bench and get the fuck out.’
He heard her stomping around the kitchen, throwing pans in the sink, and then the front door slammed shut. A few seconds later, the boyfriend’s car screeched off down the road.
Brett was alone. Like he was for most of every day. If it wasn’t for the mouth-operated computer and phone, the outside world might not have existed. He breathed out and in to inhale any residual smoke. Instead, he got the remnants of her perfume. The agency would send someone on Monday to get him out of bed. He’d tell the weekend woman to arrange it. Even better, he could email the agency tonight.
It had been ten months since the diving accident that had shattered his world. When the compensation settlement cleared, his mates were happy to come around and drink more than their share of the profits. Now they all had excuses. Truth was, they were too busy working and having fun to visit anymore. His mother – a real piece of work – had an official stance for her absenteeism. It broke her heart to see her youngest son like that. In other words, even she had better things to do than nursemaid a grown child and wipe his dirty backside.
On the TV, a repeat of My Name is Earl had begun. Brett used his chin to hit the volume on the remote. Earl always went on about karma. How doing bad things made bad things happen to you. Brett thought about a Dr Phil episode about creating your own destiny. Oprah and Dr Phil had both made a fortune telling other people how to do it. Maybe that was what good karma meant. You boss people around and make a financial killing.
Brett wondered what he had done to deserve his fate. Six of them dived into the water that day, but only he had ended up in a wheelchair. He thought about his friends and the fun they’d had on holidays, especially that last one. Girls would line up to get laid by them, more often than not. Half the time, they didn’t even tell you their names. That’s what holidays were for. Good mates, lots of alcohol, drugs and great sex.
Brett closed his eyes and wondered if that was the bad karma bit. Activating the computer to his left with the mouth-rod, he sent messages to everyone on his address list – dozens of them – explaining that maybe Earl had a point. Bad karma had to be changed. Otherwise, life wasn’t worth living. A few minutes later the rod hit the send button. Then he emailed the agency.
Brett woke to the aroma of hot chips, his all-time favourite. The food you could have anywhere. At the pub, the football, or after a big night out. So long as you worked it off later at the gym. Saliva trickled from his mouth onto the pillow.
A black and white movie was on TV but the room remained dark. Rosalie must have come back to smooth things over with a late-night snack. Maybe she and her boyfriend had busted up. Truth was, he wanted her back, fat arse and all. It wasn’t the first time they had argued and she showed up hours later as though nothing had been said. That’s one of the reasons he liked her. She was never too proud to come back. He knew she needed the work so he would accept the apology this time, and give her a warning about rudeness. The first bit of good karma.
When she didn’t appear in the room, he called out to her, ‘Apology accepted.’
No answer. He turned down the sound on the TV with his chin and listened. Nothing. The cow hadn’t come back at all. Ungrateful bitch. He wondered if she was the one bringing bad karma. He closed his eyes. His imagination had to be playing tricks. He drifted into that weird place where the past and what could have been merge, still salivating at the thought of food. He remembered when every muscle worked and things were the way they should have been. He had been fit, easy on the eye, and always had at least one girlfriend. And the sex was unreal. A bit of Viagra and he could come as often as he liked.
Women wanted him and he knew how to make the most of it. A couple of drinks and they couldn’t wait to get their knickers off. Sometimes it took a little more to get them in the sack, but it was always a cheap root. Why would you pay a prostitute when almost every woman you met gave it away for virtually nothing? Hell, sometimes they even paid for the drinks. His face relaxed into a smile. The memories were almost as good as being there. Except that now his body felt nothing.
Somewhere there had to have been bad karma. One dive off that jetty and his life was over. He wished he’d died in the accident, not been saved from drowning only to slowly wither away. Muscles were no good to him now. Atrophy, flab and fat were all that remained.
What good was sex if you couldn’t feel anything? And who’d want to have sex with him now? The only women who came near him were absolute dogs. But he really did like Rosalie.
If he was honest, he wouldn’t have looked twice at himself either. He thought about the times he’d made fun of the cripples at the local special school. The spastics and the brain damaged, wheeled along each day. The sight of them made him sick as a kid. Truth was, he was probably a little scared of them, the way they couldn’t control their heads or the way their hands curled freakishly near their shoulders. He could not understand how a parent could love them. His mother explained: ‘No one else will take them or wants them.’ Karma, he thought, grimacing. How did he get to be such a dickhead? Then again, everyone at school was like him – at least all his mates. Or were they?
His head jerked forward with the crashing sound. The TV flickered before he was left in complete blackness. Then he smelt the smoke. He forced out a cough and tried to rub his face against the pillowslip.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, then struggled to catch his breath.
Another crash and this time blistering heat hit the side of his face closest to the door. Within seconds, orange and black engulfed the corridor outside his room. He realised what was happening.
‘Help me!’ The air was thick and claustrophobic and muffled his voice. ‘Anybody!’
He willed his legs to move but they ignored his desperate pleas. Nothing from his arms, either. Fucking nothing.
‘Help!’ his voice slurred.
Sweat poured from his face and the flames disappeared behind a sheet of blackness. He tried to reach his computer but his chin could not find it. Each breath became more laboured.
For the first time, he was grateful that his body was completely numb.
Karma.