CHAPTER 13

I don't know why I made up something like that!' 'You know perfectly well you did not make that up! Something happened to you that was just too much—no wonder you didn't want to remember! But I guess it's been niggling away at the back of your mind, and when you saw Trevor Jones you couldn't hold it back any longer.'

'Maybe.' I'm still crying, just the occasional tear, it's okay. 'How do you know so much about it?'

'I read the books Lynda lent you,' she says dryly. 'As well as a fair bit of thinking—and talking to Laura.'

'Did you know she was seeing Trevor Jones?'

'No! She keeps everything completely confidential. Just a coincidence that we both chose her.'

'Do you think I'll have to go through that again if something else reminds me?'

'Not from what I've read. The theory is that now you know what your subconscious has been dealing with, you can do what you like with it.'

Do what I like with it. It's a funny way to look at dying, even a mini-dying, but it's good.

'Mum—if the doctors are right I'm never going to be fit enough to do karate again. Or teach phys ed.'

She wipes away tears, flicking them abstractedly across her cheeks with a finger. 'I know.'

'You don't think I'm giving up—letting you down?'

The tears are too strong now to be wiped with one finger. 'Letting us down! Darling, we're proud of the way you've fought this, this terrible thing that we'd have given anything—anything at all—for you not to have gone through. But now . . . it's not giving up, it's confronting the truth . . . and right now that's not only the most courageous thing, it's the only way you're going to move ahead.'

'I really liked karate, Mum.'

'I know. And maybe nothing will ever take its place. But the real waste would be to be so fixated on karate that you never tried anything else that you could manage.'

'There'll never be anything that's the challenge karate was.'

'I think your life is enough of a challenge—a more restful hobby mightn't be all bad!'

I smile at that. Mum's still crying. 'At least Mario came up with the perfect job—growing my hair for wigs!' I must still be crying too because now I'm laughing and it sounds hysterical. 'Good thing you've got a year to come up with something better.'

She sits a while longer, her hand on my shoulder, till we've both blown our noses a few times and the tears have stopped.

'I guess I should go. Luke will be wondering what's happened to me.'

'He won't mind. Luke's good.'

'He is. I'm glad you've noticed.'

The memory of that kiss is suddenly so strong that I know I'll blush if I ask her what she means. I put it away to think about when I'm alone.

She's hesitating; there's something important she wants to say. 'That promise you made me . . . now that you know how hard you fought to stay alive, aren't you glad you didn't waste it?'

She's right. The worst of this whole thing has been the total powerlessness, being controlled by my broken body—its pain, its X-rays, diagnoses and bad news doctors. But I was the one who decided to stay alive. And if I won that fight, losing some of the smaller ones doesn't seem so bad. Throwing in the big one now would have been really stupid.

Mum drags Dad out for a long walk as soon as he gets home, sneaking out without dog and kids. I guess this afternoon was a bit heavy for her too.

And for Dad, once he's heard it all. He's very quiet and looks pale, goes straight from the garden to his office and shuts himself in for an hour, reappearing suddenly to give me a hug. 'Thanks for coming back,' he says.

'Wow!' Jenny exclaims. 'That's creepy.'

My throat is dry. It hasn't been an easy phone call, even to her.

'And you could see what was happening around the car?'

'Not while I was actually in the tunnel—then I was just concentrating on not wanting to be there. But before . . . I know how strange it sounds, Jen, but I could see the people running around outside, looking in the windows—and I hated them staring at the poor body when there was nothing she could do about it.'

'Why do you keep saying "the body" ? It was you, wasn't it?'

'I guess so . . . it was my body, but it wasn't me. I wasn't in it.'

'I'm just trying to think what you'd be saying if something like this had happened to me.'

'Okay; I'd try to get you to be logical and work out a scientific explanation—but I don't want that now. It's just there—I don't need it explained.'

'When you were in the tunnel and said you were supposed to be with Hayden—do you think that's why you're so determined to stick with him?'

'Maybe. It's a pretty powerful sign, isn't it?'

'Powerful sign, bull! You say you'd rather be down on the ground with Hayden than go on up the tunnel and die! It wasn't exactly a win-win situation!'

'You think I was just talking about being outside the car?

Like I was saying, "I'm supposed to be alive, like everybody else" ?'

'I think if you'd had the dog and cat with you, you'd have said, "I'm supposed to be with Ben and Sally." Think about it.'

So much to think about. I think I've reached the bottom of Laura's chasm—and I've survived. Maybe that was the miracle I was looking for.

I'm even starting to believe the other thing she said—that once I reached the bottom I could start climbing up again. That I was going to make it.

I'd really love to know what Luke thinks about all this.

But a truckload of potting mix arrives at the nursery just as English finishes, so Luke's in a rush to drop me off and sort it out. And Mum wants to be home on my birthday so she's swapped him tomorrow for next Wednesday . . . I won't see him till Monday.

Right now it seems a long time away.

Stuff the potting mix!

'Wine science,' I tell Hayden, dropping the careers handbook as he comes in. 'That wouldn't be bad. I could taste as much as I liked because everyone always thinks I'm drunk anyway.'

But Hayden's wearing his solemn face and my joke doesn't crack it. 'I've been thinking about it too.'

'Wine tasting?'

'Anna, I'm trying to be serious! About next year . . . If you're still going to be in school, I don't know if I should go to Melbourne. I was thinking maybe I should stay here.'

'I thought Yarralong TAFE didn't offer surveying!'

He shrugs. 'I could get a job.'

'Like what? And why? Your marks are okay.'

'Why do you think? Because of you. I want to be here ...' Why aren't I feeling mushy? Why isn't this the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me?

'... to look after you.'

Waves of panic and claustrophobia wash over me—that's why! I've just started to sort myself out, I can't deal with this right now. I need some space, some time!

A hyperactive eight-year-old charges between us and out to the garden, whirling a collar and leash over his head. 'Ben! Let's practise for school!'

In one second flat, Ben's gone from a peacefully curled-up shape on the back verandah to a whirl of shrilly barking excitement tearing round and round the garden. Every few laps he pauses to lick Matt's hand and his leash before dashing off again.

'The teacher says he's very good,' Matt says proudly. 'He's all the way through Level 1 already!'

'Level 1 must be enthusiasm,' I whisper. Hayden laughs at that, and by the time the noise calms down he has to go. He checks what time we're going out for dinner tomorrow, says he has some shopping to do and leaves.

My panic's gone too, but the vague uneasiness stays. No more excuses; Jenny's right—I have to think about this relationship and why I want it so badly.

The familiar images crowd into my mind; Hayden and me at training—watching him watching me; that last tournament, the incredible feeling of winning, of being a winner; Hayden cheering for me; kissing me . . . If you had to choose one moment for your life to be stuck on, that would be mine.

Isn't that exactly what you're doing? asks a nasty little voice.

But that's not all we have. We're more than one kiss, one incredible day. It's Hayden I'm in love with, not being a winner.

It is?

I'm starting to feel panicky again, but I've got to think this through. And push away the thought of Luke, of that other kiss. Sort out one thing at a time.

'Can I go to Vinita's after Anna's opened her presents tomorrow?' Bronny asks.

'Don't see why not,' Dad says, but we're all a bit surprised. The two of them normally spend Saturdays lying in wait for Hayden and thinking up witty things to say that will make him notice them.

Mum's quicker than I am. 'And how's Rajiv settling in?'

she asks.

Bronwyn giggles.

Looks like Hoyden's been dumped!

Lynda phones in the evening to say an early happy birthday.

'I've got some news too,' she says. 'I'm changing jobs.

Guess where I'm going!'

'Health food shop?'

She laughs. 'I thought about it! You know how frustrated I get with conventional medicine. But in the end I figured that's what I know about . . . so I'm going to be part of a medical team setting up a new hospital in—your dad's going to freak out!—Mozambique. Their health services were pretty well destroyed during the war, and now they're trying to get things running again. And it's incredibly beautiful—tropical beaches, coconut palms ...'

'That's fantastic! When do you go?'

'January. Now hand me over to my dear conventional brother. I'm not sure he'll agree with "fantastic".'

But Dad surprises us. He says of course he'll worry and he doesn't believe one word about her being sensible. He also says it's her life and he can understand that she wants to accomplish something in it. 'Good for you, Lynda,' he says. 'Get out there and do it.'

Wake up this morning and I'm an adult! A grown-up. One day older and I'm old enough to vote, drink, drive and sign my own disclaimers.

Mum and Dad are clearly worried that I might crack—the reminder that the best of my life is over instead of beginning might send me back down into that black hole of gloom.

But I've had enough of cracking—there's only so much falling apart you can take before you have to start putting it all back together again. And I know exacdy how I have to start.

Or I could wait till tomorrow and not spoil my birthday.

Chicken! It's the best present I could give myself. Do it and get it over with, so we can all get on with our lives.

Bronwyn, carrying the cat, is sneaking into my room, inching the door open to see if I'm awake. (She doesn't seem to have any bandages on! Something's worked for her—maybe it will for me too.) 'Sally wants to say happy birthday.'

They both snuggle in with me. Matt follows a second later, bouncing, wiggling . . . . time to get up.

The kitchen table's full of presents, flowers and cards—aunts, uncles and friends, everyone's remembered this year. I'm not sure if it's just because it's my eighteenth, or if it's a way of saying they're glad I stuck around for my birthday.

Why do people say 'when I get old' and 'if I die'? Don't they know it's the other way around?

A beautiful jumper from Mum and Dad. Body Shop bath oil from Bronwyn (sounds like a B sentence from 'Sesame Street'), a nailbrush shaped like a pig from Matt, an aromatherapy kit from Lynda, a heap of twenty- or fifty-dollar notes from other aunts and uncles and Nan and Pop. (None of them have heard of not sending cash in the mail.) Nothing from Oma and Opa—they must have spent their money on phone calls, talking to Mum for so long that she complained her throat hurt from speaking so much Dutch.

The phone goes again now and Jenny sings 'Happy Birthday' into my ear.

'Fashion Girl's having a sale—do you want to check it out, since you're all cashed up?' It used to be a regular Saturday-morning thing—Jenny, Caroline and I wandering around the shops, trying stuff on that we knew we'd never buy—laughing ourselves sick and dreaming about the day when we'd have some real money. 'Costa will come if I make him, but the poor guy's heart just isn't in it!'

'Guess it's time I gave him a break. Let's go—shop till we drop!'

Dad looks worried at 'drop' but gets the look from Mum—'She's finally doing something—don't stop her now!' I don't think I was supposed to read it, but it's okay. Today everything is okay. I don't even mind that now he's obviously worrying about the bus and trying to figure out how to ask if I'll manage.

'Could you give us a lift in when Jenny gets here, Dad?'

He lightens up so much he has to put on his strict father voice to hide it. 'Oh well . . . since it's your birthday.'

'We'll get the bus home—and it's okay, I can manage the step!'

'I'm sure you can,' Dad says dryly.

'Happy birthday, darling,' Mum says, giving me another hug, and for a minute the three of us stand there grinning at each other, with tears in our eyes. It feels as if someone should come up with an incredibly profound statement, something about my being eighteen and alive, and the meaning of life and how I'll discover it in the end.

'Ben's remembered how to sit!' Matt screams, skidding across the kitchen tiles with the dog behind him. 'Sit, Ben! Sit!'

The dog hesitates for a second—and sits.

'Stay!' Matt shrieks, dancing around the table and then out of sight into the lounge room. 'Is he still sitting?'

'Yes!'

'So can he come inside again? Now that he's trained?'

'It looks like it,' Dad agrees.

A confusion of red pyjamas and black fur begins waltzing ecstatically around the floor—the profound statement might have to go unsaid.

A moment's panic when the doorbell rings. It's Jenny's mum, who I've been avoiding since I flushed her book down the toilet, but she just wants to say happy birthday and give me a small quartz crystal. I'm not so sure about the miracles she promises, but it's pretty.

Jenny's got a card and air of suspense, stepping carefully around the collapsed heap of Matt and Ben to admire the presents spread out across the breakfast table and add a tiny package to them. Mum makes another cup of coffee and Bronny leans against my chair to watch me open it; Jenny and I have shared enough Christmases and birthdays for them to know her knack for finding something special.

Silver glints from the tissue paper as I unwrap a pair of earrings. A filigree silver ball dangles on the chain of each one; inside is another filigree ball, and inside that is another, and another and another . . . . The last one is a tiny silver kernel.

'It's true, you know,' Jenny says. 'There is something real inside.'

I hug her, blinking back tears. 'Thanks, Jen.'

'Can you open them up and take out the little ones?' Matt wants to know. Mum quickly retrieves them and drops them back into my hand.

'I think you should wear them always,' Bronny decides.

'So do I; they're fantastic.'

Jenny follows me into the bedroom, where I stop playing with them for long enough to put them on, admiring the way they twinkle out from under the new, springy layer of hair. 'The new Anna!'

Dad drops us at the door of Fashion Girl, at the start of the mall. I'd forgotten how close and crowded the shop was; how daunting the rows of clothes can be when you don't know what you want. I'm not ready for decisions, the finality of choice, and let myself be sucked into the whirl of Jenny's enthusiasm in her quest for my new look. Jeans, sweaters, baggy silk pants with flowing jackets, slinky after-five dresses, tiny kilts and A-line mini-skirts—if it's there, try it on, is Jenny's motto. Her final choice is a feathery, sleazy purple number that make us giggle so hard the sales assistant sticks her head in to ask how we're going. ('And when?' adds the look.) 'Perhaps if you could decide whether you're looking at sports wear or evening apparel,' she snaps, 'it would be easier to find something to suit.' She flips the bundle of clothes off its hook and closes the curtains with a snap.

'We've been told,' whispers Jenny. 'You think we should crawl out and beg forgiveness?'

'Suits me. Crawling's good—not so far to fall!'

'As long as you don't land on her "evening apparel".'

The woman watches us leave, glaring again as I stumble against a swaying rack of new season's shirts when my stick catches the base. Maybe she thinks it's the fashion statement of a slightly crazy adolescent—which is the best birthday present a cranky sales assistant could give me.

Jenny leaves me to have a rest for the afternoon; she'll be back later to go out for dinner. It was my choice—going out for a romantic dinner with Hayden, Jenny and Costa, or the whole family plus Hayden and Jenny. I chose the family night. Had my subconscious already decided?

Go ahead and do it. It's the right thing, it has to be done—has to be done now. Just pick up the phone and do it!

'Can you come over?'

'Is something wrong?'

'I need to talk to you.'

Threaten the kids with death if they don't leave us alone. Bronny rolls her eyes and Matt sings his favourite version of the wedding march; Hayden and I go out to the bench under the silky oak.

There's no easy way to do this; all I can do is blurt it out like a speech prepared for assembly.

'It's not working. I wanted to be with you because you're part of the way my life used to be—but I've got to stop pretending—it isn't like that any more. And you're—well, I guess you've got your reasons for wanting to be with me, but it's not love.'

The problem with working scenes out in your head is that the other person isn't always reading the same script. You forget that they might argue.

'Look, I know you've been pretty down lately, but I don't mind; I figure you'll snap out of it sooner or later. I don't care that much about going to parties and stuff anyway.'

'That's not the point!'

'You mean how you're not very interested in—you know?'

'Sex? I'm not interested?'

'That sort of stuff,' he mutters. 'But it's okay; that'll work out when you're healthier.'

'We never even kiss! How strong do I have to be?'

'How can I kiss you when I'm so scared of hurting you any more than I already have? All I can think about is what if we're pashing on and I push your neck a bit too far and break it again?'

Finally—the truth. 'That wouldn't happen,' I say more quietly, my anger dying in the face of an overwhelming sadness, for him, for me, for the people we used to be.

'Maybe—but just hurting you'd be bad enough! I've seen you when your neck goes into spasms—I'm not going to risk causing that.'

'So why are we going out?'

'Because . . . . look, it's your birthday and I care about you—isn't that enough?' and he looks so hurt I almost want to change my mind, but I can't, pity is not what a relationship is supposed to be about. On either side.

'I've thought a lot about this, Anna—I really mean it.'

I can't do this! Too hard, too hard . . . but I know I'm right. 'Hayden, we've been through a lot together and I'll always care about you—but we never really had a relationship. Maybe we would have if the accident hadn't happened; maybe it would have been great. But it's not—it's no good for either of us. We've got to break up.'

He gets up from the bench, shoulders tensed. 'You know your problem, Anna? You want everything to be perfect. We could have had something good if you'd just given it a try!'

The anger takes me by surprise. So does the present—a small square box with the jeweller's gift wrapping—and the kiss. I'm crying as he turns out of the driveway, but I've lost the last tiny doubt that this was the right thing.

Despite the death threats, Bronny and Matt are both plastered to the family room window. 'Anna and Hayden sitting in a tree,' Matt begins to chant. 'K-I-S-S-I-N-G.'

'Great; you can spell. Where's Mum? I've got to tell her Hayden's not coming for dinner.'