CHAPTER 8

'I've been talking to Mark's dad,' Hayden announces without saying hello—Mr Ryan is a policeman who knows more than anyone would ever want to about crashed cars and the smashed people inside them. 'Asked him if we'd have to go to court when Trevor Jones is sentenced.'

So that's why the flush of anger, the set shoulders and thrust jaw. His tension springs to me and snatches, though I'm not sure if mine is rage or fear.

'And do we?' Exhibit A, the victim . . . I couldn't take it.

'He doesn't bloody go himself! He does this to you and you know what he gets? An on-the-spot fine! A hundred and sixty-five bucks for failing to give way!'

Is that what my life's worth? A slap on the wrist? Naughty boy, don't kill anyone again. Never mind, it was only Anna.

'... bloody dickhead bastard,' Hayden is saying.

Mum, coming in, raises her eyes at the language, but at the explanation, starts swearing under her breath in Dutch.

But Dad's obviously gone into this one too. When we tell him he says, his voice bitter, 'The law looks at it that a $165 fine is a reasonable price for a careless mistake. It's the victim's bad luck if she pays a higher price—the law is interested in his intent, not Anna's luck.'

'Even if I'd died?'

'Apparently. I gather that in that case there would have been a coroner's inquest—but unless he could be charged with culpable driving it'd still be the same—failing to give way and a $165 fine.'

Coroner's not a word you usually associate with yourself. It makes me shudder; Mum too—'It doesn't bear thinking about.'

'That's why I don't care what happens to him,' says Dad, hugging me carefully, 'as long as you're okay.'

Maybe the worst thing is that it's all over for him. Trevor Jones has handed over his $165, and it's all done. (Does he ever get a funny feeling when he drives down that road—'I wrecked somebody's life here once'?) It's just for me that it keeps on going. I'm the one trapped in jail.

At least I don't have to go to court—but at the moment it doesn't make me any happier.

Carefully down the three steps and out to the carport. Not really a carport, the car doesn't live here; just bikes, a pingpong table, collection of balls—and my punching bag. The floor-to-ceiling bag I got last Christmas.

I ache to use it. I stroke the smooth leather, letting it shiver gently on its blue elastic cords, poor confused punching bag, waiting for the punch.

So what do I do with my rage, now that I can't hit anything? Now that I can't do anything?

I must be in a mood to torture myself. After visiting my punching bag I put on the video of our Christmas karate demonstration.

It's like watching another person. The me on the screen jumps, kicks, spins and punches, her body balanced and precise. Her body knows what it's doing.

And it hits me, like one of the screen-me punches, that's what different. It's not that I limp, or that my neck's stiff. It's that my body doesn't know how to move any more. Nothing's natural. Walking's not bad—if it's in a straight line and everything's perfect. Add a challenge like stepping down from a kerb or getting through a doorway—and I need to talk it through like learning a complicated new kata: 'Okay, turn now, brace yourself . . . a bit more to the left.' Thud! 'Damn!' I can't even roll over in bed without waking up to tell myself how.

Then there's losing contact with my knees, if I stand up for some unreasonable time—like more than thirty seconds. Usually I can tell when they're starting to go and sit down fast. If it happens when I'm walking I can sometimes find them by stamping.

Crazy. Must be psychological—maybe I'm just a hypochondriac—that's why I've never told Osman.

The shaking hands are harder to hide. 'How long were you unconscious?'—rummaging through his notes for the answer. (I was sleeping—didn't set a stop watch.) 'An appointment with a neurologist might be a good idea. You may have sustained more damage than was obvious initially.'

But the neurologist is busy for the next six weeks. I'll be better by then. Stop the shaking, get co-ordinated; cancel the appointment.

I'm getting better at plastic wrapping. My collar is barely damp after its next shower.

If I don't teach phys ed I could get a job in a sandwich shop. Chief wrapper.

Costa wants Jenny to meet his family some time over the school holidays. Actually Jenny's not sure that 'wants' is the right word—Costa's mum has told him that he has to invite Jenny for lunch.

'I don't think she's going to like me.'

'Everybody likes you! Anyway, relax; you're not marrying the guy.'

Jenny groans, hides her face in a pillow on the floor; I'm sprawled on her bed, the first time I've been to her place since the accident.

'You are planning to marry him?'

'I don't know—I don't care about getting married—but I know I'll always want to be with Costa. I can't imagine living without him—we've got so much to say; we talk all the time.'

'All the time?'

'Okay, the other stuff's pretty good too. But I really like him—if I wasn't in love with him I'd still want to be his friend. That's why I want his parents to like me.'

I ask Luke if he's going down to see his dad for Easter. He looks uncomfortable.

'Dad wasn't very happy about my quitting uni, to put it mildly—and my father never puts anything mildly! I just seem to have lost the taste for being constantly reminded what a pathetic loser I am.'

We're still trying for the Happy Family Award, but it doesn't always work. It's like trying to push a pussy pimple back into your forehead—the anger squirts out sideways. Bronwyn spends her life wrapped in bandages and slings; Dad reads the paper as if it's his solemn duty to get worked up over disgusting politicians, and Mum, the lady with the cast-iron constitution, walks around holding her stomach and eats antacid tablets instead of pickled herrings. And me? I just bitch about anything that pops into my head. Anything except what's really wrong.

Dad takes the kids to church Easter Sunday. He took them Good Friday too, and the Sunday before that. We used to be twice-a-year Christians, Christmas and Easter.

Mum decides to have the nursery open all day. She's not impressed with God. 'Look what he did to his own son,' she says. 'Am I supposed to be surprised at what he did to my daughter?'

'It sometimes helps,' says Dad. 'Just being there, sitting quietly.'

I've had enough sitting quietly to last me a lifetime—and I haven't noticed God keeping his side of any bargains lately. They go without me.

The chocolate part of Easter is easier to cope with. Hayden gives me a beautiful egg in a fancy gold box; it's a shame to open it, but I manage.

Luke gives me—and Matt and Bronny—a tiny chocolate bilby. It's too cute to eat.

'Now that you've got the stick,' Luke says, 'you could walk in the bush, couldn't you?'

Mum looks up from her herb encyclopedia and glares at him as if he's suggested Mt Everest.

I wish I'd thought of it myself—I've been so busy hating the stick that I hadn't thought about what it could let me do. And I'm bored and restless after a frustrating day trying to understand a bunch of crap about "Psychological Effects of Stress" . . . 'I might try now—just at the river here.'

'I'll go with you,' Luke says, and Mum relaxes.

Out the back gate—I'm ridiculously excited—and on to the trail by the river. Dad and the kids, walking with Ben, have flattened the long grass from the gate, it's a bit easier than I'd expected, but the trail itself is rougher. Watching for every stick and uneven footstep is exhausting; I have to grab Luke's arm a few times to keep from falling.

I really want to make it to the big log. Hadn't remembered it was so far.

'We're nearly there,' Luke says, gesturing to it before I say anything.

'How'd you know?'

'It's a great log.'

It is. Great to sit on too. Made it, made it! Feels so good. God, my foot hurts—hope I can make it back.

'Worth it?' Luke asks.

'Fantastic!'

I still think so three days later when my foot is starting to untwist itself and I can walk around the house again without fighting down a scream.

Maybe that's why I haven't told Hayden about it. I don't know if he'd mind me going with Luke so much as the walk itself.

Finish the neck brace tomorrow, Mr Osman says. No more metal head.

'You're coping with the soft collar for most of the day now?'

'Great.' Except for the pain, but it's bearable if I spend a few hours lying down. And if I tell him that, I mightn't get rid of the frame.

'Well then, wear it all day tomorrow, and then start weaning yourself off it. I'll see you again in four weeks—and by then the only thing you should need to wear on your neck is your favourite necklace.'

Now I remember! That's what I was really hanging out for—to wear my pearls again!

Four weeks! Four weeks and I'll be normal. Sometimes I've thought it was never going to happen—but a month I can believe in. Roll on, the 17th of May.

Bare naked neck on my pillow.

Collar when I get up; collar all day till I go to bed. Hotter and scratchier than the brace; gives me a rash, up my throat and down my chest. I can almost nod; I can almost turn my head.

Mum bakes a cake—lemon yoghurt. She'll have to start repeating herself if I get much better.

'What are you going to do with the frame?' Bronwyn asks.

Smash it, squash it, hammer it into little pieces. Melt it down for new coke cans; send it into outer space with the next shuttle.

'It belongs to the hospital,' Dad points out.

'But they'll let us keep it!' Bronny shrieks—nought to full panic in three seconds—'Anna might need it more!'

'I'm not wearing it again! You can take it back today.'

A small silvery monster bursts into the room, beeping shrilly: the frame, covered in foil, with Matthew inside. 'I-am-a-robot!' he chants, in case we haven't guessed.

'Looks much better on you, Matt. You can keep it.'

Costa's parents like Jenny so much that they've asked her to come for dinner after the Easter midnight mass.

How to break it to her that Easter was last week?

'Orthodox Easter,' she explains loftily, 'is calculated differently. It's tomorrow.' Then, promptly switching back from Multicultural Expert of the Week to usual Jenny—'What am I going to wear?'

Just one day without pain. One day being normal again. That's what I'd wish for, if I found the right old lamp. What I could do, in just one day of the old me . . . but it's the normal stuff I'd choose—showering standing up, seeing my friends, moaning about problems that don't exist, going to karate, being with Hayden . . .

And if the genie did what he was supposed to, two more the same.

For second term I'm going to the first class every day. That'll give me an idea of what's happening so I can follow it up with my tutors. Mum will drop me off, zip over to the nursery for an hour and pick me up after. I don't have to go to Assembly or home room.

It all sounds incredibly artificial. But at least I can do it without my collar.

'Everybody's been asking how you're going,' Jenny says, her voice hardening as she adds, 'except Caroline. So I don't tell her—I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing anything about you!'

Mixed in with gardening and cooking books, Mum's got the ones Lynda left. Today she's reading Stages of Grief, Death and Dying.

I'm not sure why it makes me so angry. 'I'm not dead, Mum! Not even dying!'

'Dying isn't the only thing to mourn!' she snaps. 'You can deal with things your way, but I'm finding this helpful!'

The mass was amazing, Jenny tells me. The most moving thing she's ever been to. The ornate church, the baritone of the chanting priest, smoking incense in swinging censers—she gets quite poetic in her efforts to make me feel it. 'At five to twelve all the lights went out, to symbolise the death—and at midnight the first candle was lit for the resurrection. It was so dramatic—the flame being passed from candle to candle until everyone in the church was holding a lighted candle and kissing everyone else and saying "Christos anesti—Alithos anesti".'

'Sounds very fluent, Jen!'

'It's not hard if you just relax and don't worry about sounding stupid. Anyway . . . when we got back to their house Mrs Mavronas gave us all red-dyed hard boiled eggs—and I got the champion!'

'How do you have a champion egg?'

'You smash them against each other and the one that cracks loses—mine squashed all the other eggs before it cracked.'

'You're crazy, Jen.' And not just about Costa; she's fallen in love with everything to do with him.

Term doesn't start till Wednesday, because of Anzac Day. I make it through English, psychology and maths. I'm glad it's a short week.

'It's Mark's eighteenth next Saturday; do you want to come?'

After three months of 'going out' we're actually going outl A real live date, like normal people have, not sitting around watching TV with little brothers and sisters.

'Some guys from our school have a band; it should be good.'

We've sparred together but never danced. I mightn't be much good on the fast dances, but slow will be okay, slow will be great—I really want to know how it feels, to be pressed against him with our arms around each other . . .

'Will you have to wear your collar?'

'I don't wear it for fun, you know! I have noticed that it's not the perfect fashion accessory!'

'I just asked!'

'Because you're ashamed to be seen with a freak!'

'No! Because—look, I don't need this! Forget it, would you?'

Rerun of our last slamming-door scene—screaming insults he can't hear, wondering whether I want to run after him or never see him again.

I phone Jenny.

'Why is he such a prick, Jen?'

A few months ago she would have said, 'Because he's a man,' but since Costa's appeared, she's become a lot more deep and meaningful. 'I think he's pretty screwed up. He probably feels so guilty about you having to wear the collar that he hates to see you in it.'

'But I'm the one that has to wear it! If I can deal with it, so should he!'

'It's just because he cares about you.'

'I don't know. I don't even know if he meant I should forget about the collar or going to the party. Maybe he means we should forget about us.'

'Just call him. Sort it out—everything will be okay, you'll see.'

Jenny in love, the eternal optimist. Thinks everyone should be as happy as she is.

'I'll talk to you later—I've really got to go now. Costa and I are doing maths.'

'Right. Just try and remember which figures you're supposed to be working on.'

'Spoilsport. Now do what I told you—phone Hayden and sort it out. Promise?'

'I guess so.'

A cup of coffee; a walk around the house. I feel sick; my hands are so sweaty they slip on the buttons. I don't know what I'll do if Hayden dumps me. Everything else in my life is going wrong; I need something stable.

If he doesn't answer himself I'll hang up. Maybe I'll hang up anyway. My voice comes out in such a silly squeak I have to start coughing as an excuse.

'Anna, I'm sorry.'

'I shouldn't have got so upset.'

'I just thought you'd have a better time if you didn't have to wear your collar.'

'Yeah. I'll see. I won't have to wear it forever, you know.'

'I know! Look, I've got to go. I've got a heap of homework. I'll pick you up Saturday, about eight.'

I've worn my collar all day; I had my rest after lunch and I'm resting again after dinner. I'm going to look like a normal person when I go to this party.

Mum comes into my room. 'I know you're nearly eighteen, but—'

(Why is there always a but?)

'—don't forget that anything you drink will be enhanced by your painkillers. And with your balance ...'

'People will think I'm drunk! Do you think that's the worst thing I've got to worry about?'

'I think falling over and hurting yourself is something to worry about! As well as any girl's . . . the usual problems of losing self-control when you've had too much to drink.'

'Falling into the back seat of Hayden's car in a fit of drunken passion?'

'If you want to put it like that.'

'I don't think you've got anything to worry about. I'll let you know if I get luckier.'

'Very funny. It's just—I know you're sensible, but with all this—I can't help worrying about you.'

'I've noticed.'

Good start to an evening. A patched-up truce with my boyfriend; a nearly-fight with my mother. It's got to improve.

But not by Dad talking to Hayden. 'You're driving?'

'Dad!'

'You can't blame him, Anna.'

Just watch me.

'I'm not trying to be difficult,' Dad goes on, winding himself up to be as difficult as possible, 'but I can remember what it was like to be young—and if it were my best friend's eighteenth, I might have trouble not having a drink. All I'm asking is that if you do, Anna comes home in a taxi.'

'I'll take care of her.'

I don't believe this. What am I, some Jane Austen heroine to be handed over from father to prospective husband? 'Would someone around here give me a little credit for taking care of myself?'

'Of course we do,' chorus the three liars.

I calm down when I'm in the car. No collar, no stick, a boyfriend and a party—tonight I'm nothing but Anna, a normal seventeen-year-old, and I'm going to have normal seventeen-year-old fun. Hayden even decides against explaining why my parents worry about me and starts to relax. He and Mark have been working all day, cleaning out the garage. 'It looks really good,' he says modestly, 'and the band's unbelievable. It's going to be a great night.'

A few people are there already; I give Mark a birthday kiss and present; he tells me I look fantastic and a look that says he means it. I start to believe Hayden: it's going to be a great night. Someone I don't know is coming up to Mark now; Hayden's organising drinks, but Jess from karate has just arrived and I'm really glad to see her, it's been ages. I have to sit down. I find a chair as she comes over.

'I wondered if you'd be here! So are all you better now?'

'Nearly.'

'I heard you were giving up karate.'

'News to me!'

'So why did Hayden quit? I'd heard it was because of you.'

'You heard wrong. I'll be back in a couple of months; Hayden's a big boy—he can make up his own mind.'

'Hey—did you really break your neck?'

'Really,' I mimic.

'Jeez—you sure were lucky!'

She's bored now; looking around for someone more interesting to talk to. I shouldn't have been such a bitch—I'm not ready to stand up yet. I'll look like an idiot sitting here on my own.

'Have you been to any tournaments lately?' I ask desperately. 'You were doing really well with kata, last time I saw you.'

'Yeah . . . Oh look, there's Dave! Catch you later!'

Hayden runs out from behind the bar to bring me a lemon squash. 'Having a good time?'

'I'd rather have a beer. Are you going to be bartender all night?' (God! I sound so peevish! Try again.) 'You did a great job on the shed.'

'Thanks. Pasquali's taking over the bar at nine. Here's the band! I was beginning to think they'd got lost.' He rushes over to them and starts lugging black boxes down to the end of the shed.

Legs are working again; there's Jodie; Jodie and Paul, we went to primary school together; go over and see them.

'Anna! Haven't seen you for ages; what've you been up to?'

'Nothing much.' (They don't know! I thought the whole world knew about Anna Duncan's accident. I feel so free!)

'What about you?'

Jodie grins, swinging Paul's hand. 'That'd be telling.'

'I'll get us a drink,' Paul says. 'You want one, Anna?'

'I'd love a beer.' I'm going to have to sit down again before I fall; try and look casual, 'Might as well have a seat, it'll be a while before the band's ready.'

Jodie's wearing white jeans; she glances at the concrete floor. 'No thanks.' Her eyes are already flicking around the room to see who else she knows. Paul arrives with three beers. The band plugs in the amplifier; an electronic screech spears through my head as I reach for my glass and I tip over like a wobbly-doll, pouring beer all over my shirt.

Jodie giggles. 'How much did you have before we got here?'

They wander off. So do I, once my balance trickles back—outside, behind the shed, where I can hide and wring out my sleeve. I'm leaning against the wall crying when Hayden finds me. He puts his arms around me. 'You okay?'

Better now that I'm with him. I press myself against his chest.

'Shit, you're soaked! What happened?'

'It's okay; I just spilled something.'

'We'll see if you can borrow a jumper from Mark's mum.'

I can't argue; I'm too cold and too miserable to even try, and he's dragged me over to the house already. If it wasn't his best friend's party I'd just go home. Mrs Ryan is nice; she doesn't act as if I'm drunk; gives me a red jumper which wouldn't be bad at all if you didn't know that it belonged to your host's mother. I still feel like an idiot. I wish I could stay in this bedroom all night.

'Coming, Anna?' Hayden calls. 'The band's starting. You'll love them.'

'Can you get them to turn it down a bit?' Mark's mum asks. 'It'll be a bit embarrassing if the neighbours ring the police about the noise.'

Hayden tries, but apparently the amplifier doesn't go any lower. The noise rocks the shed; everyone's dancing. Hayden and I shuffle around, not so much dancing as holding. My face is against his chest; he runs his hands down my back till I could melt against him . . . I feel dizzy with love.

The song stops. We stay together. The next number starts; fast; it turns into a drum solo. The drum vibrates through me, through my body, through my ears and my brain. It fills my head with blackness and knocks me to the ground.

not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair not fair