The social worker looks no older than Lena but is dressed like she’s on a filming break from Real Housewives of Sydney: skin-tight black jeans, open-toed leopard-print stilettos, a fuchsia singlet with leopard-print bra straps peeking out. Her black, arse-length hair is unnaturally straight and shiny, and her nails are, Nic has to admit, both edgy and immaculate: rounded tips, deep, true navy blue polish, satin-finish, not gloss. She tucks her own split and naked nails into her clenched palms.
‘We’re meeting today because concerns have been raised about the circumstances in which you were injured,’ the social worker says from behind a desk piled with papers. The walls are plastered with posters about DEPRESSION and ANXIETY and BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER, about SUICIDE and HANDWASHING and NATURAL MOOD BOOSTERS. There’s a calendar displaying all of last year against a backdrop of sunflowers. A newspaper clipping whose headline is too small to read. A child’s drawing of a family with purple faces and hair in front of a house as small as the purple dog.
‘I’d love it if you’d tell me in your own words, Nicole, how you came to hurt yourself?’
On their last Sunday lunch date, Nic and Lena had eaten salads as big as their heads and drunk prosecco and flirted with the hot young waiter who brought them limoncello on the house and asked when they’d return, and Lena had spoken in excited whispers about this boy she was crushing on and Nic had told Lena about Jase from the stockroom and shocked them both by admitting she wouldn’t mind a ride. When they were paying, the flirty waiter had asked if they were sisters and Nic had rolled her eyes, said she could never get on so well with her actual sister.
And now, here is Lena, grey-skinned and baggy-eyed, smile like a slapped-on sticker. A middle-aged, careworn daughter nodding encouragingly at her decrepit parent to go ahead and tell the nice lady what happened.
‘I climbed on the desk so I could hang something on a hook.’ She hears and hates the wobble in her voice. ‘I misjudged the edge and fell. Big whoop. I can’t be the only person to have fallen off some furniture while trying to reach something high.’
‘Of course,’ the social worker coos, making deep sympathetic arches of her brows, ‘accidents like yours happen quite often. What we’re concerned about is the circumstances in which you were found. The space in which you fell is what we could describe as cluttered or congested.’ She inclines her head as though she has asked a question. When no one answers, a look of disappointment crosses her face and she presses her beautiful fingertips together and continues: ‘We’re concerned that the clutter may have exacerbated the damage caused by the fall.’ Another pause, during which she looks down at her desk, nods gently as though all is explained there. ‘It certainly made it very difficult, Nicole, for the emergency services to reach you quickly.’
‘It wasn’t very difficult,’ Lena says. ‘I mean, it took a couple of minutes to clear the hallway for the, um, stretcher and that. No big deal, really.’
The social worker turns her pity-filled gaze away from Nic towards the speaker of these true and necessary words: no big deal. Lena knows! And she’s young and clever and in one piece so will be heard.
‘I’m only going off the report I’ve been given,’ the social worker says. ‘And it indicates that the clutter was a complication during patient retrieval. In any case, ah—’ she looks down at the papers on her desk ‘—Lena, we’re concerned, as well, that the cluttered nature of your aunt’s living space presents several ongoing hazards, increasing the likelihood of another fall or of items falling on her. There’s also the fact her home represents an unacceptable fire risk due to the amount of flammable materials accumulated and the inaccessibility of electrical connections and power cords in case of emergency.’
If she could walk away she would. She can’t even slam her fist on the desk. Maybe she could raise her hand and stick up a finger, but it would hurt. Speech is all she has and her weak and whiny voice adds to the humiliation: ‘Am I really being lectured and threatened because my house is messy? Is that what we’ve come to in this country?’
The woman smiles at her, not unkindly. ‘Nobody is lecturing you or threatening you, we’re merely con—’
‘Concerned, yes, you keep saying. And I do consider being told I’m not allowed to return to my own home a threat, actually. What else can you call it? Wait, don’t tell me! Concern.’
‘There are services available to help you, but you need to be willing to let them. Let us.’
‘What kinds of services?’ Lena asks.
The social worker hands a pamphlet across the desk. Nic manages to read Treating Hoarding Disorder before Lena flips it over on her lap.
‘That’s a more long-term approach for your aunt. In the shorter term, we can look at getting some commercial cleaners in. Some councils offer a subsidy in cases where there’s a threat to public health.’ ‘Public health! Are you fucking kidding me?’ There’s her voice! Hearing it is like a steadying hand of a friend on her back. ‘There is nothing unhealthy about my home! I’m not one of these mad people with thirty-five-year-old steaks in the fridge and cockroaches swarming over the toilet seat. It’s fucking pristine. I spend half my pay on Pine O Cleen and Glen 20 and all the rest. More hygienic than this bloody place, I’ll tell you that. Need to wear a contamination suit to go for a piss in here!’
‘Nic.’ Lena’s hand stroking hers. ‘Calm, yeah?’
‘Nah, actually. This is a bloody insult and I’ve had enough of it. Public health! I’m leaving here today. Call the police if you want. I’d love to see them arrest me for having a messy house. Bring it on.’ She tries to reverse the wheelchair; it moves a skidge then hits the wall.
‘I can see you’re upset, Nicole,’ the social worker says. ‘I tell you what: I’m going to go and get us all a nice cup of tea. While I’m doing that, you two have a chat about the way forward.’ She hands Lena a little stack of pamphlets from her desk. ‘Some more ideas there. I’ll be back to talk through some solutions.’
Nic waits until the clicking of those ridiculous shoes has faded into the hallway. ‘Lena, please. Get me out of here before she comes back. I can’t take it.’
‘I really think—’
‘At least move your bloody chair so I can get myself out. I’m done with this conversation.’ She rolls herself as far back as she can, rams the wall, not entirely by accident.
Lena squeezes her arm, not hard, but enough to still her. ‘Nic, they won’t let you leave until we sort this. Even if your place wasn’t … No matter what it’s like, you can’t be on your own right now. I know this sucks, but it’s just how it is. Let the doctors take care of you here a bit longer. While you’re getting better, I’ll organise the cleaners so the social worker will get off your back.’
‘No! I don’t want anyone in my house. I can’t stand the thought, Lena. Please. Please. Don’t let them get bloody cleaners in. I’ve seen those TV shows. I know how it goes. All my stuff’ll be piled up on the front lawn for the neighbours to gawk at.’ The tears are coming and sweat is tormenting the cut on her forehead and she is trapped—actually trapped—in this grim little office. ‘Just kill me now if you’re going to let them do that to me.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ Lena sighs, rubs her eyes. ‘Let me do it then. No cleaners, nothing on the front lawn. Just me making sure there’s enough clear floor space for you to get around safely.’
She has let things get out of hand. She realises that. But to have Lena clean up after her is too much. It’s supposed to be Nic helping her, sorting out her blips and stumbles.
‘I could stay there for a bit while I’m tidying. I need a break from the res hall anyway. It’s driving me nuts.’
The morphine is wearing off. Her spine reverting to molten steel. The pain will become too much very soon.
‘It’s the best way forward. Seriously.’
Lena back at the house. Maybe it won’t be so bad. It’s her house, too, Nic has always said. Both the kids and Michelle. How had she let herself forget that? It was Mum’s house, meant for them all. Lena could make it good again, the family home.
‘How will you know what to do with everything? What if you chuck something that I need?’
Lena’s face relaxes, which makes everything easier. ‘I won’t. I promise. Anything important I’ll keep for you to look through later.’
‘This is the problem! You can’t see.’ Nic’s heart is racing again, the blood flooding her temples. Lights shudder behind her eyelids. ‘It’s all important! Why would I have it otherwise?’
‘What about the newspapers in the hallway? They’re digitised these days, you know. Anything you want to find in those papers, you can look it up online.’
Like she’s an idiot luddite! There’s no way Lena can understand that the stacks lining her hallway are not about finding anything. She could never tell her brilliant niece about the night she went to pub trivia with Lala from work and blazed like a fireball through the TV and Music categories and everyone was cheering for her but then it was Current Events and she didn’t know a single answer except who the prime minister was, and even then she was wrong, not in her answer, but in excitedly leaning forward to write the answer, because everyone else knew it was only there as a joke question because of the recent political turmoil. That she thought she was smart for knowing the PM’s name when even the slurring, cockeyed bloke with half his teeth missing cackled at the question. Even him in on the gag while she’s earnestly filling in the form.
How can Lena, whose brain is like a miracle and who goes every day to a place that literally exists only to create and share knowledge, possibly understand?
The social worker comes back into the room with a cardboard tray holding three styrofoam cups, a teabag string dangling from each. ‘How’d we go, ladies?’
‘I think we’ve come up with a plan,’ Lena says.
‘Wonderful. Let’s hear it.’ The woman puts cups in front of Lena and Nic.
If she could reach without too much pain she would knock the boiling water all over the desk. ‘The pain is very bad,’ she says instead. ‘I need to lie down.’
‘Of course. As long as you’re happy for Lena to fill me in, we should be able to do without you.’
‘You okay with that, Nic?’
Of course she isn’t. Doesn’t matter, does it? She nods.
The social worker mumbles into her desk phone and in a few minutes an orderly appears and wheels her from the room.
‘It’ll be all right, I promise,’ Lena says as she leaves.
My arse it will, Nic thinks. My fat arse.
Back in the ward, Nic soothes herself by imagining returning to work the way she used to, as a kid, think about the upcoming school holidays. She sees herself walking (easily, smoothly) towards the front of the store, greeting Jo and Ahmad and Mel and Maria and Lala, all gathered around the security grille waiting for the manager to arrive and open up for the day. They exchange bits of gossip and complaints about the weather or the bus or train. Ahmad and Maria might have some news to share about their kids, Jo and Mel and Lala about their grandkids. Nic might boast about Lena’s latest triumph or show off her newest manicure.
The manager arrives and they all stand about awkwardly not looking at his bum crack as he squats to unlock the grate. It clangs clangs clangs up up up and they file in, taking off coats if it’s winter, fanning their faces in summer, waiting for the air con to kick in, which will happen four minutes after the power board is switched on. The lights come on right away and this—this—this—this is the bit which makes Nic’s tummy lurch with excitement. Sometimes in her mental run-through she gives in to temptation and skips the waiting and the chitchat, jumping straight to this moment, but it’s better when she makes herself hang on. Like foreplay, it is.
So, the main event. Nic walks through the store on her way to the staffroom, ten minutes until opening. The store is bright and clean and though not quiet—the staff are chattering around her and the manager is running through the specials and promotions for the day—it is quieter than it will be again until closing. On her left, the row of registers stretching to the far side of the store; from this angle she can see the neat racks of magazines fronting the area where customers will queue. She can’t make out the individual magazines from here, but she knows if she were to turn right and walk in front of the registers she would find Women’s Weekly and Woman’s Day and Who and New Weekly and House and Garden and Women’s Health. Maybe a special edition cookbook attached to one of the main titles, or a seasonal collector’s edition.
She keeps walking straight ahead down one of the three extra-wide aisles that divide the store into departments. On her right is Ladies Wear, and as long as she’s not running late she’ll allow herself a few minutes browsing. It’s important to know what’s in stock. On any given day she might find a new range of sundresses, four different prints and ranging from sizes 6 to 24. Or a restock of the oversized t-shirts with retro band logos on them. Guns N’ Roses and Metallica and Def Leppard popular with both ironic teens and sincere fans like her. Today, she imagines the first of the winter stock coming through: thick woollen jumpers in rich jewel tones, and corduroy pants in dark berry and chocolate brown. She runs her hands over the fabric of the pants, pinches the thickness of the jumpers between her fingers, feels a surge of warmth and comfort.
But time is getting on—the others are already in the staffroom securing bags in lockers, finishing takeaway coffees. Nic walks on, glancing longingly at the Children’s Wear version of the new winter gear—darling corduroy pants with nappy-accommodating oversize seats; plush jumpers which look much like the adult ones but she knows will be made from one of the new-era synthetics that are flame-retardant and softer than wool but just as warm.
Onwards, past Shoes on her right and Electronics on her left. Ah, it makes her heart sing that they still sell DVDs and CDs. Funny how almost everyone who buys these supposed relics comments on their backwardness. Ah, yeah, I’m old school, hey. I know everyone’s doing Netflix or whatever but I can’t be bothered with all that. And Nic says, I know what you mean, and they feel like a rebel, a true iconoclast, not knowing they’re the eighth person that day who’s said it.
Almost at the back of the store now, she looks far to her left, past Electronics, where the edges of the next aisle are visible: Toys. Her very favourite, which is why she never walks that way if she can help it because how would she ever leave them? The delicate-faced baby dolls in slippery satin dresses and the bright, bold building blocks and darker, metallic engineering-inspired ones. The games with their boxes promising hours of fun for the whole family, and the army and spaceman toys which all have angry faces but sweet little moulded arms and legs, not to mention the tiny clothes—camouflage and space suits and all kinds of things with arm and leg holes smaller than her pinkie finger. The preciousness is too much. She looks away towards the edges of the abutting section—Homewares—another danger zone what with all the crates and filing solutions and pillows and lamps and—
Too much, too much, she’s reached the end. She steps into the relative darkness of the staffroom—no fluoro lights in here, just a single regular bulb in the centre of the room. Her workmates are adjusting their collars and pinning on their badges, and she does the same. In a minute she’ll be up front opening her register, and a new kind of thrill will begin as she waits in place and the objects come past her, surprise surprise surprise. A whole day of that—now a pair of bamboo-fibre undies, now a cookbook and striped apron gift pack. Now here’s a box of glass tumblers with a blue tint and now look at this rattan and synthetic mix welcome mat. Now a crimson lipstick, now a skein of pale blue wool, now a pair of men’s slippers, tartan with non-slip soles. A Chupa Chup, a fan heater, a birthday card with a duck on the front, a corkscrew, a packet of paperclips, a battery-operated fire engine, a chequerboard-patterned phone cover, a framed print of a sailboat against a stormy sea, a child’s easel, a pair of safety scissors, opaque winter-weight tights, an amber lampshade, a box of home hair dye (burgundy), a shiny red backpack, a ceramic flower pot, a cheese grater, four pillows and four plain white pillowcases, an espresso machine, a tube of toothpaste. Each one passing through her hands, each one lending her a bit of its spirit, showing her, even if for only a millisecond, what might be possible.
She’s drifting in this lovely place when Lena texts to say: How messy was HER office, hey? Might have to report her to the authorities. Those 
combined with all that paper, disaster waiting to happen.
She blows a kiss at the phone, knows Lena is still her girl, will back her against these lunatics.