‘I’m sorry, Bella,’ says Mum, her voice tight. ‘Ava didn’t mean it.’
But she’s wrong. I did mean it.
And I’d do it again in a flash.
Once Sophie and Bella have been collected, Nic and Mel watch TV while Dad and I walk a few laps of the garden. Dad holds me tight, pointing out all the birds and the different plants in his veggie patch.
‘There’s the spinach, and that’s eggplant,’ he says, ‘and that … Would you take a look at that? The grasshoppers have got into the lettuce.’
We wave to our neighbour Henry and watch a bug-eyed grasshopper flip onto the fence. Then Dad picks some parsley to take inside to Mum.
‘Here we are,’ he announces, flourishing the herbs like a bunch of roses. Mum nods and listens quietly while Dad tells her about the grasshoppers, but she seems a million miles away, like the garden is the last thing on her mind.
‘It’ll be okay, love,’ Dad says, giving Mum’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Bella will understand. What’s a few pulled hairs between friends?’
Mum sighs. ‘I know. But you know, with Nicole, and Ava, sometimes it’s just too much.’
My mouth goes dry. And Ava? Mum never complains about me.
‘It’s so hard, isn’t it?’ Mum says, rubbing her eye. ‘We never know what she wants. Is she thirsty? Is she hot? Does she want to stay up and watch Law & Order? I mean, it’s impossible. We’re always guessing.’
Dad laughs. He has a deep chest and wide shoulders, so when he laughs, it’s a big belly laugh. ‘Well, probably not Law & Order,’ he says. ‘Ava’s a bit young for that.’
‘Yeah, I know, but you get what I mean? I feel guilty all the time. Guilty for not knowing what she wants. Guilty for not knowing what to do.’
‘We’re doing our best, Deb.’
Mum’s silent for a moment. ‘I feel guilty if I check my phone while she eats breakfast. Guilty if I need to ask for help. Guilty, guilty, guilty!’ Mum’s voice waivers, like she’s only just keeping it together.
Dad quickly grabs the box of tissues, just in case.
‘It’s like we have no life. I mean, we all want the same things, don’t we? The perfect marriage, the perfect job. Four bedrooms, a pool and a dog.’ Mum sighs and dabs a tissue to her eyes. ‘And what have we got?’
Well, you’ve got me and Nic, for a start. And we could always get a dog.
‘I feel like I’m trapped. I just want to burst free and run and run and run until my lungs explode. And then run some more.’
‘Hey,’ Dad soothes. ‘Remember that poem? What’s it called? “Welcome to Iceland” or something?’ He reaches an arm around Mum’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t it say planning for a baby is like planning a trip to Italy? You expect great food, great weather, great sights.’
Mum doesn’t smile back.
‘But when your baby is born with a disability,’ continues Dad, ‘it’s like you’re not going to Italy after all.’
Mum scratches her forehead. ‘And instead of Italy, you’re going to Holland,’ she says, frowning. ‘You feel angry and upset. You wanted sun and pasta and wine. Not rain and clogs.’
Dad nods. ‘But then you realise Holland has other things,’ he says, ‘like tulips and windmills and famous paintings, and, in fact, Holland is just as lovely as Italy. Just different.’
Mum sits very still, staring at the table. When she looks up, her eyes and nose are blotchy. ‘All I’m saying is, Holland’s no fun sometimes, you know?’ she whispers. ‘Sometimes … I just … well, Italy would’ve been nice, that’s all.’ She gets a cloth from the kitchen sink and starts wiping my hands and face.
‘You know what you need?’ Dad says. ‘A holiday. Not a Holland holiday – a real holiday. Just you and me, no kids.’ He sneaks a glance at me. It’s only a quick glance, but I see it, and he quickly looks away.
Mum sighs again. She and Dad both know there’ll be no holiday. For one – Mum and Dad are both flat out with their jobs, and two – who’d look after me?
‘Nobody’s perfect, Deb,’ says Dad. ‘It’s okay to feel this way. It’s really okay.’
But it’s not okay. Mum’s breathing hard, like she’s trying to control a volcano inside her. A volcano that’s hotter and more powerful than she expected.
‘How about a night out?’ Dad says. ‘Dinner? A movie? It’s been ages since we went on a date. We could get Nic to babysit?’
‘Nic?’ Mum laughs. ‘No, I don’t think so. Nic and Ava … no. Look, I’m fine, I’m really fine. I don’t need a night out. It’s all good.’
But Dad’s not convinced. ‘It’s been ages since we asked for help. Do you want me to make some calls again?’
The last time we tried calling Disability Services, Mum cried for nearly a week. The lady on the other end asked such stupid questions that Mum wished she’d never rung. When Mum asked if there was any chance we could get help and some carers, she was advised that there were people way worse off than us. ‘What do you want us to do about it?’ the lady had barked. ‘The government’s not made of money.’
‘We have to do something,’ insists Dad. ‘One day, you never know, we might really need some help. Leave it to me. I’ll do some homework and look into what else is out there.’
Later, while Mum pops over to visit Henry, Dad helps me down to the TV room, where Mel and Nic are still in their pyjamas, hunched over their phones, eating leftover pizza.
‘Hey, Mr Mills,’ says Mel. ‘Hey, Ava.’
‘Hi, girls. All good in here? Sorry about Bella.’
Mel nods but Nic doesn’t look up from her phone. Her hair is wound up in a frizzy bun, so I’m thinking Mel must have left her straightener at home.
‘I’m just ducking down to do some washing,’ says Dad. ‘Can Ava watch TV with you for a bit?’
Nic groans and mutters, ‘Does she have to?’ but Dad sits me down anyway and promises to be quick.
Mel moves over slightly and shows Nic a picture on her phone. ‘Cute, hey,’ she says, then lowers her voice. ‘So, how about it?’ she says. ‘Please? We’ve got a pretty good chance.’
Nic holds her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh,’ she whispers. ‘If Mum finds out …’ She glances at me to see if I’m listening.
Mel laughs.
‘What?’
Now it’s Mel’s turn to look at me. ‘Seriously? It’s not like she’ll tell anyone.’
You never know; miracles happen.
All the same, Nic talks in a whisper and I have to listen hard to hear what she says. It sounds as if they’ve been invited to compete at interschools, despite my milkshake ruining their act.
‘So?’ asks Mel.
Nic stretches. Mum says she’s grown legs up to her ears, and today, in her shorty sausage-dog pyjamas, I’d say Mum is just about right.
‘We’re good, Nic. We could win,’ tempts Mel. ‘Pleeeaase?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Nic crosses her arms and squeezes her shoulders in tight. ‘I just don’t want Mum and Dad to bring …’ Her eyes flit towards me, and her whispered voice gets even softer. ‘I can’t handle, you know, that happening again.’
Mel squeals and hugs her. ‘So it’s a yes? Thanks, Nic! You’re the best!’
On Monday morning, we’re rushing and, as usual, Nic’s the one making us late.
‘What’s this?’ asks Mum when Nic hands over a form. Has Nic decided to tell her? About the interschools?
I promise I won’t scream, Nic.
‘I told you, remember?’ says Nic. ‘Our electives for next term. A parent has to sign the permission slip before I’m allowed to start the course.’
My taxi driver, Sam, has just pulled up.
‘Do I have to sign it now?’ Mum asks. ‘Can’t it wait till tonight?’
‘Mum!’
Mum takes the form. ‘This says first aid. I thought
you chose stage production.’
‘I did. But I was late putting my name down, so they gave me first aid.’
Mum’s reading the details down the bottom. ‘Oh, look. It’s at the aquatic centre. On the same day as Ava’s swimming lessons. How about that? You’ll be able to say hello to each other,’ she says, turning to me.
Like, how?
Nic looks like she’s swallowed a live witchetty grub. ‘What? She’s swimming on Wednesdays now?’
Sam’s waiting. He doesn’t beep, but he’s lowered the wheelchair ramp and is standing beside it, trying to peer beyond our glass doors to see if I’m coming.
‘She’s been going on Wednesdays all term.’ Mum’s grabbed a pen and is quickly signing the form. ‘I thought you knew.’ She hands Nic back the form. ‘Honey, go run and get your shoes. Please. We have to go.’
Nic’s looking from me to Mum to the form. Like she wants to rip it up.
I’d change the day of my swimming, Nic. You know I would if I could.
At my swimming lesson on Wednesday, I meet up with Clare, a student who volunteers at the pool. She’s skinny, with short dark hair, and is new enough to think I’m cute. If only her skin wasn’t pocked with red pinch marks by the end of every session. It’s not that I mean to pinch. My twisted fingers and clenching hands can’t be trusted. I can’t control what they do.
I look out for Nic, but there’s no sign of her or her class when Clare wheels me in. Then I remember: Nic’s elective doesn’t start till next term. I lean forwards, eager to get in the pool. My body is weightless in water, so instead of feeling like a twisted bonsai, I’m almost like a mermaid. Supported against Clare’s shoulder, I can float as if in a dream, my muscles finally relaxed.
But it all takes so long. My classmates need help with everything. Before Clare can guide me into the water, the swim instructor has to talk to Wendy and the volunteers.
Squish, clap, clench.
In my head, I’m already down the ramp and floating in the warm water. But in reality, the instructor is rabbiting on forever. The smell of chlorine stings my nose. The sliding doors grind and whoosh.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
Wendy won’t let me swim if I scream.
Finally, the instructor is finished, and Clare steers me towards the water. It’s the only time they let me walk, and we make it down the ramp without either of us falling. Once we’re in, I blow bubbles with my mouth, and we laugh when my squishing hands squirt water into Clare’s face. Soon I’m warm and relaxed, and my awkwardness and pain disappear. Sounds blur with my ears below the water, and even my hands release and float. Clare rests her cheek beside mine, and we wallow together, in heaven.
But it feels like we’ve only just begun when Wendy’s signalling for us to get out.
What? Already?
My heart squeezes and my hands start clasping again. The heaviness in my body, the cold air from the air conditioning and the tugging and pulling as Clare tries to dress me, all lie ahead.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
Dripping and shivering, my legs begin to shake and my hands won’t unclasp to grab onto the rail. We nearly fall, twice. Clare manages to get me upright, and then it’s the freezing cold walk to the change room. We wobble and teeter. The floor is slippery and Clare’s hands aren’t firm enough to stop me from falling.
I lurch dangerously to one side. Just in time I feel a strong hand under my arm. It’s Wendy, and she helps Clare get me to the change room. But then she has Freya and the others to assist, and Clare is left trying to support me on her own.
A mother has her baby on the change table, and its high-pitched wails fill the room. Clare hurries to pull on my school uniform. She’s yanking my arms and asking me to lift my leg. I shake and wobble. My feet are unsteady on the slippery tiles. Plus, the baby’s cries are scrambling my brain.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
Arms, legs, babies. A scream escapes before I can stop it.
And then another.
I scream and scream and scream.
The last thing I see before Wendy races me to the bus, still dripping wet and half-dressed, is the lady clutching her baby to her chest.
Will I ever go swimming again?
That night at bedtime, Dad reads me Little Ginger, a picture book about a cat with no friends. He’s been reading me the same story since forever, but I don’t mind because I understand what the cat is going through and Dad’s voice is deep and soothing. I read along with Dad, in my head, enjoying the way the words flow.
But I can’t stop thinking about what happened at the pool.
The cold air made me scream, Dad. Loud noises make me tense.
‘You’re tired, aren’t you, treasure?’ he says when my hands squish and clasp. ‘How about you rest your head on the pillow while I read the end, hey? Come on, let’s get you all tucked up.’ He helps me lie down and is pulling the sheets up around my shoulders when Nic slips into the room.
‘Look who it is.’ Dad pats the end of my bed. ‘Want to hear the end of our story?’
Nic scrunches her nose.
‘You sure? My cat accents are pretty fine.’
‘Seriously, Dad? Little Ginger? Ava’s eleven, not two.’
Dad flips the book over so we can see the title and the picture of little Ginger walking across the cover. ‘What? And abandon old Gingy? Never,’ he declares. ‘Little Ginger is the best.’
Nic sighs and sits on my bed while Dad finishes the story, but instead of laughing at Dad’s silly accents, she stares at her mobile in her hand.
‘Uh oh,’ says Dad, giving me a wink. ‘Trouble in paradise? What’s up, sweetheart?’
Nic’s bottom lip wobbles. It’s so not like Nic to cry. And now twice in one week?
‘Problems at school? Maths teacher on your case?’
Nic shakes her head. She’s definitely going to cry.
It’s because of me, isn’t it? Pulling Bella’s hair?
Nic takes a breath. ‘Even though we didn’t finish our …’ She stares at my wombat picture on the opposite wall. ‘Well, you know, at the, um, talent show? Anyways … they’ve asked us to perform at the interschools,’ she explains. ‘But …’
Dad grins. ‘Interschools? Way to go!’
Nic’s eyes slide towards me. ‘Just, if, you know, if I say yes, and you and Mum come watch, and you bring Ava, well, you remember what happened last time, right?’
I lie extra still, like I’m not really listening.
‘Ah,’ says Dad. ‘I see. So where is it?’
‘At City Hall. In two weeks.’
Dad pauses. ‘I could stay home with Ava,’ he offers. ‘Just Mum could take you this time?’
Nic shrugs.
Dad reaches an arm around her shoulder. ‘You and Mel get busy rehearsing. I’ll sort something out with Mum.’
The next morning, we’re having breakfast when Dad pulls out his phone. ‘Look,’ he says, showing Mum the screen. ‘I found this last night. It’s new and it’s nearby.’
What’s new?
Mum takes his phone and scrolls down the site.
When I crane to see, my heart freezes. Rosie’s Cottage? A respite house?
I glare at Dad. Mum will say no, for sure. She’d never agree to sending me to some random house, with complete strangers looking after me.
I wait for her to set Dad straight. ‘No, Ross,’ she says, making my lungs fill with air. Phew. ‘We don’t need respite, and I’m not sending Ava to …’
Dad takes Mum’s hand. ‘We’ve got two daughters, Deb. Think how thrilled Nic will be, having us all to herself for once. Won’t you at least consider it?’
They’re doing it again, talking like I’m not in the room.
I make a clucking noise with my
tongue to remind Mum and Dad I’m still here. My tongue won’t always cluck – or it clucks at all the wrong times – so it’s not like I can use it to communicate. But it makes Mum and Dad laugh, and they pretty much always cluck back, so we have weird clucking conversations where none of us knows what we’re saying, but it’s better than nothing, and it makes us smile.
But Mum’s not clucking today. She’s wiping her nose, before she …
Nods!
NODS?!?
Please, Mum, don’t send me to respite!
I don’t mean to scream but I do, which makes Mum shoot Dad a fierce glare. ‘Can we talk about this later?’ she hisses.
‘At least come and have a look,’ he murmurs. ‘How about I ring and make an appointment?’
I scowl. Brandon went to respite once and came back to school with stitches.
Mum turns her back to wash the plates in the sink, but later, when I’ve finished my toast and Dad’s helping her dry up, I hear him asking her again.
‘What can a day or two hurt?’ he whispers. ‘It’s not like we’d be leaving her there forever.’
Can I have that in writing?
Mum glances worriedly back at me, and I drop my eyes, pretending to inspect my squishing hands.
‘Just a quick look?’ urges Dad.
Um, hello? I can HEAR YOU.
‘Alright,’ whispers Mum, clattering the plates, trying to keep her voice down. ‘But I’m not promising anything, okay?’
We don’t get to see the respite house. Not with Dad, anyway. Because on Friday afternoon when Sam and I pull up after school, Dad’s ute is in the driveway, but there’s no sign of him. Mum’s at a meeting down the Gold Coast and Dad’s supposed to be collecting me from Sam.
I frown. Dad? Where are you?
I wait quietly in my wheelchair while Sam scoots around the side of his taxi. He stands beside the ramp and checks his watch. The clock on the dash says 3.16 p.m., pretty close to our usual time. But Sam’s not allowed to pull my chair onto the ramp and lower me down before someone is here to collect me – taxi company policy. It’s hot and stuffy in the cab while I wait, and it smells like vinyl and sweaty clothes.
Everything I've Never Said Page 3
