Sick Bay Page 7

  ‘Excuse me,’ says a man behind me.

  ‘Sorry.’ Riley moves her trolley to the side and lets him squeeze past.

  ‘Are you apologising to me?’ I say.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘Slipper Girl?’

  I can just imagine Dash shaking his head at me. And he’d be right. Why am I engaging with this? Don’t I know better? Didn’t I learn anything from Eleanora?

  ‘We were just mucking around, Meg. My friends …’

  ‘Aren’t very nice?’

  ‘They are sometimes,’ she says defensively.

  I pull a face. ‘I can think of plenty of words to describe Lina. Nice isn’t one of them.’

  I’m surprised when she laughs and I find myself liking the sound. I have to keep remembering what Dash said. She is one to avoid.

  ‘You’re probably right. But she is my friend.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ I say, starting to edge away. Then I stop. ‘And you’re part of it, Riley. I didn’t hear you telling Lina to stop.’

  She nods and looks at the ground. ‘Yeah … sorry.’

  ‘It’s all very well to read about sorrows, but not so nice when you have to live through them,’ I tell her, knowing I haven’t remembered the quote correctly, but knowing it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s obviously not a kindred spirit.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ I keep pushing past her.

  But instead of letting me go, she peers into my basket. ‘Wow, you must really like tuna,’ she says lightly.

  I snatch away my basket so she can’t see the rest of my shopping.

  Riley touches my arm. ‘Just making small talk, Meg.’

  ‘I don’t do small talk,’ I tell her. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Is your mum here too?’ Riley looks around like she expects to see a mum trailing behind.

  I shake my head, concentrating on the display of chocolate biscuits on sale.

  ‘So, you get to do the shopping?’

  I nod and sneak a look across at her. Her blue eyes widen and she sighs like she’s imagining a trip to Disneyland or something.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ she tells me.

  ‘Oh, yes. Lucky, that’s me.’

  ‘My mum checks every single packet before she even considers buying it. She has this app on her phone that tells her carbohydrates for everything. It’s all about health. When I come shopping with her, it can take hours,’ Riley says dramatically.

  Then she reaches across and grabs a packet of jelly babies from the end of the display and drops it into my basket.

  ‘I can pick my own lollies, thank you very much,’ I say, putting them back and choosing something different, even though her choice was probably one I would have made.

  She fidgets and looks around. ‘Do you walk to school?’

  ‘What’s with all the questions?’ I snap.

  She pulls a face. ‘Sorry. Just trying to be friendly.’

  ‘Yes, I walk to school. I live down the road with my mum. She likes tuna, I don’t,’ I say in the flattest voice I can manage. ‘That enough?’

  She rocks the trolley back and forth, unaware that a woman is trying to get past.

  ‘You might want to move,’ I tell her.

  She grins at the woman as she walks by, and I see how easily Riley navigates situations. Even me. I need to get out of here.

  ‘I’m not allowed to walk anywhere on my own,’ she continues. ‘It’s only like a ten-minute walk to school. Mum drives me everywhere!’

  ‘We don’t have a car. I have to walk,’ I say.

  ‘Cool. Environmentalists,’ she says.

  I bite down a smile, thinking how surprised Riley would be if I deflated her assumptions.

  ‘Do you have a phone?’

  ‘No,’ I tell her.

  ‘So, you walk yourself to school and do the shopping and your mum can’t even call you?’ she says.

  I nod.

  She sighs and leans against the trolley. ‘That’s what it’s like for Lina too. She has so much freedom. I can’t do anything!’

  Nobody has ever envied me. How does Riley not know that? I wonder what she’d say if she knew my life is sucky and the only reason I walk alone everywhere is because my mum never leaves the house.

  ‘There you are, Riley. I thought I said aisle nine,’ says a voice behind me.

  ‘Sorry, Mum! I’ve just been talking to Meg.’

  Riley’s mum steps around so that she’s in front of me. I wait for her to look me up and down, to notice my slippers, and to not care that I notice her noticing. But she doesn’t. She keeps her eyes on my face. She has the same blue, sparkling eyes that her daughter has, although that’s where the similarities end. She’s wearing a suit and heels and her dark hair is up and slick and smooth. She looks corporate and in control.

  ‘Hi, Meg. I’m Tina,’ she says, holding her hand out so I can shake it.

  I swallow hard and slide my hand into my pocket. I just need to feel the corner of The Bag first. Then I pull my hand out and shake hers as quickly as possible and let go, returning my hand to my pocket where it feels safe.

  ‘Meg’s mum lets her do the shopping. And she gets to walk to school on her own! I was just telling her how lucky she is!’

  ‘It’s not a big deal. Mum’s just busy …’

  ‘Are you two at school together?’ asks Riley’s mum.

  ‘Yeah … Meg’s in grade six, too,’ says Riley. ‘We’re both doing graduation speeches,’ she adds.

  My other hand is getting clammy, so I clutch the handle of the plastic basket as tight as I can.

  ‘That’s quite an honour, Meg,’ says Riley’s mum.

  Riley laughs. ‘She doesn’t think so. Meg thinks it’s just a chance to brag about yourself,’ she says, making little quotation marks with her fingers.

  I’m so surprised that Riley remembered what I said to Ms Barber that I forget to respond.

  Riley’s mum joins in the laugh. ‘I tend to agree with you, Meg. Graduating from primary school does seem a little … unnecessary.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘We can drop you home,’ says Riley, stepping closer to me.

  ‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘I like walking.’

  I catch a glimpse of Riley’s mum watching me, reading me.

  ‘We have more shopping to do, Riley. Nice to meet you, Meg,’ she says to me.

  I nod at her, relieved that she saved me so easily. I scurry around the corner of the aisle, then stop and peek back at them, making sure they don’t see me. I notice the way Riley’s mum takes the trolley from Riley and together they wheel away down the aisle. They don’t look alike but they look together, like they belong, walking in step through the supermarket. They slow and Riley’s mum bends down slightly so she can hear whatever her daughter is saying. I wait until they turn the corner at the end of the aisle before I head for the checkout.

  I start throwing all my shopping onto the belt before anyone else can beat me. I unzip my backpack and toss the things in as the young guy scans them.

  ‘Forty-nine fifty,’ he says in a nasally voice.

  He takes my crisp fifty-dollar note that doesn’t have any creases and holds it up to the light, like maybe I’m some sort of counterfeit expert.

  I take my change and lift my backpack. It’s never heavy, except on shopping days and today it weighs me down more than usual. I head for the glass doors, relieved that I’m escaping the supermarket and fleeing the scene. As I go I realise that I still don’t know why Riley went to Sick Bay, and I just lost my chance to ask her.

  I’m still thinking about Riley and her mum as I set the table in the dining room. About how light they were together and how they involved each other in the conversati
on. There’s something about Riley that’s different to the other girls. I can’t imagine Lina or Tessa trying to talk to me in the supermarket.

  I fill the water glasses and place mine down over the scratched wood. This was Dad’s childhood table and he carved his initials into it when he was a kid. I always sit where his carving is. JK: Jim Kieran.

  Heading to the window, I tug on the cord to open the blinds. I can’t risk drawing them back completely because Mum doesn’t like it, although a scrap of sunshine should be okay. Then I force the rusted lock, the metal digging into my fingers, and slide the window open just enough so there’s a breeze.

  The back garden is overgrown with weeds and grass that skirt my knees. Every few months or so, Dave at number thirty-two pops over and mows for us without bothering to ask Mum. I let him in down the side and he tidies up a bit too. It’s not the haven it was when Dad was here, when Mum and Dad both spent hours gardening on the weekends, although it’s strangely beautiful out there. The trees are overgrown and need a trim, but they make me feel cocooned, like I’m surrounded and nobody can see in.

  We never ate inside during summer when Dad was alive because he loved dining outdoors. He’d light the barbecue and cook a tray of chops and sausages, disappearing behind a veil of smoke. Dinner with Dad was never just a meal. It was always a feast.

  Now the backyard is my space. Mum doesn’t go out there much. I think it reminds her too much of Dad and she avoids those memories. I try to find them wherever I can: in a postcard still stuck to the fridge from when he went to visit his brother one year, in the gnarled and ancient lemon tree that Dad used to prune, and even in the old record player that used to spin crackling songs on the weekends and now remains closed.

  This room is so dusty. Our house didn’t always look like this. Once it was full of flowers picked from the garden and the windows were open and the blinds up. There was always air and light and laughter in the rooms. When Dad was alive, Eleanora used to come for playdates and we’d lie on the floor in my room giggling and sharing secrets, and Mum would cook us a stack of pancakes and we’d eat them with our fingers.

  Mum shuffles into the room carrying our plates and places one in front of me. Once it would have been a real meal but tonight it’s just a tin of tuna, some spinach from the garden, two slices of bread and some pieces of apple. I bet Riley’s mum cooks. Elaborate meals with vegetables, roast meat and gravy and they all sit around talking about their days. I bet she never eats fish from a tin.

  ‘Dinner is served!’ Mum’s voice is up, although her eyes give her away.

  ‘Yum, thanks,’ I say, playing along. At least Mum has plated up food tonight. The last few weeks it’s been up to me.

  She sits down opposite me. She’s still in her old paint-stained t-shirt from when she still cared about the house, and the stretched black tracksuit pants she wears most days. I make her change out of them on Tuesdays so I can wash her things with mine when I visit Peggy. I bet Riley’s mum never wears the same clothes for a week.

  ‘How was school today?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say quietly. ‘I aced the maths test.’

  She smiles at me. ‘You always do.’

  She’s wrong. I don’t. Not always. Once or twice I’ve struggled with decimals, but Mum isn’t big on details. I pull back the ring on the tin of tuna.

  Our neighbours have music playing and I can hear someone singing along. They don’t talk to us much now. They came to Dad’s funeral and made casseroles for a while, leaving them on the front step. But then Mum didn’t recover, and I think they gave up.

  ‘Mum, can you sign my high school forms? I have to take them in.’

  I’ve been hoping that she’d do it without me asking. I left the envelope near her bed, but she didn’t even open it.

  ‘Can’t believe you’ll be at high school next year,’ she says, reaching for my hand across the table.

  Her skin is warm and soft and, for a second, her touch drags me under as I remember how she used to hold my hand when we walked to school.

  ‘It doesn’t seem that long ago …’ she whispers. She looks up at me and I see the face that is so like mine. The brown eyes that appear sad even when she says she’s not. She’s skinny, all edges and lines. Her elbows jut out and her collarbone is so sharp, like someone has pegged her body on the line and left her there too long.

  ‘Mum, I’ll need a uniform for high school,’ I say as I pull my hand clear. ‘And shoes.’

  She nods and takes a big breath.

  ‘Maybe we could go shopping together?’ I whisper.

  She nods at me, although her gaze darts away. ‘Soon, Meg.’

  Soon isn’t a date. It’s not even a month. It’s just a future that I can’t pin down. I concentrate on the tuna, the oil glistening on the plate. Riley probably has her high school uniform already pressed and hanging in her wardrobe, ready for the big day.

  I hear Mum’s breath quicken. She leaps up, her leg bumping the table. Water spills from our glasses. ‘I forgot the salt. Back in a sec.’

  I watch her scurry away, and then scrape the last fragments of tuna into my mouth.

  There’s a crash in the kitchen and the light pops and dies, leaving me at the mercy of the last rays of sunlight coming in through the window. Mum’s shorted the electricity again. I never used to like the dark. It used to scare me. Although now I’m in it so often that I don’t mind. The electrician came a few months ago but he said it was a wiring issue and it would cost thousands to fix properly. Unsurprisingly, we now just change fuses and cross our fingers.

  I bite into the apple, the taste not as sweet as I’d hoped, and head off to check on Mum. From the hallway I hear her breathing, raspy and forced, the sound ugly and private. I peep around the edge of the doorframe and see her crouched against the cupboards, her body huddled and small, her mouth over a paper bag. The bag shrinks and stretches with each breath.

  I wonder what Riley would do if she found her mum hiding out in the kitchen trying to breathe. Would she rush in and rub her back, calming her until her muscles softened and the air came back? Or would she just stand and watch?

  Actually, I know the answer. Riley wouldn’t have to do anything because her mum is in the world. She’s not shorting fuses and forgetting to fill in forms and wearing the same clothes every day. She’s working and shopping and laughing about graduation with her daughter, and even if sometimes in a quiet moment she feels as bleak as my mum does, she deals with it herself. And Riley can get on with her life.

  Riley

  I don’t usually have nurse appointments on Thursdays, but now, thanks to The Hulk, here I am. Dad doesn’t normally do hospital visits. That’s Mum’s area, but she had to see a patient this morning. Dad’s in his suit because this isn’t supposed to take long. We traipse past families crowding around a tank of brightly coloured fish.

  ‘Hot chocolate before we go in, Riley?’

  ‘Only if it comes with marshmallows,’ I tell him, imagining Mum’s reaction if she knew Dad was offering me chocolate milk.

  He leaves me near the lifts and heads to Mum’s favourite cafe. I’m surrounded by the noise of other people’s families. Little kids run past being chased by parents with babies in prams. Everyone here is like me. Different. Maybe Mum’s right. Maybe there is no such thing as normal. Then I see a kid being pushed in a wheelchair. He has no hair. I wonder if he’s got cancer or some other illness that needs chemo. He sees me watching and sticks out his tongue and I feel like I’m a tourist checking out the fish in the tank. I want to apologise as he passes. Tell him I know how he feels. But I don’t. I’m well. I’m healthy.

  I do a blood glucose test quickly before Dad comes back. I’m sure people are looking at me, hunched over and squeezing blood onto the test strip, but I don’t mind them staring in here.

  ‘One pink, one white,’ says Dad, holding out a plastic takeaway cup wi
th two crusty marshmallows perched on top.

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell him, unzipping my bumbag and taking out my pump. ‘Dad, grams?’

  He frowns like he’s trying to remember numbers in his head. Finally he answers and I halve it and punch the number in, knowing I won’t drink all of this before my appointment. I slurp the top of the cup and feel the too-hot milk scald my throat. A girl about my age hobbles past on crutches. She’s on her own and wearing a slipper on one foot and nothing on the other. If she weren’t so tall, she’d sort of remind me of Meg.

  Dad’s quiet as he drinks his latte with two sugars. I spy a brown paper bag and know that means he’s bought something sweet too.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m the only one at my school who isn’t allowed to go shopping without parents.’ I think back to meeting Meg in the supermarket.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  He looks across at me and I see the frown beginning. I know he’s searching for words that he’s heard Mum use.

  ‘Don’t say no. Please. I’m responsible. This is about me.’

  He nods. I’m not sure if that means anything but it’s better than Mum’s bluster.

  ‘Please just think about it,’ I say quietly before swallowing the half-melted pink marshmallow in one lumpy go.

  ‘Come on, we should go up.’

  I toss the rest of my hot chocolate into the bin. It lands heavily on the rest of the white takeaway cups, splashing chocolate milk in a messy spread.

  This is normal. There is no normal.

  ‘Pat’s away today,’ says some guy with a cheesy smile. ‘So you get me instead!’

  I groan. I hate seeing the replacements. Especially ones wearing bright blue shirts that match the friendly furniture.

  ‘Come on, Riley.’ Dad follows the nurse.

  We walk into the room off the hallway and the guy shuts the door behind us. This room is worse than some of the others. For a start, it has coral-coloured walls, and it’s cramped with three people. It means when we all sit our knees almost touch, reminding me of Sick Bay.