by Karen West
Willow sat in the middle of my mattress with Libby, gawking at me. ‘I don’t believe that you didn’t kiss him,’ Willow remarked, screwing up her face.
‘It was awkward,’ I said.
‘That’s so lame,’ she shrieked, falling back on the mattress, kicking her feet. ‘I couldn’t go on a date and not kiss the boy.’
Libby let out a squeal. ‘I would have kissed him if it were me. Tell me that you mentioned the girl?’
‘Yeah, I did.’
Libby’s brown eyes widened. ‘Well?’
‘There is no girlfriend. It was his brother’s girlfriend.’
‘Oh, God, Steph, that’s terrible.’ sighed Libby.
‘It sucks,’ added Willow, sitting up. ‘Poor girl.’
When the phone rang Libby snatched it off the bed. She held it up, showing Richard’s name on the screen. She put it to her mouth and kissed it. I reached up and snatched it from her. Willow broke into uncontrollable laughter.
‘Hi Steph, it sounds like you’re having fun.’ I pursed my lips and gave Willow and Libby my shut-up stare. ‘I had a great night,’ he added.
‘So did I.’
‘Do you like jazz?’
‘Music?’
‘My friend, Paul Henderson, plays in a small brass band on a Saturday night at Lu Lu’s on the wharf at Manly – have you been there?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ I wasn’t into jazz. ‘It sounds –’
‘We can do something else if you like.’
‘No, I’d like that.’
‘It’s a date.’
‘A date,’ I said, pointing my finger at the phone.
Soon after Libby and Willow went home, Dad called from the bottom of the steps. ‘Steph, can you come, please.’
I stopped at the lounge room door, and Mum patted the cushion inviting me to sit beside her. Dad came in with a tray of hot chocolate and marshmallows, which made me think that we were celebrating something good.
I wrapped my hands around my mug, waiting.
Dad sat on the lounge opposite, and sat forward. ‘Dr Wong called with your mother’s test results.’ He paused.
‘And?’ I breathed.
‘Steph, the tests show that your mother’s condition is deteriorating,’ he said. ’Her only option is a heart transplant.’
My face went blank.
‘The success rates are high,’ added Mum. ‘The operation is big, but once it’s over, I’ll just need to take anti-rejection drugs. I can go back to work, garden, and snorkel – do the things that I love, the things that make us a family.’
I tried to be positive. ‘That’s great, but the thought of you having someone else’s heart is creepy.’
Dad frowned. ‘Stephanie, there are no other options.’
I bit my lip, knowing he was right. ‘I understand that.’
‘Do you need anything explained?’ asked Mum.
‘No, not yet,’ I said, getting up, placing the mug back on the tray. Then the doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Steph,’ said Libby, peering over my shoulder toward the lounge room where she could hear Dad and Mum speaking. ‘I left my iPad, but I can come back later.’
‘No, your timing is perfect.’
‘Only Libby,’ I called to Mum and Dad.’
‘Thanks …’ said Libby.
Libby sat hugging her knees, listening. I moved my chair away from my easel and sat facing her. ‘Most mothers get a new car, but my mum gets a new heart.’
‘Your family has always been different, Steph.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know why,’ she said, shaking her head.
PART TWO
Chapter Nine
THE DATE ON the screen read 1 July, making it six calendar months since Mum collapsed on the beach, six months since Richard entered my life. The air was thick with animal smells that reassured me that I wasn’t alone. I pulled the attic window shut and sat with the computer on my lap.
I reached for Dad’s newspaper and was flicking through the pages, when a clap of thunder shook the foundations of our house. I left the mattress and knelt at the window, watching the lightning dance wildly across the sky, turning night into day. Sailboats rocked back and forth on the water below like bathtub toys.
When the lightning slowed, I scurried back and continued flicking through the pages. I stopped at a photograph of a boy, dressed in a football jersey. He had a youthful smile.
The headline read: TRAGIC TEEN ACCIDENT
Adrian Morgan, aged 16, sustained critical head injuries playing football. He was taken to Royal North Shore Hospital in a coma and later died. The coroner’s findings were death by accident. The coroner went on to say Adrian’s injuries could have been avoided by wearing protective headgear.
I ran the tips of my fingers over the image of his face and wondered if he was an organ donor.
Cooking smells wafted up the stairs, seeping through the gap under the door. Dad had been cooking most of the afternoon.
I walked into the kitchen to find Dad wearing Mum’s apron, not the one with the picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front, but the one with two white, fluffy kittens. The kittens were cute, but Dad wasn’t. He was in desperate need of a shave and his wild greying hair needed a good comb. He had a glass of red wine in one hand and was holding a wooden spoon high above his head with the other, waving it in rhythm to the classical music on the radio.
‘Dinner won’t be long. Don’t disappear,’ he sang.
I opened the fridge door and reached in for juice. On closing the door, I stood watching Dad and shook my head. ‘Dad, what if someone saw you?’
‘No one’s here.’
My forehead tightened. ‘I’m here.’
‘You have no appreciation of real music.’
I shook my head and made for the lounge room.
Although the fire was burning and the house was warm, the imitation leather lounge was cold. I reached for the TV remote and scooped up Mum’s blanket, tucking it around my body to lock in the warmth. I started flicking through the channels in search of the evening news.
Several commercials came and went, and I cringed at the change of volume. The news came back on. The words tragic followed by collision held my attention. I wrapped my arms around my knees and focused intently on the screen.
‘Speed was the cause of the tragic road accident that has taken the life of a teenage boy,’ the reporter said, before cutting live to the scene.
A female reporter stood in the rain under an umbrella with her back to the twisted wreckage of a vehicle that was reduced to a pile of scrap metal.
‘Earlier this evening in Mosman, on Sydney’s lower North Shore, a teenage boy lost control of the BMW he was driving and was killed on impact.’ There was genuine emotion in the reporter’s voice. ‘The female passenger of the vehicle, believed to be the boy’s girlfriend, was freed from the wreckage after being trapped for two hours. She was rushed to St Vincent’s Hospital with apparent head trauma, and has been placed on life support.’
Whenever there was news of a fatality, I parked my compassion and thought of a new heart for Mum, and how our fear of losing her would be over.
Dad reached over the back of the lounge and rudely snatching the remote out of my hand, switched off the TV. ‘Dinner is ready, Stephanie,’ he said in a gruff voice.
I flew out of the chair and followed him into the kitchen, flapping my hands around like the wings of a distressed goose. ‘Why do you do that?’ I hissed.
‘Do what?’ he asked, trying to sound innocent.
I refused to let it go. ‘You know what!’
‘What?’ said Mum, as she entered the kitchen wearing orange, fluffy crocodile slippers and a bamboo-striped terry towelling dressing gown.
‘I told you to stay in bed,’ said Dad, pulling out a chair, and glared at me without her seeing.
I stared back at him.
Mum flopped in the chair. ‘I hate bed,’ she sighed, twitching her nose at
the dinner. ‘It smells …’
Dad stared at the chicken risotto that was bubbling away in the pot on the stove, which usually tasted how it smelt: revolting.
‘… Excellent!’ Mum added kindly, and Dad smiled.
‘I’m sure Madam will enjoy.’ He plucked a crinkled linen serviette off the table, placing it neatly across Mum’s lap, and she laughed. Mum’s laughter made me think of colourful kites with long tails swirling and whirling high in the sky.
‘And you, young lady,’ she said, ‘what’s with the track pants and old sloppy joe? I thought that you were going out tonight?’
I sat down on the chair beside her. ‘I thought that I might …’ A knock on the kitchen door saved me from telling Mum that I had changed my mind. ‘I’ll get it.’
Libby jogged in. ‘The rain’s stopped.’
‘Did you jog all the way over here to tell us that?’ I asked.
‘Nope, I’m starving,’ she said, and winked at me. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Risotto,’ Mum declared.
I rolled my eyes. ‘Dad’s risotto.’
‘There’s plenty,’ said Dad.
‘Not tonight, Mr C. I promised my mum I’d be home for dinner, but thanks a heap for the offer.’
You bullshit artist, I mouthed and used her as an excuse to escape the dinner table. ‘Can I have my dinner in the attic?’
‘Sure,’ said Mum, not looking at Dad.
Dad plopped an enormous ladle of risotto in a bowl and handed it to me. I grabbed a fork off the table. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Libby flopped belly first across the mattress and started thumbing through the newspaper. ‘I can’t believe that people still read these things,’ she said, holding up her thumb to show me that it was covered with black ink. ‘They’re so dirty. You can access all the news you want on the internet!’
I knew that Libby was right, but unlike the news online, newspapers made the news stories more real. ‘Excuse me,’ I snapped, pulling the paper away from her.
Libby rolled over on her back and stared up at the silver stars that I’d glued to the ceiling. ‘I’d so love to have sex,’ she said. ‘… Have you and Richard done it yet?’
‘No,’ I said, frowning, ‘we haven’t, and if we had, I wouldn’t be telling you.’
Libby sat up. ‘You wouldn’t share?’
‘Nope, I wouldn’t.’
‘What’s the use of having sex if you can’t share that you’re doing it?’
‘I can’t come out tonight,’ I told her.
‘I already guessed that when I heard the news. Maybe you should start going out regardless. If the hospital called your mum in, your dad would let you know.’
I cut out Adrian’s story from the newspaper, reached under the mattress and pulled out a red, recycled biscuit tin, and placed the new clipping on top. Libby gazed at me with her just-eaten-a-lemon face. ‘Does it help doing that?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Collecting those things?’
I stopped and thought before answering. ‘Yeah, it does, it helps a lot.’
‘You won’t reconsider coming tonight? It should be fun. Blair puts on an excellent party. Willow’s going with Grant!’
‘That’s nice.’
‘I wish you and Richard were coming. It’s not too late.’
‘I wouldn’t have fun.’
‘You know, boring relationships don’t work. You and Richard should lighten up.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind the next time Richard’s exploring my body with his hands, running his tongue slowly up my neck, pushing his body hard against mine.’
Libby’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re having sex?’
‘We’ll go to the next party, I promise.’
‘Cross your heart.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a promise, that’s why.’
‘I crossed it mentally.’
Libby stared back at me with her big, brown doe eyes. ‘Cross it with your finger.’
I swept my index finger across my heart. ‘Are you happy now?’
‘That was a circle.’
‘It was a cross.’
Libby reached over and gave me a hug. ‘You should try to eat some of your dad’s risotto. You’re getting a bit too thin.’
I sighed. ‘Thanks for being mean!’
‘I’m not mean, I just don’t want you to get sick,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, then turning her attention to the easel. ‘How come your canvas is always covered with that old curtain?’
‘Dust,’ I told her.
Libby started jogging on the spot. Her abundance of energy made me tired. ‘Catch you later,’ she said and took off out the door.
I gazed back at the sky to see that the clouds were breaking up, revealing a full moon, which meant that the zoo animals would be restless throughout the night.
Suddenly my phone squawked and Richard’s name came up on the screen.
Hi, Steph call me if you’re still free 2night.
I called him, and he answered on the first ring. When I heard his voice, I sensed that he had also seen the accident on the evening news.
‘How are you?’ His words were soft.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘They’ve taken the girl to St Vincent’s. They probably took the brother there too.’ A surge of hope for Mum set off a wave of sadness for the boy who died. My throat ached.
‘How’s your mum?’
‘I don’t think she heard the news.’ I swallowed a lump of anxiety building in my throat.
‘That’s probably good, right?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Steph, I know the timing isn’t the greatest, but …’ There was a long pause.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah – I’m here,’ whispered Richard.
‘But what?’
‘I – I’m going to see Michael tonight, will you come?’
I had a sudden rush of anxiety. I knew that the day would come when he would want to visit Michael, but what made him choose tonight, of all nights? The need to be with Mum and also be there for Richard was overwhelming. It registered that Mum had Dad and Richard all needed me. ‘What time?’
‘I can be there in thirty,’ he said, sounding relieved.
‘I’ll meet you out the front.’
The warmth of the shower washed away the sensation of a trillion ants living beneath my skin. I closed my eyes and let the water run on my face. When I surfaced, I heard my phone go off again. I reached for a towel and bolted.
Janice’s name was on the screen. She was a social worker for the heart transplant unit at St Vincent’s Hospital. I started seeing her a couple of months ago after Dad caught me cutting accident stories from his newspapers. It wasn’t unusual for Janice to call when there was media coverage of a fatal accident. I know that it probably sounds macabre, but when life depends on death, you tend to cling to every thread of hope. I decided to call her back.
‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound up.
‘Hi Stephanie, thought I’d give you a call and catch up.’
‘I’m booked in to see you on Monday. Mum has an appointment with Dr Wong, remember?’ I said, annoyed.
‘Yes, of course. But if you need to talk, you have my number.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ I put the phone on silent, threw it back on the bed and returned to the warmth of the shower.
Before leaving home, I went in search of Mum. She was curled up in her chair in front of the fire, fast asleep. When I kissed her cheek, I thought I heard a wheeze. I backed away and bumped into Dad standing at the lounge room door with a tea towel over his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re going out. It’ll do you good to have fun with your friends.’
I wanted to tell Dad that Richard and I weren’t going to the party with Libby, as planned, but he got in first. ‘Have you got your mobile?’ I took it out of my coat pocket and held it up for him to see. ‘And don’t be too late home. You’re working early tomorrow morning.�
�� Dad seemed unusually anxious.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No,’ he said, but I wasn’t convinced.
‘Hey, Dad, I don’t have to go,’ I lied, ‘I’m happy to stay home?’
‘If I needed you home, I’d tell you. It’s all good. Go out. Have fun.’
Chapter Ten
RICHARD WAS LEANING up against our fence, waiting for me. He was dressed in a long wool khaki coat, jeans and boots, unlaced as usual. He reached out and swept me under his arm. His clothes smelt like the wool mix that we use. We made our way up the street.
Like Dad, I sensed that Richard was anxious. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m cool. Thanks for coming.’
I wanted to ask Richard where Michael was buried, or maybe he had been cremated, but I didn’t want to freak him out. It was an epic move that he had chosen to include me in whatever was making him go there tonight.
The L90 bus came up from behind us; Richard pulled on my hand and we ran the rest of the way to the bus stop. The L90 went to the city, and the last stop was Wynyard.
As I rummaged through my purse for my Opal card, Richard tapped his and reached for mine. ‘It’s cool,’ I said and tapped.
Richard took my hand and led me to the rear of the bus, past a couple of old biddies who sat busily watching us. I slid across the seat and got a whiff of hot chips and stale body odour, and held my nose.
‘We can move if you like,’ Richard offered.
‘No need,’ I said, snuggling into the warmth of his coat.
‘How’s your mum?’
A picture of Mum curled up in her chair flashed through my mind. ‘She sleeps a lot.’
‘What does your dad say?’
‘He said it’s normal because her heart is getting weaker.’
When the bus pulled up further along the road, there was a loud bang like a gun shot. I let out a squeal. Richard stared beyond the window.
‘Just a couple of guys mucking around,’ he said.
I waited for my heart to stop racing. Two boys boarded who I recognised as Year Twelves from school. I was relieved when they stopped a few rows short of us. One of the boys stood in the aisle while the other slid across the seat to the window. The boy standing glanced at us. ‘Hey, Gates,’ he called, ‘how’s it going back there?’
