The Path We Take (Young Love Book 2)

by Kylie Key

  I nodded, biting down on my lower lip, embarrassed that my private thoughts had been revealed. I was generally not a writer, of diaries or journals, poems or songs, but those words had been inspired by Malachi.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ella said. I shrugged again. “Really, Domi. It’s perfect.”

  “Maybe your songwriting has rubbed off on me,” I joked, inwardly appreciative of her praise.

  “I can definitely see a song in there,” Ella said.

  “Sanctuary is not a good rhyming word,” I said, “It’s even hard to say. Sanc-tu-ary.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Ella smiled and checked on her fingers, “Merry, berry, very, wary, dairy.”

  “Oh yeah,” I interrupted, “I will be his sanctuary, hope he’s not allergic to dairy. That’s a number one song right there.”

  Ella cracked up laughing, but then got serious in a flash, “Change your dream,” she said dreamily, “I love it.”

  “Dream might be easier to rhyme,” I said, “dream, cream, ice cream.”

  “You’ve got dairy products on the brain.” She laughed. “I'll get Damon onto it."

  “I want songwriting credit,” I said. "Hey, come on, let's get sorted. The others will be here soon."

  Ella and I had invited Ainsley, Selina and Trieste to come. She had an irrational fear that nobody would turn up. The girls, plus Malachi, guaranteed an audience of five, at least.

  Ella and I had decided it was time to open up about both of us having relationships, so she told everyone about her and Damon. There had been shock all round, not so much that Damon and Ella liked each other, but the fact that they were writing songs and singing together.

  "I did hear Damon singing once, when I slept over at your place," Ainsley remembered. "I went to get a glass of water in the middle of the night and he was in the living room, singing along with the tv."

  "You never told me that," I said.

  "I'd forgotten till right now!" Ainsley said.

  "Hey," Selina said, jiggling her arms excitedly and clapping, "you two might be sisters one day!"

  Ella rolled her eyes and turned bright red. "Guys, we're dating. Not getting married.”

  "You never know.” Selina winked. "Many singing couples end up together. Like A Star is Born."

  "Mmmm, that didn't turn out the best," Ella said, and we all giggled.

  I put my arm around Ella and hugged her, "I always wanted a little sister," I teased. Ella was all of three weeks younger than me.

  "So, about this concert," Ella had asserted some authority, "you have to come and support me, otherwise it will just be Domi and Malachi."

  "Your volunteer patient?" Trieste asked.

  I looked at Ella, a telepathic connection between us — the time was now. Time to tell my best friends that I was in love. I took in a deep, shaky breath. Ella reassured me with a squeeze.

  "Yes, my volunteer patient," I said, "but, actually, Malachi is a little more than that."

  Three pairs of glazed eyes stared at me, confounded by my statement. It was Selina who said, "Domi?"

  Ella grinned, "She means that her and Malachi are in love."

  Ainsley, Selina and Trieste didn't look at me, they looked at each other. My heart pumped viciously, embarrassed that I hadn't confided in them, fearing I would be condemned. They would query my loyalty and friendship and then judge me for being in love with a tattooed burns survivor whose father was a murderer.

  But Ainsley squealed, "Domi! Whaaaat?"and she wrapped herself around Ella and me. Then there were five of us in a suffocating group hug.

  "I need to know more!" Selina said, as Trieste said, "Why didn't we know about this?"

  It started as one big giggling circle, which turned somber as I opened up and revealed Malachi's life story. Malachi had been been burnt over sixty percent of his body. He had been brought up by his grandfather in a trailer park, his mother was dead and his father in prison. His father had belonged to a gang and tattooed him as a child.

  I waited for the sneers, the judgment, the unkind remarks. But they never came. And I should have known that — Ainsley, Selina and Trieste were never the bad guys, the enemy. Friends were friends — unconditionally, non-judgmental, through thick and thin.

  Trieste arrived first, breathlessly knocking on the open door of the lounge.

  "Oh, I wasn't sure I was in the right place," she panted. She opened her handbag, displaying a bunch of leaflets. "I only just got them printed."

  "Really? That's awesome, Tree," Ella said, jumping up to get them. "I told you not to worry if you didn't have time." She passed a leaflet to me. It was a program of the six tunes that Ella was going to perform. The design was quite impressive.

  "It was no trouble, but I thought I was going to be late," she said. "I can't wait to hear you play."

  I instinctively thought that Trieste was being disingenuous, it seemed like she would be the last person who would want to listen to a violin recital of Brahms and Beethoven. But she was, in fact, more musical than me. Trieste had learnt flute and piano, and probably every other musical instrument ever invented, at some stage of her life. Just like she had been coached in every sport. She hardly stuck at anything though, she'd get bored and move on to the next thing, time and time again. Surfing, paddle boarding, board sailing, skiing, equestrian, fencing even, she'd tried them all.

  These days, Trieste played no instruments, no sport and had joined no clubs.

  "Wow, that's really good, Tree," I said. "Did you learn to do this in your Digital Design class?"

  Trieste nodded. "We have to do a whole bunch of different projects, so I can include this in my portfolio."

  "It sounds like a fun class."

  "It would be if I wasn't partnered with Felix Northcott."

  "Felix Northcott?" Ella asked, inspecting her violin bow. "He's in my economics class."

  "He's a nerdy, geeky jerk who wears thrift shop clothes," Trieste said, screwing her nose up in disgust. Ella and I laughed.

  "So, where's Malachi?" Trieste asked me. “He is coming, isn't he?"

  “Yes,” I said, a little snappily, “he's on his way up now.” If anyone was going to demean and be unaccepting of Malachi, I expected it would be Trieste. Well, just a minute ago she’d shamed out Felix Northcott for his clothing choice. And I couldn’t forget the time she had called me fat.

  Ainsley and Selina burst in then, laden with flowers and gift bags.

  "Oh, I hope that's all for me," Ella joked.

  "This bunch is," Ainsley said, showing her a bouquet of pink and purple flowers.

  "I was kidding!"

  "We'll present them at the end," Selina said, and she looked at me, motioning to the gift bags, "These are for Malachi. Where is he?"

  "He's on his way," I squeaked, my heart racing with nervousness. It was one thing to have told them about Malachi; it would be quite another for them to meet him in the flesh.

  Joyce, the volunteer coordinator came in and helped us bring in more chairs and arrange them into rows. She was expecting around a dozen people. Ella looked anxious, blowing out a stressed breath as she collated her music papers into order.

  The clunking sound of a walking frame banging into the door alerted us to Malachi's arrival.

  Miggy, a short and rotund care assistant with a dark halo of hair, held it wide open as Malachi pushed through. "Crazy driver coming through," Miggy announced. The bulky medical boot on Malachi's left leg made his limp awkward, but it didn't hamper his speed. He came to a stop, almost landing his frame on my toes.

  It had been two weeks before that Malachi had taken his first steps with a walker. He'd surprised me one afternoon when I hadn't found him in his room. I had gone to the nurses' station, asking Angie if Malachi was having his treatment.

  "Check the rehab room," she told me, so I had wandered down the corridor and that's when I saw Malachi coming toward me, the biggest smile on his face. His steps had been tiny, shaky, a shuffle. But he was upright, moving, mobile and his
biggest fear, that he'd never walk again, was now obsolete.

  "Whoa, someone's in a hurry," Miggy laughed, but Malachi had already clasped my hands and was leaning forward to kiss me. "Oh, now I know why," I heard Miggy say, followed by a dramatic sigh, "Young love, I get it."

  Malachi's lips sent me in to a dizzying spin, and as we pulled apart we both steadied ourselves on his walking frame. It was a moment of complete joy as we smiled at each other and Malachi kissed my forehead.

  He then looked up to six eyes as wide as saucers.

  "Oh, uh, Malachi, these are my friends I told you about," I introduced, “Ainsley, Selina and Trieste."

  Malachi offered his good hand and they shook one by one. They seemed impressed by his good manners and they all tried, and failed, to not stare at his tattoo and his bandages and his scarred hand. It was human nature to look a little too long at something not normal.

  "Hi Malachi," Ella chirped in, "thanks so much for coming. I really appreciate it."

  "I'm getting the brownies, right?"

  "You bribed him?" I asked.

  "Chocolate fudge brownies.” Ella giggled, as she rummaged in her backpack. She held up a plastic container. "But you have to stay for the whole concert and clap after every song."

  "He promised to share them with me," Miggy called from the back, as he pointed to a recliner. "Come sit here, my boy. Let's get you comfortable."

  Ella's recital was such a hit that Joyce organized for her to come again. The girls and I escorted Malachi back to his room, much slower than he'd arrived, and though he didn't complain, I could see he was aching and in pain. He settled into bed and I unstrapped his boot.

  The girls peered over at his scarred leg. They were fascinated by the skin grafts that Cassian and the other surgeons had performed. Moving skin from one part of the body to cover another was like a miracle. I explained to them how the new skin didn't have its own supply of sweat or oil glands. It needed regular moisturizing to prevent it from drying out and cracking, and massaging to keep it soft and supple. I picked up the bottle of oil to rub over Malachi’s leg.

  “Oooh wait,” Trieste said, and she pulled out a box from her handbag. “I bought this for Malachi.” She handed me a bottle of oil. “This is specifically for healing burns. Mom got it her from her cosmetic surgeon.” She rolled her eyes in disapproval; it was no secret that her mother had had several procedures done on her face. “He highly recommends it.”

  I was touched that Trieste had gone to so much trouble. Knowing Trieste’s mom, it would only be the best. The physical therapist had given us a generic mineral oil to use, but this felt and smelt so much better.

  “If it helps, let me know and I can get more,” Trieste said, and I felt bad that I’d thought she wasn’t genuinely caring.

  It was impossible for Malachi to be shy around my friends; they talked non-stop. They were nosy and wanted to know how much he remembered about the accident and details about his injuries. Malachi told them of the time when he first saw his leg, about two months after his accident, how it had smelt horrible, was scabby, and his toes were black. They were mesmerized when he told them how every day his dressings had been changed and his skin would be debrided, scraped off to avoid infection.

  He sat forward and lifted his shirt so they could see his patchwork back. They all wanted to touch his fingers and were in awe of how intricate the grafting process was.

  “Was it painful?” Ainsley asked, “Or were you on medication?”

  “I was in an induced coma in the beginning, and they’d sedate me for the debridement, but yeah, from what I can remember, it has been painful.”

  I knew Malachi was downplaying it. He never liked to complain. Once I had accidentally knocked against his foot. It should have made him cry out in pain, but he bit his lip, took a deep breath and said he was fine. Even though he wasn’t.

  “You’re amazingly brave,” Selina said. “When you get out of hospital, you should come to talk to our Well-being Club. They’d be fascinated by your recovery.” Malachi laughed, as if she was humoring him. “I’m serious,” Selina insisted. “Your story is inspiring.”

  “That’s because of this girl here,” Malachi said, and his fingers flicked through the ends of my hair. “She’s the amazing one.”

  I blushed and my eyes watered, but his touch sent shivers up my spine. He rested his hand on my shoulder and I tilted my head towards him. I felt his lips on the top of my head.

  “Yes, Domi, you are amazing. And inspiring. You both are,” Ella said.

  “You guys are so sweet together,” Selina said. I smiled and nodded, my heart totally full of love and friendship.

  Ainsley handed Malachi the gift bags and he was blown away when he saw the food hamper, the puzzle and graphic novel books and a Rams t-shirt. He thanked everyone a hundred times. He teared up, and that made us all start to cry.

  "This is ridiculous," Ella said, as she passed around the box of tissues and we wiped at our watery eyes. "We're all blubbering like babies."

  "You guys are amazing. You really are the best," I said. I felt super proud of my wonderful friends for being so supportive and caring.

  "And you Malachi, you're the best," I said, but I got no response — his cheek was crumpled against the pillow, his beanie was low on his forehead, his scarred arm resting stiffly by his side — my boyfriend had fallen fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 17

  Malachi’s recovery advanced in leaps and bounds. He was walking further and now able to go up and down stairs using crutches. Everyday saw progress and Malachi’s last skin graft sent a wave of relief, but also panic through me. Of course I was pleased that his operations were coming to an end — for now — but it meant Malachi would be ready to leave the hospital. And that meant things were going to change.

  Malachi would need to move to a rehab facility. There were a limited number of places that were suited to deal with Malachi’s injuries and the hospital team were looking at the options. I was determined to help find Malachi the best place, but I was selfish in wanting it to be nearby. The thought of not having my regular visits, that he might move miles away, filled me with dread.

  I took it upon myself to check the facilities out, with Dad’s help and blessing. The first place we visited had gushing reviews and it looked modern and bright from the outside. The gardens were tidy, though some of the plants looked like they could do with a little attention. The receptionist was friendly, so was the nurse who gave us the tour. The rooms were clean and spacious, the facilities adequate. We were shown a gym and a hydrotherapy pool, but I couldn't help but notice that no one was using them. As we were taken into a massage room with state-of-the-art tables, we could hear a muffled wailing sound from the room next door. The nurse quickly ushered us out. Dad and I looked at each other. He told the nurse we’d seen enough.

  The second place was closer to our house; it would be a forty minute drive on a good traffic day. Some of the staff had heard good things about it. But Dad and I both looked at the dated signage and felt like we were entering a bygone era. The wave from the lone gardener tending a row of cacti, and the line up of patients in wheelchairs overlooking that row of cacti made me squirm.

  "It looked more like a home for geriatrics," I said to Dad, as we returned to the car after the tour. Again, we'd been shown a fully equipped gym, rehab areas and tidy, clean rooms, but it made my heart sink. The clients we saw were stroke victims or joint replacement patients. It wasn’t a place for Malachi. "If you were there, even you'd be the youngest by a mile."

  Dad cleared his throat. “Promise you won't put me in there, Blossom. Even if I'm drooling and wearing diapers." We both laughed, even though it wasn't a laughing matter, but I was pleased he felt the same way.

  "Those were the best two on the list," I said, as I unfolded the paper and struck a line through Sunnybrook Rehab Center. "Bourkdale?" I said, as I read further down the page.

  “I don’t think they’ll be any better,” he said, checking his
watch. "How far is it to Malachi's house?"

  “About an hour. Why?"

  "Let's just drive up." Dad was already accelerating and heading for the freeway.

  "What? Why?" I asked.

  "I think I need to meet his grandfather."

  Mr Keneally's front door was unlocked, but he wasn't home. The Asian woman from across the way came scuttling out, recognizing me and nodding. But when Dad turned the door handle her head shook and her voice got louder with every phrase she spoke. We detected, "Gone, gone," and "Not home," and her hand movements indicated he was drinking somewhere. Dad went inside anyway. Less than a minute later he returned and said, "There's no way Malachi can come back here." Though his language was much stronger than that.

  Dad looked visibly shocked and angry, as if his mission was to get away as quickly as possible. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and seemed deep in thought.

  It took me two songs on the radio to gather the courage to speak. And even then, my voice was a squeak.

  "Cassian's old room is free," I said. In my peripheral vision I saw Dad's jaw clench.

  "It is," he said, his focus on the road steely and unmoving.

  "It's on the ground floor and there would be no stairs." From the corner of my eye I could see Dad's head bobbing up and down.

  "He could do physical therapy at home or as an outpatient." Dad speeded up, changed lanes and passed several cars. "We have a gym and the pool would be good for his recovery."

  "It would." He looked in his rear view mirror and moved lanes again.

  I waited for him to say more, to be the one to verbalize what I was thinking. My idea was preposterous, I knew that. But in my mind it was the only solution, the only acceptable solution - Malachi could recover at home. Our home.

  "And he wouldn't be far from the ocean. You know the ocean is good for healing."

  "Hmmmm."

  "And he wouldn't be alone all the time."

  "No?"

  "No, you work from home a lot. Well, most of the time now." My heartbeat was fluttering now, barely able to make full beats.