by Colin Dray
‘How was your night, Joanne?’ Dettie asked, tightening her fingers on Sam’s shoulder.
‘Oh, Lord!’ His mother was startled. Clicking the door shut quietly behind her, she entered, setting her handbag down by the phone.
‘It’s so late,’ she whispered, kneeling down to kiss Sam and Katie each on the cheek. ‘What are you two still doing up?’
‘They wanted to see their mother,’ Dettie said, pulling them both firmly against her belly.
Unfastening a clip in her hair, their mother sighed and brushed past them into the kitchen. ‘Well, they’ve seen me now, Dettie. Thank you.’ She dropped her keys in the fruit bowl and ran herself a glass of water. ‘But come on, you two. It’s late. And you both look exhausted. Run on to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.’
Katie had barely opened her eyes the whole time. She turned robotically and clumped off towards her room. As Sam wandered into the hall, he saw Dettie, still glaring at his mother as she sipped her water. He saw her lean over to ask in a hushed tone, ‘Joanne, have you been drinking?’
‘Dettie.’ Sam’s mother’s voice hardened. ‘Enough. For heaven’s sake.’
As he passed his mother’s bedroom Sam could just make out, lit softly by the streetlight through the window, an old photograph of his father still hanging on the wall. His father’s face looked down over his mother’s dressing table. He grinned at the camera, head tilted, holding up a newborn Katie in his arms to show her off. Sam wondered what indeed his father would think. Then he wondered where he even was. Or whether he thought about them at all. His father, frozen in time, stretched his crooked smile.
13
His shorts were sticking to the sweat on the backs of his legs. As he peeled the material away with one hand, Sam used the other to flap the bottom of his shirt, trying to waft some air up onto his chest. There was no breeze at all, and the sun felt moist and heavy on his skin. Flies crawled on his shoulders, getting in his eyes, and they kept settling back on his hair whenever he swiped them away. He was out on the wing. He hadn’t played wing in a long time. Before his voice had gone, the coach usually put him in the centre, on the attack, leading the ball up to the goal; but now he stood waiting, watching the ball being passed in the distance.
The trees lining the soccer field were drooping and still, and he could see Katie, his mother and Dettie all standing together in the shade. Roger was there too, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sandals with long socks. He seemed flabbier than Sam remembered, his polo shirt pulling tight across his chest and around his belly. When he wasn’t clapping he would rest his hands in the little valley above his belly. This was Roger’s first outing with the whole family.
Roger had arrived early to attend the welcome-back speech the coach delivered to Sam before the game. He was even planning to stay after the match for the celebratory sponge cake and lollies that were softening on a fold-out card table near the car park. When the coach called Sam ‘brave’ and insisted everyone shake his hand, Roger had clapped louder than anyone else. Now he and Katie were laughing about something together over on the sideline, and Sam couldn’t tell if it was his sister’s smile, or Roger’s arm on their mother’s shoulder that was making Dettie so mad. She was standing back from their conversation, shaking her head, sipping sharply from a briskly of water.
For most of the first half of the game, kids on both teams had been nervous whenever Sam was near them. If the ball came in his direction the players would peel away, keeping their distance. Once, when he’d actually gotten his foot on the ball, the opposition’s defender just let him take it. He’d stopped chasing, pretending to kneel and adjust his skin guard under his sock while Sam kicked the ball on to a teammate who wasn’t even asking for the pass. In the second half, people were starting to relax, even if he still felt them slowing their pace around him, tentative, as though he were breakable.
There was shouting, and a low thump sounded in the distance. Suddenly, the ball was on its way back up the field. A loose kick had sent it tumbling and leaping across the turf. Two of the other team’s players were following it, trying to match its pace, but Sam was closer. It was coming towards him, unguarded, crossing most of the field. Both teams were facing his way. Unlike before, this time someone was yelling at him, telling him to go for it.
He ran, startling the flies crawling on his cheeks. At first he could hear his mother’s cheering through the air rushing in his ears, but soon it was just the sound of his feet thudding on the grass, the suck and wheeze of his stoma. He was already puffed. Ahead, the ball had slowed, crawling to a stop, and somehow the other two players had drawn closer. He held his breath and tried to push harder, but the taller of the two was there already, hooking his foot around the ball and flicking it back down the ground.
Sam eased off—they were gone already. He let his legs slacken to a heavy jog. He was wheezing, feeling the pound of his heart in his neck. His belly was tight. He stood, gasping, trying not to appear too winded while everyone watched.
His calves hadn’t sprung the way he remembered. Instead it seemed like he was landing harder on his ankles, heavier than before. With all the radiation, the medicine, the trips to the hospital, it had been months—almost a year—since he’d played a real game, and now his body felt completely different. Not his own. He was actually thinner than before, but his speed was gone. Now everything felt like lead.
On the sideline, his mother was still clapping, bobbing up and down on her tiptoes. She’d been so excited when Sam had agreed to rejoin the team that he’d found her ironing his uniform in the middle of the lounge room a week before the game. She’d even pressed his long socks and scrubbed the dried dirt from the edges of his cleats. Now she was yelling out encouragement, even though everyone else was watching the ball being passed around the goal at the other end of the field. Roger was nodding, giving him a thumbs up, but the pitying expression behind his smile made Sam look back down at the grass.
Soccer had become another of the many things that felt unnatural now. Like watching Katie sing along to the radio, or the way he heard someone else’s voice in his head when he read to himself. Or how at school his teacher would only ask him to answer questions once she’d knelt beside him, blinking patiently while he typed his answer onto the computer screen. He could picture her face perfectly, nodding, wide-eyed, staring at him, just like Roger was now, over by his mother. Trying to be friendly. Smiling. He was tired of everyone smiling. Simpering. He was tired of feeling clumsy and out of place in his own skin.
There was another shout down the field, and again the pounding of feet. One of the players on Sam’s team, the captain, had broken away with the ball and was heading in his direction. Everyone else was following, shouting. Sam was completely in the open. He waved, but the captain pretended not to see, dipping his head and pushing on. Behind him was a shorter kid with a flat nose whom Sam had seen at the speech before the game. Then, he’d been clearing his throat loudly, continually spitting into the dirt; now he was gaining, stretching out one leg as he ran, prodding at the ball. Sam waved harder, jumping slightly as he jogged into a better line. From his angle the goal was open. The goalkeeper hadn’t been paying much attention to him the whole game. Sam could feel the muscles in his throat tighten, wanting to call out. He could see the short kid nudging closer to the ball.
With a swift flick, the ball was clipped out of the captain’s control and the short kid spun around to meet it. Glancing over his shoulder, he smirked quickly at Sam, sizing him up as no threat, then turned back towards the rest of the players. Sam felt his face flush. He sprinted forward, following. He ignored the ache in his chest, pumping his burning legs until he caught up with the short kid, drawing level beside him. He seemed to need two steps for the other kid’s one, and he tasted the sweat beading off his face, but he blocked it all out. All he could think about was the short kid’s smug little grin. For a moment, all the other people on the field, everyone else’s tender half-smiles, all their polite but sad nodd
ing, all their pity, faded away. He was fired up, focused on that cocky smirk, and he ran.
The ball leapt between the kid’s ankles as he and Sam wove side by side through the other players. Every time the ball tumbled just beyond the kid’s reach, Sam’s heart leapt until he saw him catch up to it again. Sam was inching closer. Stretching out his leg. Trying to get his shoe onto the ball. The short kid’s elbows were digging at his ribs. Their shins whipped close together. Sam could hear the kid’s grunting as he sucked at the air. The kid was tiring. He was slowing.
Suddenly, something was tugging on Sam’s neck. Pulling. It was his collar. The kid had grabbed his shirt, twisting it in his fist, yanking it downward. And just as Sam felt himself pitching forward, aware he was still running but feeling everything tipping over in slow motion, the short kid with the flat nose hooked his foot in front of Sam’s, and took his legs out from underneath him.
Sam tripped, tumbling forward into the dirt, his arms collapsing limply underneath him, his legs twisting. On the way down someone’s knee had clipped his back. As he tried to curl into the fall, he managed to twist his ankle against his other calf. Stunned and winded, he lay for a moment with his ear pressed into the ground, hearing the clump of feet passing by, clearer through the earth. A whistle blew.
Katie was shouting in the distance. There was laughter. The short kid had run on, tried for a goal and missed.
Sam couldn’t feel the sting of anything yet. His body was numb, but there was an ache creeping slowly into his bones. Sitting up, he checked himself over. His face had dug into the grass, collecting a mouthful of soil. His chin was scraped and his elbows were bleeding and stained green. The collar of his shirt was torn. His vent, miraculously, was still in place—even if his neck burned with pain. Players from both teams milled around, keeping their distance, but peering down at him. Somewhere, Sam’s coach was yelling for a penalty.
The referee jogged over, holding his hat in one hand as he wiped his forehead. He parted the players, taking the ball from one of them, and knelt down by Sam’s side.
‘How are you doing, mate? You all right?’
Sam nodded, wheezing. His head throbbed behind his eyes, but beneath the grimace he was smiling.
The kid had just smashed him down. He’d fouled Sam like he would have anyone else. Dirty and unfair. He wasn’t afraid he’d break him or knock his windpipe out. He’d just grabbed and thrown him over. Sam ached, but the thrill of it coursed through his whole body. He felt great. Finally he was just like everyone else again. They didn’t have to be so timid around him anymore.
The referee nodded, slipping his hand under his arm to help him up. ‘Did you trip?’ he said. ‘Did you slip over?’
Sam shook his head. He pointed down at his legs, and tugged on his collar to show the rip.
‘Fair enough. Just be careful where you’re going, mate. Don’t overdo it. We don’t have an ambulance here.’
Gesturing at the upturned dirt, Sam tried miming the fall, but the referee just smiled at him sympathetically, petting his shoulder, then jogged away, tossing the ball to the opposing team’s captain.
The other players broke apart too and ran back to their positions. No one was arguing. Nobody had seen what happened. Even the kids on his team were either shaking their heads at him or shooting awkward, reassuring looks as if to say they didn’t blame him. Sam’s arms were heavy and tired. His chin was starting to hurt. The excitement of being fouled faded away. He spat dirt from between his teeth.
Sam looked over at his mother on the sideline. She was wiping tears from her eyes while Roger stood beside her, still pumping his thumbs in the air. A strange sensation crept over him. It was probably the numbness slowly fading from his body, or the slick feeling of sweat cooling his skin, but suddenly it felt as if his body wasn’t his, like it was some kind of shell. Beneath layers of grime and already crusting mud, in a uniform that hung baggier on his body than it ever had before, he felt, he realised, as if he were wearing a mask. Or that he was trapped behind one. There was the Sam that everyone around him apparently saw: the one in the hospital gown, meek and tender, still attached to tubes and hobbling silently in place. The Sam who belonged on that soccer field—the goal attack who used to fit into his loose guernsey; who could scamper around the opposition with the ball—that Sam seemed to be gone. Either hidden under the layers of whoever he was now, gone from the field entirely.
The only things that seemed to be his now were the ache in his lungs and the burning at the base of his neck. Those, he knew, were his alone.
Somewhere, a whistle blew.
14
That night Roger came over for dinner. It was the first time he had ever been inside the house. Every room had already been thoroughly tidied, but even so, as they sat together on the lounges, their mother frequently leapt up from her seat to nervously adjust a picture or flatten a rug or straighten the magazines on the coffee table. Roger didn’t seem to mind the interruptions. He just smiled at her as she circled the room, still talking, lightly petting her knee whenever she sat back down. Sam wondered, watching his mother fidget with her dress, if it was Roger’s touch that kept making her stand back up.
Dettie was still in the kitchen. She had decided she wanted to cook, and had spent most of the day getting everything ready. Katie had asked to help, and together they had set out all the tableware, folded each cloth napkin, and arranged flowers in a vase in the centre of the table. There was a pie still baking in the oven, and Katie had gathered the apples to make it from the tree in the backyard. She’d carried them inside suspended in the front of her skirt, like a hammock, and Dettie had let her wash and peel them over the sink while she was rolling out the pie crust. The two of them had spent the whole afternoon weaving around each other as if they were dancing, portioning out handfuls of chopped apple, getting covered in flour and giggling.
Dettie had made spaghetti, and Sam had watched her assembling the meatballs, rolling each slimy mass between her fingers, shaping them into perfect spheres and measuring out the spaces between them on the oven tray with her thumb. And as he looked in at her now, still fussing at the stove, the meatballs bubbling and spitting in their pan of tomato sauce, he suddenly remembered that spaghetti and meatballs had always been his father’s favourite meal. They would have it on special occasions. A clear image of his father surfaced in his mind. He was sitting at the head of the table, his elbows propped on the wood, shaving portions of cheese over his plate. Grinding pepper. Sam went on trying to remember more, but his concentration was broken when Roger laughed at something Katie had said. In the kitchen Dettie kept stirring her pasta around in its pot.
No one else seemed to recall this about Sam’s father, or at least nobody mentioned it, as they all took their places at the table to eat. Sam’s mother even leant extravagantly over her plate to breathe in the aroma.
‘Mmm, this is wonderful, Dettie,’ she said, but there was something in the look she flashed across the table. ‘It smells delicious.’ She turned to touch Roger’s arm as he was adjusting himself on his seat. ‘Didn’t I tell you she was marvellous?’
Roger sat up slightly, nodding across the table at Dettie. ‘Absolutely fantastic,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t forget our little Katie.’ Dettie put her arm around her. ‘She’s been my helper today.’
When everyone turned to give their congratulations, Katie stretched so high she was almost standing in her seat.
‘My, yes. We are getting special treatment,’ their mother said. ‘Sam and Roger and I will have to do this more often.’
Dettie’s face pulled tight. She waved across the food and told everyone to start in before it got cold.
Sam took a large gulp of his juice, liking the way the sugar tightened his throat a little as it went down. Katie, meanwhile, had already eaten half a bread roll and was mashing her largest meatball apart with her fork. No one else was moving. Dettie, motionless, was staring across the table, watching their mother, who n
ow sat with both her hands clenched together above her plate. Her eyes were closed, and beside her, Roger’s head was bowed. He seemed to be saying grace, mouthing the words to himself, and their mother, though her lips were still, was obviously doing the same. Dettie didn’t seem sure how to take the sight. She glanced between the two of them, her palm lying flat across her cutlery, still waiting to pick it up. Sam watched the cheese sweating slowly on his food, collapsing into the sauce.
A moment later Roger whispered, ‘Amen,’ and exhaled, flapping open his napkin and smoothing it across his lap. When their mother opened her eyes she breathed in and unclasped her hands, straightening her table setting. Dettie kept watch, tapping her fingers softly on the tablecloth.
Roger was glancing around at the food as if seeing it, finally, for the first time. He pulled his plate closer and began cutting a meatball, lifting half of it into his mouth and humming loudly as he chewed. ‘Oh. This really is delicious, Dettie.’ He chewed with a serious expression, humming again, and wiping the sauce from his lips.
Sam’s mother smiled. ‘We’re lucky to have her around, I say.’
Dettie dropped her gaze to her chest, the knife and fork now tinkling between her fingertips. Slowly, she unfolded her napkin and began grinding pepper across her meal. Katie, who had been watching Dettie since their mother started praying, saw this movement as a signal to go on chewing.
Sam turned his fork around in his spaghetti, watching as each strand slid together, knotting, until it was its own little planet whirling in the middle of his plate, the cheese surrounding it stretched and glistening. Everyone else was concentrating on their food. It was quiet, with only the clinks and scratches of dinnerware.
‘I like your skin,’ Katie said.
Dettie dropped her knife and fork onto her plate with a clank, huffing loudly. Their mother looked to Roger, biting a grin and offering a tiny shrug. ‘Sweetie—’ she said, taking Katie’s hand. Roger—whom Katie had been talking to—just seemed amused.
