The beginning of independence. I wake up as excited as Matt at Christmas—today's the day I get out of bed all by myself, nothing on my neck but the foam bedtime collar. Walk to the mirror. My head doesn't fall off.
'Decrease the frame gradually,' Mr Osman said yesterday. 'In a month you should be wearing the collar all the time.'
I'm in the shower. All alone; nobody helping, nobody watching; I can even sing if I want! My plastic bag leaks, the collar's soggy and my neck's ready for a rest by the time I'm dry, but I don't care. The district nurse has just been fired.
Even my toast tastes better when my jaw's not propped up by metal struts.
'But I'm used to you with it on,' Matthew objects. 'This one looks stupid.'
Dad's sister Lynda's come up from Melbourne this week. 'I love March up here; you feel like you want to get out there and grab the last bit of summer! Do you people realise how lucky you are, having the river right at your back gate?'
'That's why we bought it,' Dad says dryly.
What wouldn't I give to go with her, to scramble through the undergrowth to the path, climb over the enormous bleached log whose top branches stretch far enough over the river that you can climb out and jump straight in to swim . . .
But I can only just make it across the back yard without falling.
Which Lynda hasn't taken long to spot. That's the problem with having a nurse in the house for a few days—lots of time for her to sit and observe.
'You're dizzy, aren't you?'
'Not that bad. You get used to it.'
'You keep pretending you've just got out of Luna Park? God, Anna, you must be mad as hell about all this! How do you cope with it?
'I try not to think about it.'
'Great idea—repress it all and give yourself cancer! Sorry, kid, but you'll have to look at it eventually. I'll leave you a few books that might help.'
I've phoned Caroline and she's coming over. So simple—I don't know why I wasted time being tense.
Because now that she's here, she's smiling, laughing, chattering. I'm looking a lot better now, must be great to have that plaster off; have I heard that the Year 10 boys all shaved their heads to go on camp? Look like dags, can you believe it? And she's trying out for the production of Oliver; thinks she's got a good chance of getting the part of Nancy. It's a fair commitment, but she's sure she can handle it without letting her grades drop.
'Though they don't slack off the work requirements or give you any special help if you've got in-school commitments, not like when you're having a sickie.'
It slides in and out like a knife; slipped in so sweetly, in the same breath with the gossip, that it takes me a moment to feel the sting. The savagery.
I'm numb. I don't think I can speak—but as she leaves I hear my automatic, 'See you later.'
Caroline pulls out her school diary and flips through it; the mask has slipped, she's frantic, panicky—'I don't know what I'm doing next week.'
So am I supposed to make an appointment?
But now I know for sure—the viciousness wasn't a slip of the tongue. She hates me.
She was my friend. A friend who shared secrets; who brought me flowers; who wiped the blood from my legs.
I always knew that if I ever started to cry I'd never be able to stop, and now I've started and it's true, there's so much sadness, so much misery inside me and it won't stop till there's nothing left of me. These tears aren't coming from my eyes, they're pouring out of my soul, out of every bit of my body, my blood and my muscles and right down to my bone marrow where the deepest, harshest grief has been buried. I didn't think I could feel like this and still live, but the misery, the tears, and the terrible wailing noise keep on going, and I think maybe this is what hell is, to know that your life is out of control and there's nothing you can do about it.
Ben's howling outside in echo; Matt and Bronny are peering round my door, Bronny clutching Sally so tightly that the cat's yowling too—I know I'm scaring them, but the misery is stronger than I am.
'I just didn't want this to happen! I didn't want it to happen.'
'No one did,' Mum says, shooing the kids away. 'Anna needs to cry,' she tells them. 'It'll be good for her.'
She's wrong. Feeling this terrible can't be good for anyone—I hate crying, and I'm not going to do it again.
You can't open a paper or turn on the TV without hearing about euthanasia. The whole world's obsessed with it. And everyone's so adamant, whichever side they're on! They're all so sure they'd rather be dead than disabled—or just as convinced that God meant the person to suffer through and learn something. (Learn what? If God's so smart can't he work out a better way to teach? And how much pain is too much; how do you decide?)
One thing I know—if I was going to have this much pain, this many restrictions every day of my life, I'd be on the first bus to the Northern Territory.
I'm afraid to tell Jenny about Caroline. I don't know what I'm guilty of, but I feel so ashamed—and scared. Maybe Jenny will drop me too.
Good to be wrong occasionally.
Her eyes are watering; her face is pink and set with rage. 'How can she be like that?' she keeps repeating. 'God, I feel bad enough that my life is so great when yours is so shitty! How can she make it worse?’
'Maybe she thinks I'm getting too much attention . . . I should tell her I could do without it!'
She hesitates, wheels turning—you can always tell when Jenny's trying to decide whether or not to say something. 'She's talked once or twice about how much money people make when they have an accident—from suing the other driver.'
My throat's so dry I can hardly speak. 'But that's only if you're permanently disabled and'—the tears squeak through my voice—'there's no money on earth that could make that worthwhile.'
'That's what I told her! Look—if she's acting like this she wasn't ever a real friend anyway; at least now we know what she's like.'
But Jenny's wrong. You can't throw away five years like that. Thinking that she was never my friend is even worse.
I hope Jenny will forget about going out on Saturday, but no such luck. She says she'll ring Hayden herself if I don't ask him—but I called him last time.
It's Friday night when he finally phones. 'What've you been up to?'
Physio, doctor, being dumped by a friend . . . 'Not much. Listen—instead of sticking around the house all weekend, do you want to meet Jenny and Costa at the Coffee Connection tomorrow?'
Bronny and Vinita are flitting around in their leotards again when he picks me up—Dad asked Bronny to change ages ago, but here they are again, giggling, now that Hayden's here . . . 'They've got a crush on you!'
Hayden blushes and starts the car. 'Don't be stupid!'
Eight million eyes in one small cafe. Why does Jenny think this is good for me? Couldn't I do something simple like bungie jumping?
At least Costa's nice—or Jenny's briefed him well, or both. He manages to look me in the face when we meet, and finds us a table near the back so I don't put everyone off as they walk in the door. He and Hayden go up to the counter to order and Jenny leans across the table to whisper.
'So what do you think?'
'Definitely a guy, and you're right, his eyes are brown. I'll need a few more minutes for the full psychic profile.'
'Is everything okay with you and Hayden now?'
'I guess so. Well, we're here—it must be.'
'You know we could hear every word you said?' Costa says, sliding into the seat beside Jenny.
'Liar.'
She smacks his leg, he grabs her hand, and they sit there frozen for a moment, staring into each other's eyes, and it's as intimate and embarrassing as if we'd walked in on them naked. Maybe not quite. Don't think about it.
'Who wants a chip?' I suggest, and Jenny and Costa wake up. But their hands stay joined so Jenny has to drink her milkshake with her left hand.
'Where'd you live before?' Hayden asks.
'Sydney—Coogee. Could have done without changing school systems this year, but'—he looks at Jenny—'sometimes you've got to be unlucky to be lucky.'
'You left Sydney for Yarralong?’
'My dad got a chance at a franchise here—he'd only ever be a manager in Sydney. My mum thought a country town would be safer for my sisters—and there's a big enough Greek community to have a church, so she's happy.'
I have a feeling Coogee's on the sea. 'So do you surf?'
'Not any more! I keep taking my board down to the river, waiting for the swell . . . never seems to come up.'
'It's good for swimming,' Jenny says loyally.
'You and your river,' Costa teases, and they're off on another of those looks. His arm's around her shoulders now, his fingers stroking her neck under her hair, straying across her shoulders, while she relaxes and leans into him—their bodies look so comfortable together! On our side of the table, Hayden and I are sitting up good-children-straight; I'm on the right and I know he's too scared of hurting my thumb to hold my left hand, but I wish I had the nerve to rest my hand on his thigh, to do anything to be a couple like they are. Instead Hayden goes up for another coke, and I finish my coffee; it's hard to think of anything to say when the others have forgotten we're here.
Sometimes I feel so cheated. I'm not taking time off—I've had a whole chunk of my life stolen. Nobody's going to hand me a few months at the other end and say, 'Here you are, here's the bit you missed out on.'
The wheelchair's leaving. Cleaned; folded; packed into the boot of Dad's car like a guilty secret. Tough luck, chair—I win, you lose—I'm not a cripple after all.
'Keep it a bit longer, Anna,' Matt wheedles. 'You might need it!' He and Bronwyn have invented wheelchair surfing in the carport—one person stands on the seat; the other gives it a running push. Whoever falls off least wins.
'Or you might,' says Dad. 'Maybe we could go for a hat trick—all three of you with broken necks!'
Mum bakes an apple cake to see it off.
But physio Brian isn't celebrating. He's not happy about the way I'm walking. I don't like it much either—like carrying my own personal bed of nails; one goes through my foot each time I step on it.
He's more worried about the deformed way I put it down.
And how I put all the weight on my left leg. He's worried about the damage I'm doing to my hips and knees.
'Shit, Brian, my hips are the only things I didn't hurt!'
'So let's keep it that way.' And he hands me a stick. A walking stick, a cane. Like old people use.
'Or anyone that breaks a leg!' he says. 'Come on, the important thing here is to get you walking properly again.'
'But I didn't have one at first! I feel like I'm going backwards.' 'You weren't fit enough to hold anything at first,' he snaps.
'And you weren't moving around much, either. Now let me get the right height for you, and you can have a little practice.'
My stick is dark brown wood, the handle dips so that I can hold it without hurting my thumb. It's polished smooth and absolutely plain.
When I walk out into the street after physio I feel as if it glows like a neon sign, a three-metre barber's pole flashing white and red with a siren on top. People stop what they're doing to stare open-mouthed at the freak teenager with a stick.
'It's not that bad,' Jenny tries to convince me. 'It's nothing like the neck brace.'
'But that's temporary; I'll be getting rid of it soon. A stick makes me look disabled—spastic!'
The very worst thing about the stick—and I don't even admit this to Jen—is that it helps. My foot doesn't hurt so much, I walk better—and I'm not as dizzy, though that's so strange I don't even like admitting it to myself.
Just when I think life couldn't get worse, Mum brings up what Mr Sandberg said about doing Year 12 over two years. Sensible, she says. The pits, I say: everyone going off to uni or whatever—and me still stuck in school with the Year 11s.
Maybe I could catch up if I had tutoring.
Mr Sandberg comes up with two names and Mum arranges appointments. Lisa Harris arrives that afternoon, complete with baby in a pram.
'I couldn't get a sitter at such short notice,' she says.
Mum doesn't seem to mind. Babies always make her go slightly soft in the head; she goos and peek-a-boos while Lisa and I struggle with maths and psychology.
'Twice a week?' Lisa suggests. 'We've got a bit of catching up to do.'
Which is a polite way of saying that she's noticed I haven't actually started the year's work yet.
'And little Miss Becky,' she adds, taking the baby back from Mum, holding her over her face and planting a kiss on the fat tummy, 'will go to her babysitter or we'll never get anything done!' Her voice has changed to a special mother to baby voice—for an instant they're as isolated and complete as Jenny and Costa at the Coffee Connection.
I can see Mum dying to offer—but she remembers in time that she's going back to work and won't always be here to play with babies.
The English and Lit tutor is Martin Weiss. He's short and wiry, about twenty-eight, and a sailor—a sail-boat sailor, not navy. He's just returned from taking a friend's boat from Florida to Seattle; I'd rather hear about the trip—through the Panama Canal, detour to the Galapagos Islands and Hawaii—than English.
He'll come twice a week too. Then there's physio three times a week, doctor or OT every couple of weeks—and somehow I've got to fit in school after the Easter break.
For Dad's birthday Mum makes French onion soup. Bronwyn's helping. She's wearing her most serious expression, a huge red apron—and her swimming goggles.
'Peeling onions makes me cry,' she says.
'Have you ever thought about meditating?' Luke asks, as we're waiting for Mum to come back from the supermarket and sort out a confusion over whether she had meant to add the extra zero when she ordered a hundred and twenty concrete sundials.
'You don't think I've got enough to do?'
'I just figured you were fighting pain the whole time—if you could give yourself a break, you might have a little more energy left over.'
'You're saying I can think the pain away?'
'What have you got to lose? Next time you have a rest, try visualising the pain—like a red mist, or a black liquid, whatever you like, and let it soak out of your body.'
I could almost imagine it while he's talking. He's got a voice like a singer, deep but gentle—or maybe it's just the sincerity that makes it so attractive. Or the surprise—you never know what he's going to come up with next.
'How do you think of this stuff?'
'I had a friend with a brain tumour. He told me.'
'Had? Did he . . . ' 'No. He moved to Perth.' Dad comes home unexpectedly at lunchtime, pale and rather red around the eyes. He kisses me as well as Mum. Not normal.
'Jim Meissing came in this morning,' he says. 'Did you know his son died a fortnight ago?'
Mum goes white; starts stroking my shoulder as if she doesn't know she's doing it. 'How?'
'Car accident.'
'And Jim still came in for his appointment?'
Dad shrugs. 'Going through the motions. I don't think he understood one thing I said about his accounts; we just talked about his son.'
'An accident like mine?' Victim or murderer?
But it was a single-vehicle accident—high speed into a tree. No trace of drugs or alcohol in his system, his father said—simply a mistake in judgement.
I don't want to do this. My stomach's tensing and my head pounding. I'm not ready.
Mum pulls up in front of the Senior Wing. Chris and Thula spot us and charge towards the car. Too late; can't chicken out now.
'Jenny said you'd be here today!'
'Back in time for the holidays!'
'Only for home room.'
'Great idea. I think I'll try that too.'
'God, you're so skinny!'
'Come on, we'll go over now. Can you walk that far?'
'How long do you have to wear that collar for? Is it better than that metal thing? That must have been the pits!'
Conversation swirls, too hard to catch; I'm concentrating on walking. Don't want to fall over, my first day at school. I'd never noticed how uneven this path is. Funny the things your body takes for granted, when everything's working the way it's meant to.
Twenty-five people makes fifty eyes and they're all on me. I know them all, this shouldn't be so hard—thank God Caroline's in the other class this year—but everyone thinks I should be better now, they want me to be better, they're my friends—but I'm not better, I'm a fraud and a failure. Hurry up, Mr Sandberg, this was your bright idea.
Here he is, welcomes me with the 'little break' joke I expected. On through the daily rubbish. A reminder that the school colours are green and gold and that any hair accessories must conform or be confiscated. (I came back for this?)
'Sorry, Jason—I know how much your pink hair ribbons mean to you.'
Which is meant to show us that he thinks the rule is as dumb as we do. Thula's getting worked up about the pettiness of dress rules. Jenny and Costa are trapped somewhere in each other's eyes—I don't think they're worrying about hair accessories. Brad is folding a paper aeroplane. Mia thinks we should get up a petition. I'm a hundred years old, listening from another planet.
The bell goes; I stay where I am as everyone rushes past, goodbye, great to see you, see you soon, have a great Easter.
After all that the real work—the meeting with Mr Sandberg and my tutors—is easy. Actually a bit pointless. They'll have to contact the subject teachers later; and we already know that I need to catch up a term's work. I think Mr Sandberg just decided it would be good for me to come into the school for a morning.
Great. Done that. Now can I please get better?
Hayden hasn't been to karate all week. He says he hasn't made up his mind yet. Funny how hard it is not to say anything, sometimes.
Bronwyn comes in with her arm in a sling.
'What happened?' Hayden asks. He hasn't seen her in a sling as often as I have.
'My finger's sore. I think it's infected.'
'It's a mosquito bite,' I say, but Hayden studies it seriously.
'Kiss it better!' Matt teases, hopping out of the way as Bronny rushes at him in fury.
Hayden winks at me. 'Do you want me to put out the rubbish?' he asks, and lunges at Matt, who squeals and leaps over the back of the couch; Hayden follows with Bronwyn swinging off one hand. The couch topples over.
Hayden shoves it upright as Dad rushes in. 'What's going on? Are you kids bothering Anna and Hayden?'
They're still giggling as Hayden and I escape for a walk. 'Don't take your stick,' he says. 'You can lean on me.' We reach the footpath and he takes my hand. It sends warm shock waves through me, the feel of his fingers around mine. They're strong, square hands; his skin's a bit rough. They feel just the way a man's hands should feel.
'You're good with the kids,' I say. 'They really like you.'
'I'm used to kids; I reckon it's an advantage of having a big family. It'd be good, one day . . . ' His voice trails off. I realise I'm holding my breath. 'You want to have kids, don't you?' he asks.
'Not right now!'
'No, but you know—one day?'
Does he mean with him? He'll have to kiss me then . . .
'One day. When I've worked for a while and got my black belt, travelled through Europe—I want to cycle around Holland and meet my mum's relatives . . . all that stuff.' The pictures go on at the back of my mind: living with Hayden, travelling with him, being together. We've already been through so much; nothing else could be quite so hard.
We reach the end of the block, shoulders rubbing as we walk. This is the best day we've ever had together. I wish we could go on walking, but we've got a lifetime, when I'm stronger we can be together as much as we want. There's a bench just around the corner. We can sit down for a bit before we go back. 'You know Lisa, my maths tutor? She's a single mum. That'd be so hard.'
'It's wrong.'
'It can't be wrong to have a baby, not if she wants it. She really loves her; she's a good mother.'
'Wrong for the guy, I mean. The father. The baby's his responsibility too—he can't just walk out on it.'
'But—' There are a thousand answers to that, but I let it drop. I'm too happy, sitting here with him, hands joined, knees touching, to worry about the rights and wrongs of other people's problems.
Mum's in the kitchen baking a millionth batch of biscuits, the radio on in the background. I've read a chapter of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and finished the first question on Martin's sheet; I deserve a reward by the time Mum calls to say the meringues are out of the oven and she's putting the kettle on.
k.d. lang finishes; an earnest discussion begins. Suicide; teenage suicide especially. Australia the worst of the OECD countries; not a biggest and best statistic to be proud of—and the true figures worse than the records, the speaker explains, because so many suicides are recorded as accidents. 'Much easier on the families that way,' she says. 'Of course it's impossible to prove, but many young men in single-vehicle accidents may in fact be suicides.'
We think of Dad's client's son. No drugs or alcohol, the father had said, just a mistake in judgement.
How do you dig up the nerve to drive into a tree?
And what if it didn't work? If instead of death you got paralysis? Or just ended up like me, crippled with pain and wondering if it'll ever end.
I suppose you could always try again.
Rerun of the kitchen-Mum-mixing-up-biscuits scene.
An indescribable noise, a boom that fills the world, a sound that blacks out light and vision. The stove has exploded—and woken me up. But I know that the noise had nothing to do with exploding stoves—it was the sound of two cars colliding.
HOw do I know that when I can't remember the accident? Are all those memories tucked in my brain waiting for me to stumble over them?
Jenny's mum's friend the faith healer comes to pray for me again. Mum, agnostic and uncomfortable, welcomes her and whisks promptly out to the garden.
Maybe I'll go too. It's not the praying that's so bad—it's the failing. I was so sure I'd get better fast, last time I met her; now my thumb's stuffed and my ankle's not looking crash-hot either. It gets harder to hope when nothing works out.
But I don't have to believe in something to want it to work. I try and relax into it and nearly do—as the hypnotic voice takes effect I feel the pain starting to float out of my bones. Is this what Luke was talking about with meditation?
She finishes and sits quietly, holding my left hand between both of hers. 'You have to stop fighting, Anna, if you're going to let the healing in.'
The warm feeling disappears like a popped balloon. This is the last faith healing I'm having—the woman's nuts. I'll never stop fighting my injuries; what am I supposed to do—give in?