Sick Bay Page 5

  ‘Not really all over the place, Tina. And we’ve covered that. Riley’s promised she’ll do more consistent testing at school,’ says Eda, holding Mum’s stare. ‘Haven’t you, Riley?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘It’s her friendship group. It wasn’t like this in Sydney,’ says Mum. ‘She’s embarrassed to test in front of them.’

  ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Actually, it’s really common around this age for diabetics to want their lives to be more like their friends’. I think we can work together on this,’ says Eda, shooting me a reassuring smile.

  ‘She needs to take her condition seriously,’ adds Mum.

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ says Eda. ‘But I think it would help if Riley started meeting with the nurse and with me on her own. She needs to understand her body better so that she can look after it.’

  I want to grin at Eda for saying that. It’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell Mum for the past few months.

  Mum snorts like the idea is ridiculous. I notice she doesn’t actually argue with Eda, but I know she’s simmering because she’s chewing her lip like she’s biting down all the bad things she wants to say.

  I’ve only been seeing Eda for a bit over a year, but I feel like she’s on my side and she always answers me first. Sometimes she even calls my parents Mum and Dad instead of Tina and Marcus and I know it drives them mad. But I like it. It’s her way of telling them they are only here because I am.

  ‘Shoes off, Riley,’ says Eda.

  I’ve actually already unlaced my Converse because I’m one step ahead of her. I kick them under the table and stand up. I hate being weighed. Mum always follows us out to the scales and peers over my shoulder at the number to make sure I’m still within her narrow band of healthy.

  As Mum stands up, Eda shakes her head. ‘We can handle it today, Tina. Come on, Riley, let’s see how much you’ve grown,’ she says, leading me out to the corridor where the large metal scales wait.

  As I reach the door I look back at Mum and watch as she sits back down, brushing unseen fluff from her shoulder.

  Meg

  Mum didn’t make it out of bed for dinner last night, so I sat in the backyard with my book, a carrot and a tomato sandwich and read until the light disappeared, forcing me back inside.

  I checked in on her a couple of times. She had a headache that she said felt like her head was being split open. I refilled her glass of water and tried to find some painkillers in the medicine cupboard. All I found was an old packet of Dad’s heart medication tablets that he used to take every day to lower his cholesterol. They didn’t stop him having a heart attack though. His name had started to fade from the label, so I threw the packet out because I didn’t want to see him vanishing.

  Now I’m standing in my bedroom, getting dressed in my Gumby t-shirt and slippers. Every morning before I leave for school, I smooth the sheets and plump the pillow and make my bed the way Dad used to. My room’s just big enough for the single bed Dad built when I was three, an old white wardrobe covered in stickers and a desk that functions as a dumping ground for the few things I own. I have a photo of Dad and me, taken on the day he taught me to ride a bike, and one of Eleanora and me in a school parade. My favourite photo is of Dad standing on the front step with his arm slung around Mum’s shoulders and me squashed between them, beaming.

  I see a flash of Dad. His hands that seemed as big as plates. His smile. The jokes he’d tell that weren’t always funny, although because he was telling them we all laughed. Now we never talk about him. It’s like he just disappeared one day and we both agreed to never mention him again. Not that we discussed it. It just played out like that.

  When Dad was still around, I’d sneak into their room sometimes in the night and wiggle my way in between my sleeping parents. Mum smelt like soap and shampoo then. She always showered before bed, said it helped her sleep.

  I’ve kept some of the notes Dad used to scribble to me. He’d wedge them in my lunch box so that I’d find them when I was eating my cheese and cucumber sandwich with no crusts. His notes would be silly. A face poking out a tongue. A cow mooing over a fence. And me. He drew me all the time. Of course the drawings looked nothing like me. Just random little girls with straight fringes and gumboots on, although I always knew. I have a collection of them on my wall, just near my pillow. I say goodnight to them most nights.

  Dad gave me a love of telling stories and Vegemite and watching the stars. Mum gave me her turned-up nose, her shortness and her sometimes sadness, but I refuse to inherit her depression too. We both have brown eyes and brown hair and slightly freckled skin. She’s taller than me although not much. I bet Riley would probably be her height.

  Mum’s been off work for ten months now. She managed to work for eight months after Dad died, although then it all got too hard and her boss offered her some time off. That time off has just kept stretching and now she’s on sickness benefits from the government. It means money is pretty tight and there’s not much to run the house or pay bills or buy shoes. In winter, we have to be careful with the heating and mostly go to bed with blankets and hot water bottles, because gas is too expensive. I don’t mind the blankets. Or not having a phone. Although having some new shoes that fit my feet would be good.

  ‘Mum,’ I whisper, edging around her bed. I make it to the blind and start to lift it, flooding the room with sunlight.

  ‘Leave it, Meg.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. It hurts my eyes,’ she says, rolling over so she’s facing the wall.

  I let the blind drop, sealing us back in. She’s like a vampire, existing only in darkness.

  I lean down, as close as I dare, and touch her arm. ‘You okay, Mum?’

  ‘Yeah. Just tired. My headache’s gone. I’m sure I’ll be better tonight …’

  ‘I’m heading off now.’

  ‘Have a good day, honey,’ she whispers. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  I decide to lie. ‘Yeah. Cereal.’

  ‘Okay, Meg, love you …’

  And then, like a ghost, she’s gone, rolled away from me and snuggled into the bedclothes.

  Sometimes it’s hard to walk and breathe at the same time. I burst into the office using my hip to bang open the door. I clutch The Bag higher and closer to my mouth, using it to gasp for air. I notice the paper crinkles in and out as it shrinks and expands.

  ‘Come through, Meg,’ says Sarah, walking down the corridor and opening the door to Sick Bay.

  I follow her in. She plumps a pillow up on the chair in the corner and manoeuvres me into it. When I’m sitting down, I lean forward so that I can gulp more air.

  ‘Breathe in … breathe out …’ says Sarah.

  I suck too fast, like air is a lollypop at a party that a little kid will take off me if I don’t finish it quickly. She rubs my back and I force myself to stay within her reach. I spy the rim of dirt on the tips of my slippers where they poke out from under the chair, and hope nobody else feels the need to visit Sick Bay right now.

  ‘I bought crumpets. Are you hungry?’ she says quietly.

  I nod. I can smell the roses of Sarah’s perfume.

  The phone rings in the office.

  She stops rubbing my back. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ she tells me.

  The Sick Bay door opens and she taps it with her foot so that it shuts gently. And I’m alone.

  The bell hasn’t gone yet. Usually I’m not here quite so early, but I’m hungry.

  I take a normal breath and push all the air out of my lungs as hard as I can until The Bag is stretched to its limit. Then it softens. The paper walls relax and it starts to sag. I pull it away from my mouth, searching the edges. In the right-hand corner I see a tear – tiny and traitorous. I’ve popped a seam with all my air. Now I’m really going to need to find a new one. And soon.r />
  I’m smoothing down The Bag, brushing my hand along it, flattening it so I can fold it up and take it home and add it to my drawer, when Sarah comes back in. She holds out a plate with two lightly toasted crumpets covered in honey and butter. I haven’t had these for a while.

  ‘Not too cooked, right?’

  I nod, pleased she remembered I don’t like the edges too crunchy. I bite into the warm dough, dripping honey down my front onto Gumby. Lucky it’s washing night tomorrow.

  ‘How’s everything going?’

  ‘Good.’ I keep eating, wishing I could go slow but knowing I’ll be done in seconds.

  ‘I hear you’ve been picked to write one of the graduation speeches.’

  I look up into her concerned eyes.

  ‘I’m sure it will be fabulous, Meg,’ says Sarah kindly.

  ‘Are there any more?’ I hold up the now empty plate, smeared with yellow butter.

  ‘Oh … still hungry?’

  ‘It’s because honey is my life,’ I tell Sarah. She looks at me oddly. Her eyes crease around the edges, like she’s trying to work me out.

  ‘Meg?’

  Shrugging, I explain. ‘Winnie-the-Pooh. It was Dad’s favourite.’

  Her eyes widen and I see the wobbly lines of black eyeliner, drawn in a hurry as if she were running late for work.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and get more crumpets,’ she says. ‘Another two?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ I smile as she walks off down the corridor.

  I’m pretty sure that Dad never read Winnie-the-Pooh. He wasn’t a big reader, although he did tell me stories. Made-up ones, from his head. They were silly and funny and I remember the feeling of curling up against his warm arm to listen.

  I pull out Anne of Green Gables from my otherwise empty schoolbag and open the cover, holding it carefully so the spine doesn’t crack any further. Taking a breath, I start to read; I’ve scanned the words so many times, I know where they all sit on the page.

  The bell goes and I hear kids screaming and yelling out, stampeding their way to class. I wonder how long I can sit in here before Sarah sends me back.

  The door bursts open. I look up, expecting to see my crumpets. Instead, I see blood and a girl squawking with her head back and Riley helping that girl.

  Sarah rushes in behind them, and I don’t know where to look. I pretend I’m still reading although that seems callous given all the blood, so then I face the squawking and Sarah trying to find an icepack in the fridge.

  Riley has her hands in the blood, helping her friend. I can’t see the face of the other girl, just the stains of red dripping down her chin and top, like her skin has split a seam.

  ‘Here!’ Sarah wraps an icepack with paper towel and moves in front of the mess so I can’t see anything.

  ‘Press it down over the bridge,’ says Sarah.

  ‘Ow! Watch it.’

  Three dramatic words and I know immediately that the bloodied nose belongs to Lina. I sink into the chair, trying to shrink myself so my book covers me. I can’t escape. They block the only exit; I’m stuck.

  Sarah steps to one side, revealing me, and of course Riley glances across at exactly the same moment. She’s about to say something but stops herself, looking back to her patient and then to me. Her mouth moves slightly like there’s a smile brewing, although then she turns to Lina.

  ‘I think it’s stopped bleeding,’ says Sarah.

  ‘I’m going to kill Lachy! This top was an early birthday present!’ Lina says, glaring at the splatter of blood ruining the crisp pale green shirt. ‘Maybe I can make him buy me a new one.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it,’ says Riley quietly.

  ‘He needs to watch where he’s kicking the stupid ball!’ snaps Lina.

  A phone starts ringing and I know that means Sarah is about to dash off and leave me here – with them. I move Anne of Green Gables up even higher.

  ‘Back in a sec, girls,’ Sarah says as she disappears down the corridor.

  Time seems to move too fast, like bathwater speeding in circles down the drain. With my head behind the cover of the book I can’t tell if Lina has seen me. I stay as still as a statue.

  ‘I recognise those slippers. Looks like someone is hiding from us, Riley,’ says Lina.

  I drop the book. Lina’s eyes blink with shutter speed like she’s taking a photograph of me in all my Sick Bay glory. Then a smirk slides along one side of her face, never reaching the other, and she sniffs up the blood that must have started thickening in her nostrils.

  I decide to get in first. ‘The new look suits you, Lina,’ I tell her, clutching a hand across my heart to still the wild shaking in my chest.

  ‘Oh look, Riley, I was right. It is Slipper Girl. How you doing, SG?’

  I’ve been wearing slippers for over a week now, although until Riley commented on them in the locker area last week, the rest of grade six seemed not to have noticed. She must have told Lina about the nickname. I knew it was only a matter of time.

  Riley’s broken the allegiance rule of Sick Bay, and it makes my shoulders tense up, so I focus on Lina. ‘I’m faring somewhat better than you, I’d say.’

  Riley is flicking her gaze between Lina and me so fast, it’s like she’s watching a game of tennis.

  Lina moves closer. She’s taller than me and because I’m sitting down, she’s even bigger than normal. I could stand up, although I don’t want her to think I’m scared. Lina thrives on fear. She’s like a tiger patrolling the schoolyard, sniffing out prey.

  My mouth is coated in sticky honey and my stomach is squirming. I wonder what would happen if I threw up all over them.

  ‘Your slippers are so fetching, aren’t they, R?’

  R? Do they all go by single letters now? And why wasn’t it cool to have one-syllable names back in grade four? I look pointedly at R, hoping she’s not as much like Lina as Dash seems to think. Although she quickly looks away and then clears her throat.

  Lina grabs Riley’s hand, pulling her forward until they are both towering over me.

  ‘Don’t you just wish you could wear slippers to school too, R?’

  Riley fidgets with her fringe, fixing it just so. Usually Riley’s hair is messier, although today she and Lina look like a neat ponytail pair. Dash is right about one thing – they have matching hairstyles.

  ‘Yeah,’ she finally agrees, and I push back harder into the chair, wishing it would open up, suck me in and deliver me to another dimension.

  Lina steps even closer. ‘You really love hanging out in here, don’t you, SG?’

  I decide if she comes within reach of my leg, I’ll kick her – right in the shin. I can see Riley trying to catch my eye, although I refuse to give her anything. She sided with her friend. She’s not worth meaningful eye contact.

  Before Lina can wind up for another attack, Sarah comes sweeping back in without my crumpets.

  ‘Lina, I found a top in lost property that you can wear,’ she says, holding up a baggy striped t-shirt.

  Lina laughs. ‘No thanks. Maybe give it to Meg. She could do with some clothes. Looks like she spilt her breakfast on the top she’s wearing,’ she says sweetly.

  I make the mistake of looking down and hear Lina laugh. The honey that dripped from the crumpet has spread into a shiny blob on my chest. I should have just ignored her.

  ‘I’ll clean myself up in the bathroom. It’s less crowded in there!’ Lina grabs Riley by the arm and pulls her from the room. The door sighs although doesn’t shut. I can hear Lina’s cold laugh echoing down the corridor.

  I open my book, but Lina has disrupted my day so completely that even Anne with an ‘e’ cannot soothe me.

  Riley

  It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m shuffling around bills and school notices on the fridge so there’s room for Lina’s invite. The par
ty’s in less than two weeks and I’ve put off asking Mum long enough. I know my chances of going are small. But I have to try, because I hate the idea of missing out again. And I can’t imagine Lina will forgive me if I don’t go.

  ‘You ready for your line change, Riley?’ says Mum.

  I stand, looking at the fridge door, waiting for her to see the invite.

  ‘It’s at a hotel,’ she reads over my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah. It looks amazing. There’s a pool on the roof!’

  ‘Sorry, honey.’

  She shakes her head like it’s a given, then gets distracted and starts restacking the dishwasher because, apparently, nobody else in the house does it correctly.

  One. Two. Three …

  ‘Mum, I have to go! She’s turning twelve. It’s a big deal.’

  ‘Sorry, Riley,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I just don’t trust you being away for a night.’

  ‘But I’m responsible,’ I tell her, trying to keep the whine out of my voice.

  ‘Let’s do your line change then.’ She turns on the dishwasher and the sound of rushing water fills the kitchen. Then she walks past, expecting me to follow.

  I snatch the invite off the fridge and screw it tight, hurling it into the compost bucket. It bounces out again and I have to pick it up from the bench and drop it in.

  When I walk into the lounge, The Brain is sitting at the table with her laptop open, her sunglasses still on her head and her reading glasses on her face. It’s not often I see my mum looking less than perfect.

  ‘Line change?’

  ‘You took so long I started on my emails.’

  ‘I’m here now,’ I snap, more rudely than usual.

  ‘Your sister’s late,’ she says without looking up.

  ‘Um, double choir practice.’

  Jenna texted me to tell Mum she’d be late, like I’m her social secretary or, worse, her buffer so she doesn’t have to deal directly with Mum. I know the real reason why she’s late. His name’s Ash and, apparently, he’s cute with shaggy long hair and he texts her all the time. She thinks I’m clueless about it, but when you share a room, there’s not much you don’t know about each other.