Zac and Mia Page 7

  Helga?

  I can’t do this anymore

  Helga

  Neither can I. I switch off the iPad and tunnel under my blanket.

  I hear her spew in her toilet and I don’t care. I don’t have the strength for the both of us.

  At my rectangular window, I watch the patterns that people make below. Some stream in towards the entrance, carrying armfuls of flowers. Others scurry empty-handed back out to the street, feeding coins into the parking machine before scattering to the corners of the car park and driving to places far away.

  Mia’s mother moves in circuits, pausing at the concrete-edged garden to inhale cigarettes. She looks too young to be the mother of a teenager. She seems too anxious, as if she could take flight at any moment.

  To be honest, I miss mine. She knows how to be grounded when she needs to be, to make me do word puzzles even when I don’t feel like it.

  Mia’s mother takes a last drag and darts for the entrance below. A minute later she’s flitting past my door.

  A swarm of doctors follows her—at least five of them—and it’s not even the Monday ward round. I tug out my earphones and lean against the wall.

  I hear the door of Room 2 pushed open. I hear shoes arranging themselves inside. Soon, the solid clicking of Dr Aneta’s heels cuts through them.

  The last time there were that many doctors in my room they were celebrating the success of my first treatment with cupcakes and handshakes, before ushering me back to the real world. Perhaps Mia’s chemo finished early and she won’t need the fifth cycle. Perhaps she’s luckier than I imagined.

  After lashing out at me two days ago, she hasn’t bothered to make contact, so neither have I. What’s the point?

  ‘How are things, Zac?’ I hadn’t realised Nina had come in.

  ‘Just stretching my hammies,’ I say, pushing against the wall.

  Beneath my trackpants, my legs are pale and thin, but they remember what it’s like to run.

  ‘Well, I’m in the mood for playing COD.’ Nina turns on the Xbox.

  I make my way to bed. ‘After weeks of humiliation, you think you can beat me now?’

  ‘It’s my last chance.’

  But I shake my head. ‘Tomorrow,’ I say. I want to listen to the speech that will start at any moment. I doubt there’ll be cupcakes for Mia. I reckon the whole staff will be glad to see her go.

  Nina switches on my TV. ‘Happy Feet is on. I love Happy Feet, don’t you?’

  A penguin dances across the screen but its tapping isn’t quick enough or loud enough to block out what happens next door. It’s not a farewell speech. There are no hip-hip-hoorays.

  ‘Mia, listen.’ Her mother’s voice.

  ‘Listen, Mia.’ Dr Aneta.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask Nina, who’s trying to turn up the volume with my remote.

  Nina says, ‘It’s not working,’ and I don’t know if she means the remote or Mia’s treatment.

  ‘No,’ says Mia, again and again. And it breaks my heart. ‘No.’

  ‘We told you this was likely. You knew this,’ Dr Aneta is saying. ‘A limb salvage is standard procedure—the only procedure now.’

  ‘Try more.’

  ‘You’ve had four cycles already. More won’t shrink it. Listen, Mia—’

  ‘Mia, listen—’

  For a tumour like hers, surgery is a good option: a clean option. When the tumour’s removed and a new bone is grafted, her odds skyrocket. But the leg will take ages to heal, longer than the six weeks left to her formal. There’ll be months of rehab and a scar.

  ‘Ten or fifteen centimetres,’ Dr Aneta says. ‘Twenty at most.’

  I wouldn’t mind a twenty-centimetre scar up my leg if it meant scooping out all of my cancer. But then, I’m not Mia.

  ‘There’ll be no weight-bearing for some time. You’ll have a wheelchair—’

  ‘Like a cripple?’

  ‘Like a person who’s had surgery.’

  ‘I’m not going to my formal in a fucking wheelchair. It can wait till after.’

  If this was taking place in a children’s hospital there would be a team of empathetic staff on standby to say things like, We know the formal is important to you and we don’t want you to go in a wheelchair, but in the long run you’ll feel so much better. And the scar won’t be so bad. We’ll get a plastic surgeon. In a year, no one will even notice.

  But we’re not in a children’s ward and these doctors aren’t interested in vanity. That’s why Dr Aneta laughs—not in cruelty, but in disbelief.

  ‘Mia, this isn’t a game. If it’s left much longer, you’ll lose the leg. Worse.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Mia, you have to—’ says her mum.

  But Dr Aneta cuts her off. ‘I’ve booked the surgery for tomorrow morning. The sooner it’s done, the more chance there is to save the leg. After that, you’ll need more chemo—’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Four more rounds as a safeguard. I can time it so you have leave for the formal, but a wheelchair will be better than crutches. Surgery’s at nine, so you have to start fasting now, all right? Will you want sleeping tablets for tonight?’

  ‘I want another opinion.’

  ‘I’ll leave some here then, just in case. If you need something stronger, call a nurse.’

  And with that, the doctors exit the room and file past my door. Music I don’t recognise comes belting through the wall and the song is so loud and hard it forces Mia’s mum from the room as well. A minute later, I watch her dart from the entrance seven stories down, straight-lining for the car park.

  ‘I didn’t realise how thin these walls were,’ Nina says, reluctantly switching off the TV. ‘You want me to ask her to turn the music down?’

  ‘You feel that brave?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Let her be.’

  10

  ZAC

  The breath is faint on my neck when I register it. A hand is on my shoulder. Too soft to be real.

  Am I dreaming? Has a spirit come for me, after all?

  Behind me, a chest rises and falls. I draw out my own breaths to match. I’m not afraid. If it’s a spirit, it’s a kind one. A spirit with small hands.

  But do spirits wear socks?

  Fabric is pressed against my heels. Knees nestle into the backs of mine. I open my eyes in the darkness.

  ‘Mum?’ Perhaps my anxious mother’s come a day early. But I doubt she’d crawl into bed beside me.

  The hand is smaller than my mum’s. The breath reminds me of a vanilla milkshake.

  I feel a pulse in my foot. Why does the body do that? Why, sometimes, does a body part remind you that blood’s beating under the skin in places other than the heart?

  Then I realise it’s hers. Her pulse beats through the sock and tells me she’s alive too.

  The blankets cover us both. There are two blankets. How long has she been here?

  ‘Mia?’

  But she’s sleeping deeply, too distant to reach. I’m aware of all the parts of her that rest against me.

  I lengthen my breaths, making them slow and full.

  And that’s all I know.

  I stretch by the window and check out the cloudless sky that I’ll soon be under. I scan the horizon with the knowledge that Mum is on her way and in five hours I’ll be heading to that southerly point in the distance, leaving all this brick behind. Soon there’ll be no more bed that reclines in three ways, no call button, and no blue blankets.

  Blankets. There are two of them. And long hair on my pillow.

  A current forks through me.

  It happened. It was her. With her milky breath and fingers curled around my shoulder. It was real.

  I grip my door handle for the first time in forty-seven days and turn it clockwise. I pull it towards me then poke my head into the corridor. The length of it makes me giddy. I lean further out with a shoulder, then my chest.

 
Nina spots me. ‘Zac! Go back in. You need your final obs.’

  ‘Oh, come on, I’m going home soon.’

  ‘Then you can wait.’ She’s trying to hide the card they’ve been signing for me.

  I send a bare foot onto the lino and shift my weight onto it. The corridor is wider and shinier than I remember. I smell fruit toast. There are trolleys along the walls and framed paintings I’d never noticed.

  ‘Zac.’

  But I’m scampering along the wall, past the curtained windows, to the door with a ‘2’ on it.

  Knock.

  ‘Zac!’

  ‘I just want to say goodbye.’ The door whooshes open when I push it.

  Room 2 might be a mirror image of mine but it’s cold and empty. Even the bed’s gone. There’s nothing but an iPod dock on the bedhead and the word Fasting on the whiteboard above.

  Nina’s voice is behind me. ‘She’s gone, Zac.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘We wheeled her to 6A. Now get back to your prison cell for the final countdown.’ She tries manoeuvring me around but I hold tight to the doorframe.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  Nina’s eyes sweep the room before settling on the object. She walks across, picks it up and turns it over. A plastic ladybird has come free of its hairclip. In Nina’s palm it’s just a cheap, silly beetle with six indented black spots. I see she’s too tired, too kind, too young for this.

  ‘I didn’t hear her go,’ I say.

  Nina lets the ladybird drop into the lined bin, then hooks her arm through mine.

  ‘Come on, Zac. Let’s get you home.’

  PART TWO

  AND

  11

  ZAC

  ‘… and this year it goes to … Zac Meier.’

  I stop chewing. Was that my name?

  ‘Go on,’ says Mum. ‘Shake a leg.’

  Evan kicks me under the table. ‘You got an award, dickhead.’

  Sure enough, two hundred eyeballs are zeroing in on me. From the makeshift stage, Macka’s calling me up like I’m a prize puppy.

  ‘That’s it, Zac. Come on.’

  What the hell?

  I look to Bec. An award? For what? But she, Mum, Dad and Evan are clapping along with everyone else. I gulp what remains of my bread roll and sauce.

  Players and parents shift their knees as I weave to the front of the hall, scouring my memory for whatever I’ve done to deserve an end-of-season cricket award. Fielding outer from a camping chair?

  I’ve been out of hospital for fourteen weeks, and in that time I’ve only played four matches. Everyone’s seen how shit my bowling’s been. My fielding wasn’t too bad, on the one occasion the ball came within a metre of me. And my batting? I wasn’t even allowed. The reality is I don’t deserve a free Coke, let alone the trophy gripped in Macka’s hairy hand.

  Then it hits me: Best and freakin Fairest. It’s a sympathy vote at the best of times, rewarding good humour and ‘effort’, as opposed to any real skill. Everyone above the age of ten knows it’s a consolation prize. For once, I’m glad that my old mates aren’t around to witness this.

  Macka grabs me as I reach the top step. From here, I see the sweat beads on his forehead and the moist ellipses spreading out from his armpits. It’s embarrassing how much he relishes this.

  Macka turns me to face the crowd, holding me in case I run. Sympathetic faces shine up at me.

  ‘Many of you wouldn’t know it, but Zac was the kind of athlete who could have gone a number of ways: AFL, basketball, soccer, rugby. It didn’t matter the shape or size of the ball, Zac knew what to do with it. He always had good hands.’

  Eyes go searching for my hands so I push them deep into my jeans pockets.

  ‘Footy was a passion, but after he started feeling … not so flash … last year, I convinced him to spend more time with the “gentleman’s game”. Remember, Zac?’

  How can I forget? Footy wore me out so I had to do something else with my afternoons. It was either cricket or swimming. And who’d choose swimming?

  ‘Good hands, good speed, and a heart as big as Phar Lap’s. Even when Zac got … the bad news … he’d still turn up. When he could.’

  Macka’s too clumsy for this. Get back to the novelty awards, I want to tell him. Start on desserts—the mini pavlovas are getting soggy over there. If he drops the ‘C’ bomb, I’m legging it.

  ‘But he’s pulled through—again—and demonstrated real character, on and off the field. He even showed up to training on the day of his eighteenth birthday, cake and all. He’s a real team player, our Zac.’

  I’d love to stuff the trophy into Macka’s big mouth, but his next words come out choked up anyway.

  ‘We’re all proud of you, Zac. Even when you were in hospital, you’d be on the Facebook, checking our results and giving us encouragement. A real battler. No one deserves this award more than you.’

  And there it is—the final, backhanded compliment.

  I give two sarcastic thumbs-up, snatch the trophy, then jump off the stage. I take the side door, and keep on going. I jog across the floodlit field, past the pitch, the semi-circular soccer markings and the footy posts, aiming for beyond the field where floodlights can’t find me. Then I peg the trophy as far as I can into the unlit national park where, by day, mountain-bikers bump over rocks and grass-tree stumps. Tomorrow, there’ll be a new obstacle for them to avoid.

  I lean over to catch my breath. Each exhalation is a quick cold punch in the dark. I’m clear of leukaemia, I’ve got new marrow, so why does this have to follow me? Best and fucking fairest? I don’t want charity votes or pity prizes. I don’t want a big deal made out of just showing up.

  ‘If that’s how you throw, I’m surprised they gave you anything.’

  Bec. I should’ve known she’d follow.

  ‘Macka—’

  ‘Macka’s a knob. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah. But still …’ I spit and it tastes of tomato sauce. ‘He shouldn’t have said that. I just want to be …’

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You are, apart from when you’re hurling trophies onto the Bibbulmun Track and muttering to yourself.’

  ‘Besides that.’

  ‘Want to go back? There’s chocolate mousse.’

  It used to be my favourite, but now it’s considered too risky for my immune system, along with a dozen other things. Custard. Soft cheeses. Soft-serve ice-creams. Cold meats. Swimming pools. Saunas. Dust spores. Alcohol. I wasn’t even allowed one of the barbecued sausages.

  ‘Raw eggs,’ I remind her. ‘I can’t eat it.’

  ‘Neither can I.’ She rubs her seven-month baby belly.

  With her other hand, she rubs my back while I take in sharp jabs of air, glad of the dark.

  12

  Mia

  It’s dark. Thank god.

  There are no street lights. The moon’s behind clouds. Even the car’s interior light is broken.

  I’m glad Rhys has brought us back to King’s Park, across from the spot where we first made out. That time, we skipped the movie and drove up here. We admired the twinkling view, but not for long.

  Tonight, Rhys parks on the forest-side of the road, facing the trees. I’m glad; it’s even darker here.

  His car smelled of new leather that first night. I got a brain-freeze finishing my Slurpee in a hurry, afraid of spilling it. The radio played, and when that Lady Gaga song came on, Rhys grinned and took off his hat. He checked his hair in the mirror before shifting us both into the back. There was a blanket there, ready. His boot kicked the interior light and it cracked, making him swear, making me laugh. His kiss was rough and cold, Coke and raspberry. His stubble scoured my neck, my breasts, my thighs, leaving a rash that stayed for days.

  Tonight, he’s tacos and aftershave. I peel off my top and guide his hand to my new bra. I hold his fingers there, wanting him to feel the beaded bow in the middle. I move his other palm to the flat of my stomach, sliding his fi
ngers down to my jeans, then underneath, to the start of the matching undies. I want him to remember the feel of me. ‘God you’re hot,’ he used to moan.

  ‘Wait.’ He stops. ‘I don’t think …’

  Rhys isn’t supposed to think. He’s supposed to sigh, his back a slick of sweat, grabbing and grunting on the tidy leather seats. ‘Christened it,’ he said after that first time. ‘The car,’ he clarified, grinning and pulling his hat back on.

  But now he puts his hands back on the steering wheel. He concentrates on the forest as if he’s a fucking botanist all of a sudden.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We broke up,’ he says.

  ‘We?’ He was the one who let my calls go to voicemail. He was the one who stopped answering texts. No, we didn’t break up. He backed out.

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘What? Fuck me?’

  ‘No. Yes.’

  I hadn’t intended to go all the way, just far enough to get him interested. ‘You don’t think I’m …’ What’s the word I need? Pretty? Fuckable? ‘Anymore?’

  ‘Don’t do this to me.’

  I grab his hand again and push it down my jeans. I want him to want me. My other hand unzips his fly. Even when he nudges me away, I touch him the way he likes. I want him to grow hard and hot in my hand as proof that I’m still sexy, that I can still make him moan.

  But he doesn’t. He grips my wrist and stops me, all the while staring into bushland.

  ‘There’s no point.’

  I laugh. He never did get irony.

  ‘You’re an arsehole.’ I grab my backpack from the floor and grope the back seat for my T-shirt and crutches. I pull the shirt on. ‘And a coward.’ I throw open the car door and swivel into the cool night air. When I stand, my crutches crunch into gravel.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Mia. I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Well, where? Erin’s?’

  ‘No.’ I’m not going back there. Her mum corners me with questions, thinking she already knows the answers.

  ‘Or your other friend,’ he suggests. ‘That skinny one.’