One Dead Seagull

by Scot Gardner

  I could hear a car in the distance and it gradually became louder and more musical. It wasn’t a car; it was seagulls cawing, and a scratching sound behind it like someone running their fingers down a blackboard. I was screaming again. That sound was eating my brain out.

  ‘Nooooooo. Help me.’

  Black silence, then a sound so sweet and pure that I could feel it lifting me. The thousand screeching seagulls had been drowned out by a chorus of tiny bells making music like the twinkling of stars. Out of the blackness in my mind came a form—violet water in front of my eyes that suddenly had arms and legs and dark hair. At first I thought it was a bird but as the form turned towards me I could see it was a little girl with glowing green eyes and full soft lips that never moved from a warm smile, yet I heard her talking to me. The tiny bells were her voice and she whispered into my mind that everything was okay. I was going to be all right. She moved as if to hug me but when I reached out to her she was gone, right through me like a warm breeze.

  When I woke up, my head was thick. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I could hear quiet talking near to me but couldn’t recognise the voices. A smell danced in my nose, the barest hint of something. Sandalwood. I forced my eyes open and saw Kerry sitting on the side of my bed and Den standing behind her. At the sight of me blinking like a rat in a flour bag, her lip quivered.

  She picked up my hand and held it to her face. ‘Hey

  Wayne. You’re back!’

  ‘You’ve been in the intensive care thing for, like, three days. Back from the dead. Check his pulse, Kez. Is he a zombie or what?’ Den darted across the room and shouted into the hallway, ‘He’s awake!’

  Then Mum was there hugging me and wetting my face with her tears, wheezing and sobbing. Barry and Gracie pushed their way inside too.

  ‘We thought we’d lost you. You lost so much blood that you almost ... thank God you’re still here.’

  Then it was a nurse making a fuss, asking me stupid shit like if I could hear her okay and how many fingers she was holding up. They all parted when an immaculately dressed Asian man came in. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a kung fu movie. His broad muscular shoulders were barely disguised under a clean pressed short-sleeved shirt. Fragile round hippy glasses sat comfortably on his nose and he moved with the grace of someone who could pluck your eye out with his big toe from across the street. He introduced himself as Dr Michael Chen. He waved his tie at me; Mickey Mouse was embroidered on it in colourful silk.

  ‘You can call me Mickey. Everyone else does,’ he said in an American accent that seemed out of place from a man with eyebrows so fine and dark. ‘You gave us quite a workout. We thought we’d lost you—I’ve never seen so much blood in all my life!’

  I liked him. He looked me in the eyes as he spoke to me.

  ‘Wayne, how do you feel?’

  I struggled to tell him that my arm hurt but not much sound came out. The nurse stuck a straw in my mouth and told me to have a drink. The water was cold and I felt it go all the way down.

  ‘Wayne, your left hand was very badly damaged in the accident with the saw. Do you remember that?’

  I nodded and he moved a bit closer pushing his glasses back on his nose, like he was at a good bit in a bedtime story.

  ‘Wayne, we had to amputate your hand.’ Yeah, good one.

  ‘Just above the wrist. Too much tissue damage to your wrist and hand to save it. I’m very sorry it had to be that way. You will be okay to move around in a couple of days. You will be all right, okay?’

  He patted my hand and left. Mum was really bawling now, Kerry too. Grace was honking into a flowery hanky. Even Barry had a tear in his eye. When I looked at Den, his face screwed up and he dived out into the hall again. All around me, cards and flowers were taking up every bit of space that wasn’t flashing or beeping quietly at me. I felt sick in the guts. Where the hell was Dad? Here’s the weirdest bit: instead of crying, I nearly pissed myself with laughter. Shaking and shuddering every time I looked down at the neat bandages that I now had instead of a hand. I laughed like a retard for an hour, off and on. Every time Mum tried to comfort me or I thought of another thing that I wouldn’t be able to do, I’d just lose it. No more bike riding. No more video games. Imagine what it will be like at school. Mandy won’t want to know me ... that was the hardest of all. My life was fucked. What a laugh.

  The Humes left for Mars Cove on the Monday—a day later than planned and without me. They came in and apologised for having to leave ‘in my time of need’, as Gracie called it. Baz said they weren’t going to take the boat, they had decided to leave that momentous launching for a later trip when I was better.

  Whatever.

  Apparently losing your hand isn’t such a big operation, or maybe it was because Mum was a nurse. She took me home on the Tuesday and organised time off work to look after me. It was the first time in about a year that she’d had time off work. The last time was when she had the flu and I had thought she was going to cough up a lung. She spent her days bringing me food and medication, making sure I was comfortable. Bought me a new little telly and set it up in my bedroom. And a VCR. Once, when she was out shopping I remembered I had a couple of porno videos under my bottom drawer. I had found them in David Henderson’s locker. I guess it’s stealing and I know he is supposed to be a mate and everything but what’s he going to do about it? Tell Mrs Kneebone? Tell the cops? I watched one of them. It was shit-hot. It was like stick-books that had come to life. There they were, going for it in a hundred different ways with all this screaming and swearing and licking lips. Glad my dick still worked.

  I still hadn’t seen Dad but I didn’t really give a shit. He’d be down the pub drowning his sorrows or over at Pat’s place being indispensable. I didn’t do much crazy laughing after that first mad hour or so but I started to get pissed off. Not so much about losing my hand, just about life. Mum booked me in to see Dr Stevenson at the hospital to talk about losing my hand. Turned out he was a psychologist but he had two hands and two legs so I guessed I already knew more about losing a hand than he did. He was an old man who looked like he should have retired ages ago. He spoke to me like I was two years old and that pissed me off even more. I was supposed to arrange for a weekly visit but I left that up to Mum.

  I wondered if I should go back to school. Being the freak didn’t really appeal. I reckoned I’d had enough of school anyway. I was the legal age to leave so that was an option. Well, nearly. Sometimes being fifteen nearly sixteen is like being stuck in no-man’s-land. I can really enjoy a drink or six but I’m too young to buy it and I’d cop a caning if Mum found out. Christ, I could be a father if I lay down with the right woman at the right time. Wouldn’t want to be a father yet but there’s no harm in dreaming about it.

  Mum told me that I had actually died at one stage before they could give me more blood. She said that Mickey was shouting and dancing around the operating theatre while she stood outside the door panicking. She said she couldn’t find words to explain how helpless she felt having all her qualifications but not being able to do a thing for me. She watched them pump my chest and wished it was her instead of me. How cool. I’ve actually been dead. Wish I could remember it.

  On Sunday afternoon the sun was streaming in my bedroom window. It had a bit of a kick in it, like summer wasn’t that far away. It was calling to me, begging me to come outside but I couldn’t be stuffed. I pushed the mute on the remote when I thought I heard some music. It was a magpie in the paperbark at the back of the Velos’ singing a quiet ballad that seemed a bit sad. I watched the footy with the sound off for a while and listened to the magpie. They had a full-screen shot of a seagull strutting at quarter time, neck arched and beak open wide. I imagined the sound it would have been making and it was nothing like the magpie. Eventually Mum came in and shattered the stillness. So did the Humes. Back from their holiday and all sickly sympathetic. Den had a cold and he sounded retarded with his blocked nose. It made me laugh a couple of times when he
was trying to be sincere and friendly. A couple of minutes after they left Dad arrived. I could hear him arguing with Mum on the porch. Ahh, the good old days. The door slammed and a car roared off.

  He looked different. His clothes were ironed and he’d had a shave. He smelled like Lynx ‘Aztec’. Maybe he did get the hint after all? He sat at my desk acting really cool, talking about the footy and shit. He propped a fist on one hip and the other hand rested on his knee.

  ‘Listen mate, I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you at hospital. I’ve been a bit busy and ... you know how I am about hospitals and that.’

  I nodded and watched another goal pounded home on the screen. This was turning into a slaughter.

  ‘To be quite honest, I’ve been beside myself since the accident and I wouldn’t have been much use to you.’

  Nod, nod. See ya. Bye Dad. You can go now.

  ‘I’m going up the coast for a while. Terry Fisher’s got me a job working on a boat at Bermagui. They need someone to help with the deepwater fishing so I said I’d give it a go.’

  He’s nodding along with me now and at that moment I really hated him. Spineless arsehole. He got up to go.

  ‘Jesus you talk crap,’ I thought and it came out of my mouth.

  ‘What?’

  He started puffing himself up like he was going to deck me or something. I couldn’t have cared less.

  I jumped out of bed and looked him straight in the face. ‘You’re full of crap. You talk shit.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Wayne.’

  ‘I’m lying in hospital—dying—and you’re too busy dipping your wick to even come in and see how I’m going. You’re bloody useless.’

  He slapped me. Open hand right across my cheek. Bloody pussy. Den’s hit me harder than that and he’s my mate.

  ‘I won’t take that sort of crap from you. You hear? My life with Pat’s my business.’

  Yeah, well, I think I guessed that right.

  His face went red and veins started to pop out in his brow and neck. He was up for a shouting match at least.

  ‘You’re my bloody son. I love you and I want to be around you.’

  ‘So why didn’t you come to the friggin’ hospital?’ I spat. I took a step back, ready to defend myself. His face cramped. His lips bent down at the corners and shook. He took me in his arms and had a bit of a sob. He said it was his fault that I had been hurt, that he was a no-good father and some other garble that was punctuated by bubbles of snot bursting in his nostrils. I’d never seen him cry before, about anything. We talked on my bed after that, in the ad breaks anyway. He ran out to his ute and brought back a six-pack of VB stubbies. He cracked a beer for himself and one for me. He told me that he and Pat have a strictly paternal relationship. I think he meant platonic but I still think he’s hot for her. He apologised for whacking me one. He asked me how my stump was. I told him it was okay. ‘Nah, nah, I mean how is it really? What does it feel like? Do you, you know, miss it?’

  Yeah. Real bad some days. I thought of a stupid little thing from Days of Our Lives, when Counsel and Serena were facing each other and just staring into each other’s eyes. Holding hands. Telling each other that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. A stumpy arm would get in the way of that. And clapping hands. Sometimes I can hear the brick saw in my head. Sometimes I wake up from dreams that I can’t remember and my jaw aches like I’ve been cracking nuts with my teeth all night. I thought all that and it came out as, ‘Yeah, not bad though. It’s all right.’

  Then Dad told me about how his dad used to beat him when he was little and his mum would just stand there screaming. She’d never interfere though for fear he’d hit her. He never did. He told me that’s why he never hit me.

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘Yeah, that was different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You deserved it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well . . . you’re a bloke now. You got to realise that if you give people the shits they’ll have a go at you.’

  ‘What, you didn’t think I’d worked that out already?’

  ‘Not with me you hadn’t.’

  He dropped a clanger seven minutes into the last quarter. He said that I had a sister who had died at birth.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Yeah. Your mum will kill me if she finds out I told you so keep it to yourself. She was born seven months after your mum and I were married. She had a heart defect. We called her Carrie but we didn’t have a funeral for her or anything.’

  ‘Why didn’t Mum . . . why didn’t you tell me before?’ We heard a car pull up. The door slammed.

  ‘Mum never got over it. Not a word,’ he whispered and waved his fist in my face again and hid the beers under the bed. Mum thundered through the house and nearly smacked the door off its hinges coming into the room.

  ‘Out!’ She shouted at Dad. There wasn’t any room for negotiation. Dad just lay there on the bed. She grabbed the leg of his pants and dragged his feet to the floor.

  ‘Get out, Mick. Now.’

  ‘I haven’t finished with Sunshine here yet,’ he said with a smile and kicked his legs back up on the bed. The motion made the bottles clink and Mum doesn’t miss stuff like that. She went to walk around to the other side of the bed.

  ‘Grab them,’ Dad growled so I reached over and grabbed the full ones. He carefully pulled the others out from the stash under the bed. Mum did the matron thing in front of the telly with her fists on her hips.

  ‘Ya want one?’ he said, waving a beer at her.

  She stood there huffing for a full minute and we tried to look around her to see what they were screaming about on the footy. Her scowl melted. ‘Yes. I bloody well do. Shove over.’

  And in a rare moment that I will remember for eternity, the three of us watched Mum’s team (carn the Cats) get up and clip Collingwood in the first semi-final. By three points. It wasn’t over yet.

  For a while, everything felt like it would be okay. Dad talked about working out some way of modifying my bike so that I could ride, and anything that I suggested would be difficult with one hand he said he could make ‘an attachment’ for. But what about girls? What about the slab of my life that involved being with people? How do you stop them from staring?

  Dr Mickey said my stump was healing okay. I wondered if it would ever close over—it was swollen and a sick-looking purple—black and red raw on the end beside the stitches. Every so often I could feel my hand like it was still there, only it wasn’t much fun. It would feel like one of my missing fingers was aching or my palm was itchy. No matter what I did I couldn’t scratch it or stop the pain. Mickey called them phantom pains. That phantom sure pissed me off. Mum changed the dressing a couple of times a day and it felt weird but didn’t really hurt. She cried the first few times. No noise, just a few tears. There were times when I totally forgot that my hand wasn’t there. Like when I went to get some milk and I knocked the stump on the fridge. It hurt so much I swore flat out for a minute. Mum asked Mickey if my arm should be in a sling and he told her mobility would be good for it. She made sure I was full of painkillers but they didn’t temper agony, only pain.

  Mum went back to work. Telly became my best mate. I hate to admit it but I started to really enjoy Days of Our Lives and they had some really interesting guests on Oprah.

  Dr Stevenson said that it would be good for me to construct some habits that I could get used to. So I did: a nice routine of what to watch and when. Mum got me a few videos every other day.

  Den started calling in. He’d jump off the bus at Merrimans Creek Road and walk to my place. We’d watch the cartoons for a while then he’d go home. He never said much. I guess he’s embarrassed like everyone else. One Thursday he rocked around at about four o’clock. Mum wasn’t home from work and I jumped out of bed to let him in.

  ‘Getting ready for bed?’ he joked.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said smiling and handed m
e a flower he must have yanked out of next door’s garden.

  ‘Wha?’

  ‘Two months today, since your accident.’

  ‘Whoo. Two months?’ It didn’t seem that long ago.

  ‘Yep. Two months and the only thing I’ve seen you dressed in is PJs.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re comfortable.’

  I pulled on the loose sleeve that hung over my stump.

  ‘Griz come and beat the shit out of you yet?’ He choked a laugh. ‘Yeah, he did.’

  He explained that when they got back from holidays, Griz rocked around to his place and pinned him to the ground on his own front lawn. Gracie came out screaming and Griz nicked off. The cops paid a visit to Griz.

  He looked at the door and sighed. ‘When are you coming outside?’

  ‘Oh, when I feel a bit better.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. When . . .’

  ‘When your hand grows back?’

  I laughed. His eyes were black, his lips thin and drawn tight.

  ‘Nah . . .’

  ‘Come outside now. It’s beautiful, mate,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Nah . . .’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t feel like it,’ I said and shrugged.

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Nah. Piss off.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  I could think of one million reasons why I didn’t need to go outside, the words just wouldn’t come together.

  He turned to go. ‘You look like a couch potato to me.’

  ‘Thanks very much, arsehole.’

  ‘You’ve given up,’ he said. ‘Hope you and your fat arse have a good life.’

  With that he left. I stood in the doorway and could hear the magpie in the Velos’ paperbark, singing that sweet, sad song.

  •

  The following Saturday, Uncle Ted, Auntie Penny and Jenelle rolled up just before lunch. I scrambled into my bedroom but Mum brought them in anyway.