Zac and Mia Page 10

  But then there’s a tap.

  And a face at the window.

  I see it and fall, staggering backwards as the past pitches madly, impossibly towards me.

  The girl forces up the window and thrusts out an arm. Shhh! her flexed hand warns. Be still.

  I still myself, my knees and elbows tangled in doona. I find a breath, then another, while the girl hovers there, silhouetted by stars. Is she human?

  The hair is thick and short. Her eyes are large. ‘Mia?’

  She brings a finger to her lips. Her eyes inspect my darkened room then her hand swivels and, palm upward, beckons me.

  Her skin is cold. I take her forearm to help her through the window but she lands badly and both of us twist and crumple in doona.

  Above me, she’s vanilla and ice and fear.

  ‘Mia?’ I ask again, though I don’t need to.

  I crawl free and she draws my blankets around her. Then, without explanation or apology, she rolls to her side, facing my bedroom wall.

  I prop myself against the bed frame, wide awake and stunned with wonder.

  I’ve helped rescue all kinds of animals. For as long as I can remember, Bec and I would pull on boots and jackets and follow Dad to the ute. How many goats have we pulled free from fences? How many parrots have we wrapped in old towels? Countless cardboard boxes watched over on the rattly drive home.

  I’ve helped rescue plenty, but that’s where it ends. It was always Dad who fixed them.

  Mum would toss up her arms in despair as another lamb was placed in the oven on low heat, the door left open. Other times, Dad would put on his Speedos and sit in a warm bath, dripping water over a baby alpaca given up for dead by its mother. Its head would loll and loll until eventually it snorted air. Dad believed heat could bring back the dead.

  I wonder what he’d say about this: a girl in my room, sleeping as if on an edge.

  She seems warmer, at least, but it might only be on the surface. What would Dad do now?

  Daylight creeps across her. I watch her slow breaths, aware of my own. Mia—it has to be. Even though her hair’s now blonde, with a too-straight fringe.

  Each noise freaks me out. The creak of floorboards in the laundry. Mum? Dad and Evan driving down to the olives. Outside, the crazy clucking of chooks. Bec will be feeding the newborns and she’ll be wondering where I am.

  I tiptoe to the window and peer through the curtain. I see roosters and chickens pecking by the hayshed. Bec’s out of sight.

  I let the curtain drop and when I turn, the girl has one eye watching. Hair veils the rest of her face but she doesn’t brush it away.

  ‘Hey.’

  She says nothing. Just keeps her one eye on me.

  I can’t match her stare so I look down at my hands. I don’t know what to do with them. What happens now?

  ‘How did—’ I begin, then stop. How can wait. ‘Mia?’ I ask, needing confirmation. ‘Are you lost?’

  It’s stupid. Of course she’s not lost. A Perth girl doesn’t leave her house, take a wrong turn and end up on the southern coast of Western Australia.

  Quick footsteps come at us and Mia’s eyes widen. She sits up. My doorknob rattles.

  ‘Zac, you in there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I croak.

  ‘Why is the door locked? You getting up? I’m doing sheets.’

  But my sheets are wrapped tight around the girl who’s eyeing off the window as an escape route.

  ‘Can’t a guy sleep in?’ I call out. ‘Even God rested on a Sunday.’

  ‘God? Are you all right, Zac?’

  ‘I’m trying to speed-read chapter seven of Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘Sheets?’

  ‘Nah, thanks. I haven’t shat myself in months.’

  ‘Male,’ Mum mutters. ‘Don’t stay in all day, Bec’s got her hands full.’

  We wait for her footsteps to peter out. Mia’s back is pressed against the wall.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, though I’m not sure why.

  Short hair falls either side of her face and I see it’s not the same face that looked through my hospital window. She’s not the same girl anymore, and it isn’t just the hair.

  Her gaze slides across my skin. Without a shirt on, I feel suddenly vulnerable. She’s checking me over, her eyes snagging on the scars: the one at my right pec, the old one at my neck, the dots on my inner arms. She knows where to find them. The proof seems to relax her a little.

  ‘It is you,’ she murmurs. ‘Helga, you look different.’

  ‘It’s Zac,’ I say. ‘Yeah. So do you.’

  ‘Your eyes are grey.’

  ‘They’re more like blue.’

  ‘They look grey.’

  She brushes away her fringe and I run my hands through my own hair, leaving my fingers linked behind my head, the way Dad does when assessing a situation.

  Where do I start? This girl’s materialised from a white-walled room fourteen weeks in the past, 500 kilometres away.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  She blinks, looks down at the floorboards.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She starts to speak but her words catch in her throat, as if they’ve got barbs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, even though I shouldn’t.

  On my last day in hospital, when I went to thank Nina one last time, I saw the way she’d pivoted down the corridor and walked in another direction. I suspected then that Mia’s surgery hadn’t gone well, but what could I do? Mum talked too much on the drive home, as if she’d known, somehow, then pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through without prompting, even though my craving for a burger had gone. Later in the day, Mia would be waking, heavy with anaesthetic and painkillers and whatever sedatives they could justify. But what would she be waking to? How bad was the scar? I didn’t know, for sure. And I couldn’t ask.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  Her face tightens.

  A screen door bangs and Mum calls the chickens to scraps. Soon she’ll be getting the till ready in the store. Bec will be checking for newborns and corpses, and I should be helping.

  Outside is noisy, but in here, I can’t think of what to say. Mia drags my doona over her head, shrouding herself.

  ‘What do you want? Mia?’

  She stays quiet, hidden.

  What would Dad do? Walk away? Scoop her up in his arms? She’s too big for the oven.

  I pull on a T-shirt and walk out of the room. In the kitchen, I make a cheese and tomato toastie with sauce. While it cools down, I microwave some Milo with milk, then carry the lot to my room. She’s still hidden under the doona, so I put them on the floor.

  Then I leave again, taking my novel to the couch, where I pretend to read chapter seven. I pretend for hours.

  When Bec comes to check on me, I tell her I’m sorry, that I’ve got to get three chapters finished. She believes me and I feel guilty for lying.

  I don’t know what life is like for Mia. Not really. I don’t know what’s brought her here, of all places, when she has such a vocal, adoring fan club in Perth, a whole other world away.

  I wait another ten minutes then go back, opening the door to a crumple of doona and an empty cup and plate.

  Mia’s standing deep in my cupboards, rummaging through stored things: boxes of Lego, a signed football, an old stamp collection, two copies of Playboy. I don’t cringe—they’re from years ago when bodies were novelties.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She turns, clutching magazines. ‘Helga.’

  ‘Zac. What are you doing?’

  She sniffs as if for the last time. ‘I need money.’

  18

  Mia

  He offers me forty bucks from his second drawer but I close my eyes and drive my fingers into my temples. I’m not in the mood for this.

  ‘What? The jocks are clean,’ he laughs.

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  I don’t have time for jokes. Beneath the doona, I’d made a new Plan D: Albany, Adelaide, Sydney.
I checked the bus times on my phone. The new Plan D needs money, not a stand-up fucking comedian.

  ‘Have you got more?’

  He points to a Milo tin. ‘There’s a year’s worth of coins in there. It’ll be heavy though … Better yet, there could be some valuable stamps in that collection.’

  ‘Something else.’

  I scan the room looking for anything of worth. There’s so much crap in here—posters, trophies, a signed football, a globe, weights and a chin-up bar behind the door. The room stinks of Lynx and dirty socks. Why do guys’ bedrooms always smell the same?

  ‘What’s this?’

  He squeezes the metal thing in demonstration. ‘A wrist strengthener.’

  ‘Fuck, how strong do you want a wrist to be?’

  He shrugs. ‘The physio said it was a good idea …’

  In a corner there’s a TV, a PlayStation 3 and a pile of games. Pinned to a corkboard is a booklet and a list of ‘Banned Foods’.

  ‘They gave me one of those. Not as … extensive as yours, though. No pâté for twelve months? Helga, how do you cope?’

  On the desk is a laptop, an iPod and a messy pile of CDs. The top one has handwriting I recognise. Lady Gaga—for Rm 1.

  I pick it up and trace the blue pen with my finger. I remember writing it for him, though it feels like two lifetimes ago.

  It was a strange request, I thought at the time. I could have given him the original CD, but I chose to hang onto it. I kept everything Rhys gave me. Instead, I copied the album and slipped it under his door. I didn’t expect him to keep it.

  I remember his knock on the wall that first day, like he had something to tell me. I remember overhearing conversations with his mum, his voice more interesting and real than anyone else’s in that hospital. And I remember how pale and sad he was when he didn’t know I was watching.

  I put the CD down. I haven’t come all this way to reminisce.

  ‘How much is in your bank account?’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Shit, Mia, you can’t … I mean … don’t you …’

  ‘What? Tick-tock.’

  He leans against the orange curtain and crosses his arms.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in three months. Okay technically, I never really did see you, except through the window. And now you turn up from nowhere, scare the flying crap out of me, and ask for money? It’s not exactly … you know …’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘Normal.’

  ‘Nothing’s normal anymore, is it, Helga? For either of us. Besides, I’m not exactly robbing you. It’s more like a loan.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you owe me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For lying.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  I stomp my left crutch and it jars us both.

  ‘You lied.’

  He looks at the rubber stopper pressed into the floor. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You told me I was … you said I was the luckiest on the ward.’

  He seems pale again. Is he swaying, or am I?

  ‘You were.’

  I stamp the floor again.

  ‘You are,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s not my fault,’ he tells me, and he’s right. None of this is his fault, but it’s not mine either.

  ‘You told me I should trust you.’

  He nods, remembering. He’d said that and more. He told me things I shouldn’t have believed.

  ‘I need a friend,’ I lie. ‘And about three hundred bucks to get to Sydney. My aunt Maree lives there—she’s expecting me. I’ll pay you back once I get there. I’ll transfer it directly, with interest, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Arms folded, he takes his time. I think he’s trying to read me, so I do my best to keep my face on straight. If I look away, he’s got me.

  ‘Mia, it’s not the money I’m worried about.’

  I can’t cry yet, not until after, when I’m on a bus out of here, then another, and another, where no one asks questions about my leg, where I’m going or what I’m leaving behind. I need to go so far I forget what I’m crying about.

  So I fake a smile and laugh. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Zac.’ I use his name deliberately, and he smiles too. My heart’s hammering so hard he can probably hear it. He deserves better, I know, but I don’t have a choice.

  ‘You’re a friend, Zac, a good friend. And I trust you. I’ll pay you back, okay? I’ve organised this with my aunt. She’s got a place you can see the harbour bridge from. It’ll be sweet. Trust me.’

  His blue-grey eyes burrow into me, further than I want them to. I wonder what he sees.

  Then he relaxes and nods.

  Fuck, I think. This is going to hurt us both.

  ‘Riding a … quad bike is number … six … on my banned list,’ he shouts as the wheels find every hollowed ditch along the back driveway. The bike plunges and lurches and I’ve got to hold tight to the grips behind him. My crutches are pressed against his back. ‘The doctors say … it’s too easy … to come off.’

  ‘So don’t come off,’ I yell.

  The bike bounces and I smack my chin on his shoulder. Blood’s bitter in my mouth.

  ‘Then don’t wriggle,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not wriggling.’

  We finally make it to the highway, where Zac pushes up through the gears. I hold onto my wig and lean forward. His hair whips at my lips.

  ‘Why are you going so slow?’ I shout.

  ‘It’s as fast as this one goes.’

  The quad bike straddles the verge and the highway as cars roar by. We pass rows of trees to the right, then a cheese factory, a cidery and a pear orchard. I’d come this way last night after walking from the hostel in the dark, but I hadn’t noticed the signs. I’d been focusing on the gravel in front of me, taking one slow step at a time. I was zombie-tired and it took forever.

  We pass a cricket field and a school, then take the turn-off for town. Zac doesn’t go down the main street, but veers us around the back of a quiet car park.

  He idles the engine then turns it off. ‘You okay?’

  I release my hands from the grips and shake them. ‘I’m alive.’

  ‘Mum would kill me …’

  Backpack on, I make good speed with the crutches. I should—I’ve had enough practice. Zac has to jog to catch me.

  ‘Were you always so fast?’

  ‘Sportsgirl of the Year, Como Primary, two years running.’

  I was even faster when I reached high school, playing centre for club netball until it eventually dawned on me that getting up early on Saturday mornings actually sucked. I soon learned there were better things to do with weekends.

  ‘Were you always so slow?’ I say, though I know better. I’ve seen his Facebook photos and old videos uploaded by his footy team. I’ve seen him. He’s fast.

  Was fast. I have to remind myself we’ve both shifted tense.

  ‘You’re so slow my gran could beat you,’ I say.

  ‘I thought you said your gran died.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The sight of the bank’s logo cranks up my speed. The crutches dig at my armpits and my leg throbs, but I can’t slow down now. I won’t want to be mucking around with money or goodbyes when the bus pulls into town.

  But the bank’s doors don’t slide open for me. I move toward the sensor, then away, but nothing.

  ‘Fuck. Seriously?’

  I pull my phone from my backpack to check the time. It’s 8.50—too early for banks. I see there’s a message from Shay.

  WTF? I cant believe u did that

  And another from Mum.

  Mia, where the hell are you?

  Delete. Delete. I chuck the phone back into my bag.

  ‘So how’d you get here, then, without money?’

  I cup my hands to peer through the glass. Where is everyone?

  ‘The Greyhound. Perth to Adelaide.’

  ‘You�
�ve already got a ticket?’

  I pull it out of my pocket and flash it at him.

  ‘The driver stopped for a smoke at every bloody town, so I got off at this one for a Diet Coke from the machine. One of your petting farm brochures was there.’

  ‘In the Coke machine?’

  ‘Beside the machine, in one of the tourist stands … Then the shuttle bus turned up and I thought, what the hell?’

  ‘You came? I didn’t see you.’

  ‘You weren’t looking. I thought I could just get another bus, but the drivers are wankers. I’m seriously busting for a pee. Where is everybody?’

  ‘At home, probably. It’s Sunday.’

  I glare at him. He’s right. Why didn’t he say something earlier? Is he trying to mess with me?

  ‘My brain’s foggy,’ he says. ‘Not much sleep, for some reason … There’s an ATM about a block away.’

  Goddamn, I really need to pee. I can’t think straight.

  ‘The toilets are over there.’ Zac points to a cream-coloured block. ‘Why don’t you go, I’ll get the cash, and I’ll meet you back here in five, yeah?’

  ‘Not just a pretty face, Zac.’

  He beams and it looks good on him, better than I could’ve imagined. I appreciate it for a couple of seconds, hoping to remember it.

  ‘You better go.’

  ‘Yep, hold my bag,’ I say.

  I make the mad sprint to the toilets. Even on crutches, I reckon I could still break school records.

  19

  ZAC

  I watch her go, click creak, click creak, click creak. Her blonde wig sways with each swing of the crutches. I see how the left leg of her jeans hangs at an angle.

  Then I duck behind the side of the bank, kneel on the cement—what choice do I have?—and dig through her backpack. There’s a jumble of clothes and crap. There are bandages and pills. There’s a purse with cash and a provisional driver’s licence showing how she used to look, with long hair, cherry lip gloss and a knock-’em-dead smile. It’s the kind of beauty that catches people off guard. It’s a face you’d do anything to please. I want to please her, but not like this.

  I search her mobile. There’s no Maree under M, or aunt under A. There have been no outgoing calls for ten days. There are some older texts, though, from her mum, wanting to know where she is. But no replies.