Dad?
Sam knocks on our glass doors, then peers through them. After a few minutes, he knocks on Mum’s garage office door, waits, and then checks his phone for messages. The myna birds hop over the grevillea. Sam checks his phone again.
Squish, clasp, clap.
Beads of sweat pop out on my nose. My feet and hands are clammy. An aeroplane drones overhead.
Dad finally comes outside. His face is pale and he blinks in the afternoon light. As he approaches the taxi, I see he is sweating even more than I am.
‘Sorry, Sam,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise the time.’
Once they’ve helped me out, Dad thanks Sam before bustling me inside. I hope he’ll give me a treat for afternoon tea, seeing as Mum’s not here to surpervise, but instead he plonks me in front of the TV.
Dad?
We never skip afternoon tea.
He sits beside me and flicks to an animal documentary.
Huh?
We always watch ABC Kids when I get home. Not that I’m complaining. The animal documentary is great. The presenter is being winched into a giant cave filled with bats. Thousands of bats. With ugly faces with pushed-in noses. I try not to dribble or squish my hands too loudly. Dad’s very pale.
Aren’t you feeling well, Dad?
The presenter’s nearly at the top of the cave. The sun is setting and the bats are about to fly outside. The music is gentle and calm and helps me relax.
But Dad’s not relaxed. He’s staring at the TV, his eyeballs popping like marbles. I frown. The right side of his face is drooping – like his skin is made of slime.
I blink and stare. Dad?
Then, just as the credits roll, Dad’s phone drops with a thud on the carpet. His head flops forwards and his arms fall to his side.
DAD!
My pulse quickens. The documentary is replaced by a crime investigation show. Even without Dad’s slippy face, hearing about dead bodies makes my skin crawl.
Help! Someone help! Someone come and fix my dad.
But no-one comes. My stomach whirls. I’m falling from a plane without a parachute.
Mum? When will your meeting finish? Nic? Where are you?
If Nic’s gone to Mel’s to talk about their act for interschools, it could be ages till she’s home.
Dad! Wake up! Dad, come on, please wake up.
But Dad lies very still, his head and arm flopping against the side of the couch. His phone is beside my foot. I stare at it, willing my hands to unclasp. I need to bend over and pick it up. But my hands won’t relax and the phone stays where it is.
Breathe. Stay calm.
I somehow tug my hands apart and push them into the seat of the couch. I raise my body up, only slightly, and try to lean forwards so that my weight moves over my legs and feet. I try to bend towards the phone, but nothing happens. I sink back down. I have to try again.
One, two, three …
My upper body tilts forwards. I wait for my legs to take the weight. But I’ve pushed too hard. My shoulders tip over. My upper body lurches, and I land face-first onto the carpet.
My breaths come in loud snorts and snuffles. I’m not hurt, but it’s hard to breathe when you’re face-down on the carpet. My legs and feet are jammed up against the couch, my nose and mouth are buried in the shag pile. No air in, no air out. I’m grunting and snuffling and trying to roll to the side.
But it’s no use.
I’m not helping Dad. I’m suffocating.
Relax, Ava, relax. Slow your breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Move your head so your nose and mouth are free.
The crime show stops for an ad break, and I manage to turn my head away from the carpet. Eventually my thrashing heart slows. I lie there, listening to every sound. Are those Mum’s car tyres crunching on the gravel? Is that Nic at the door, calling out goodbye to her ride?
A gecko squeaks from behind the curtains; the crime show comes back on. It’s followed by a cooking show, then a travel show, and then … Dad’s breathing is slow and rhythmic. I’m exhausted from twisting my body around and around, trying to reach the phone, trying to help Dad. My eyes grow heavy.
Mum, you must be nearly home?
‘Wake up, Ava. Can you hear me? Ava? Wake up!’ Mum’s panicked voice is breathy beside me. Someone’s shaking my shoulder.
I’m all groggy. Like I only just fell asleep. But why is my bed so hard and my pillow so scratchy?
I open my eyes. Then I remember.
Dad. His head drooping. Me, crashing to the floor. Waiting forever for someone to come until finally falling asleep.
I glance around. Dad’s still on the couch. His eyes are shut.
What’s wrong with Dad, Mum? Why isn’t he waking up?
Mum’s torn between helping me and helping Dad, hovering between us while constantly checking her phone. Seconds later, a siren stabs the air. Mum jumps up as it stops outside our house.
Two men and a lady in navy blue coveralls burst through the door. The men surround Dad, calling, ‘Mr Mills? Ross? Can you hear us?’ while the lady kneels beside me.
‘What’s your name, little one?’ she asks.
‘She can’t talk, but her name is Ava,’ says Mum.
‘Hi, Ava,’ says the lady. Her hands are firm as she manoeuvres around my clasping hands to check my pulse and under my eyelids. ‘Everything feel alright? Anything sore?’
‘I think maybe she just fell asleep,’ says Mum.
The lady gives me the all-clear, while the two ambulance men bundle Dad onto a stretcher, explaining to Mum that they’re taking him to the hospital. Fast.
My chest squeezes. Dad? Will you be okay?
Mum looks from me to them, and then back to me.
‘You go with Ross, Deb. I’ll take care of the girls,’ says a voice.
Henry from next door? He must have heard all the commotion.
‘Oh, Henry. Thank goodness. Thank you,’ stammers Mum. ‘But I don’t know where Nic is. She’s not answering her phone …’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out. You go. Ava will be fine.’
Mum bends beside me and whispers, ‘Love you, Ava,’ before racing out the door with Dad and the ambulance officers.
Love you too, Mum. And love you, Dad.
Once everyone’s gone, Henry sits down beside me. My heart thuds hard against my chest. What’s happened to Dad?
Henry doesn’t say anything about Dad, but he reassures me that everything will be fine.
Will it, Henry?
Then he helps me to the kitchen, where he washes my face with a cool flannel. It’s dark outside and he holds me gently as he peers anxiously through the window. ‘Where’s that sister of yours?’ he asks our reflection. ‘You up for a search and rescue?’
Henry takes me by the elbow and guides me into my wheelchair. He smells nice, like aftershave and fabric softener, which is soothing as he pushes me down our drive and struggles up his.
‘Here we are,’ he puffs as he fumbles for the garage remote. Henry drives an ancient Mercedes-Benz, and Nic’s always wanted to go for a spin. But now it’s my turn, and I struggle to cooperate as Henry slides me into the back seat. Once he’s put my chair in the boot, he curses his old creaky knees, lowers himself into the driver’s seat, and we’re off.
We take a route past Nic’s school and a nearby park, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I squirm and fidget until, finally, on our way back to the house, we cruise past the local shops.
The IGA and Mr Snappy, the fish-and-chip shop, are open, but the newsagency’s lights are off. There’s no sign of Nic, but some kids are loitering around the bus shelter at the end of the strip. They’re talking and laughing and taking selfies on their phones. Two girls lean against the glass side panel and look up as we drive by.
My pulse flutters. Neither of them are
Nic.
Where are you, Nic? We need to get to Dad.
Then I spy her. Beside the bus shelter with Mel. Earbuds in, heads over a phone. Nic’s wearing her blue jeans, the ones with the ripped knees, and a black top I don’t recognise.
I wriggle in my seat. There! Behind the bus stop.
I must have let out a squeal because Henry glances at me in the rear-vision mirror. ‘We’re just looking for your sister, pet,’ he says. ‘Five more minutes and I’ll take you home.’
No! Not home!
I twist my body sideways and manage to kick the back of Henry’s seat. We have to get Nic. We can’t go home.
Henry presses the accelerator in a panic. ‘Okay, okay. We’ll have you home in a jiff.’
My mind races as the car lurches forwards. I have to do something. We’re leaving Nic behind.
There’s only one thing to do. I open my mouth and let rip. It’s like the talent show – revisited.
My best, most blood-curdling scream.
Henry slams on the brakes. The tyres screech. Nic looks up.
‘Why’ve you got Ava?’ Nic asks as Henry drives us back home. ‘Where’s Mum?’ She tugs at her top, then crosses her arms over her chest. ‘Where’s Dad?’
Henry takes a breath.
Squish, clap, clasp.
‘Your dad, um, your mum …’ he begins. Then he stares straight ahead, unable to find the words.
Welcome to my world.
Nic sighs. ‘My dad and mum … what?’
‘Perhaps you should call your mum and let her know we’ve found you.’
‘My battery’s flat.’
‘But …’ Henry glances at the earbuds in Nic’s hand.
‘That was Mel’s phone. Mine died two hours ago.’
‘Ah, well, your mum’s been trying to call you.’ He stops at a red light and turns to face Nic. ‘Sorry, love.’
‘Sorry, why?’
‘Your dad’s been taken to hospital.’
Nic screws up her face like she has a toothache. ‘Seriously?’
Henry nods. ‘They left an hour ago. The ambulance went straight to the hospital.’
Nic’s smirk crashes. ‘Oh my god!’ she cries, her hands covering her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can we go see him? Now?’
The light turns green, and Henry sets off again.
‘Please?’ begs Nic.
Henry sighs.
‘Just don’t tell Mum where I was,’ Nic instructs as we drive to the hospital. ‘Just say I was at Mel’s.’
Henry stares straight ahead, but at the next red light, he scratchily clears his throat. ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ he says. ‘Your mother was worried sick.’
Nic dips her head to inspect her hands. We travel in silence from then on, and it seems like forever before Henry pulls up at Emergency.
‘Thanks, Henry,’ Nic says, opening her door. ‘We’ll be right. Mum’ll take us home when we’re done.’
Henry frowns. He looks from me to Nic and back to me. ‘I’d like to make sure you’re both okay,’ he says.
He opens the boot, unfolds my wheelchair and, once I’m strapped in, escorts us into the lobby, to a board detailing the different wards. We peer at the list, bewildered. My hands grow clammy. How will we ever find Dad?
‘Let’s ask,’ suggests Nic. But the queue for the information desk is long, so Nic asks a passing nurse instead. ‘Do you know where Mr Mills is?’ Her voice sounds small, like a mouse is caught in her throat. The nurse asks if she needs cardio or cancer or infectious diseases, but Nic doesn’t know. ‘He came in an ambulance,’ is all she whispers.
The nurse scurries off, then returns to tell us that Dad’s having a CT scan and there’s no room in there for anyone but him.
Nic and Henry exchange awkward glances.
‘He’ll be up in the stroke ward later,’ says the nurse. ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait over there?’
‘The stroke ward?’ Nic repeats, leaning forwards like she hasn’t heard right.
The nurse nods, her face solemn as she points to an area of couches and chairs where a mix of tired people slump and yawn. A black-suited man paces, his mobile pressed to his ear; a lady in a headscarf rocks her baby to sleep.
‘Come on, how about I take you home?’ suggests Henry. ‘Let’s come back in the morning.’
But Nic won’t budge. ‘I want to see Dad,’ she says quietly but firmly.
Henry frowns. It’s past eight o’clock. He glances from me to Nic to the couches. ‘I suppose we could wait for a while,’ he relents.
Nic’s phone is obviously still dead, and from what I can tell, Henry doesn’t have one. There’s nothing to do except sit and stare while different people come and go. It’s not like the airport, where everyone’s excited and mostly happy. Here, people rush in and out, speaking in hushed voices, their heels clicking urgently against the lino. Occasionally there’s a laugh or a smile, but most people’s faces are grim and stony.
At some point, Henry moves his car from the Emergency loading bay to a spot in the car park and returns with three bottles of water and a packet of chips to share.
‘Thanks,’ says Nic, opening the chips. She offers them to Henry before trying to feed one to me, but I’m too tired to eat. My eyes are starting to droop, and my back aches from sitting for ages.
Nic’s long finished the chips when a nurse tells us we can see Dad. Pointing vaguely down the hall, she says, ‘Level 6’, but when Nic and Henry wheel me over to the lifts, there are three different sets and signs pointing every which way. We’d need to take the middle lift to get to the eastern wards and the end lift to go to the western wards.
The fluoro lights and shiny floors make my tired head swim. The nurse didn’t mention anything about east or west. She just said level 6. Luckily Nic and Henry work it out, but when we get in the right lift, my mouth fills with drool, and I think I might throw up. My legs shake, even though I’m sitting in my chair.
Squish, clap, clench.
Dad’s in bed 6010. He’s propped up with pillows, wearing a pale blue gown. There’s a clear plastic tube in his arm. Mum hovers beside him, her back to the door.
‘Mum?’
She turns in surprise. ‘Nic? Ava! What are you guys doing here?’
Henry explains how much we wanted to see Dad. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he says.
Mum shakes her head and her eyes fill with tears. She hugs Nic and then me and then Nic again. ‘No, of course not,’ she whispers. When she pulls away, she looks like she wants to scoop us all up and take us home.
My eyes well with tears. I’m sorry I couldn’t do something to save him, Mum.
Dad’s room smells like hand sanitiser and bandaids. The lights are dimmer in here, not glaring like in the hall. There’s a curtain to pull around Dad’s bed, and we cram inside it, trying to get close.
My throat tightens. Dad?
Dad’s eyes are closed. His cheeks are pale, and his lips even paler, the bottom one drooping down towards his chin. His slippy face is still crooked, with his right cheek lower than his left. He has his eyes closed, so I’m not sure he even knows we’re here.
My breathing quickens.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
Hospital is a place for whispering, not screaming.
‘Dad’s stroke means that his brain isn’t sending messages to his muscles anymore,’ explains Mum.
My pulse freezes. Is he going to die?
‘He’ll need help remembering how to walk, and his speech and his right arm … um … his right arm …’ Mum swallows and tears spill down her cheeks.
His right arm … what?
Nic reaches to hug Mum. ‘It’s okay, Mum. Dad will be okay. He’ll be back to his old self before we know it.’
I’m already missing D
ad’s ‘old self’.
Mum offers a weak smile. ‘Yes, he’ll be okay. He’s just going to need some time, that’s all, to learn to use his body again.’
While Mum talks to Nic and Henry, I try to distract myself and keep calm by peeping through the gap in the curtain at the other patients in the room. The man next to Dad is mostly hidden under his covers, tossing and calling out in his sleep. The man opposite has a rough and stubbly chin, and is quietly watching TV.
Who shaves men in hospital? Dad’s face will get scratchy without a shave.
Will Dad even need a shave? What if he dies before …?
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
There’s a balloon behind my ribs and someone’s pumping it up too full, too tight. Any minute now I’m going to pop. My arms and legs stiffen.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
I can’t scream. I mustn’t scream.
Not now.
My eyes squeeze and my breaths come fast and shallow.
Mum sees me and inhales. ‘It’s time to go.’ She gives Dad a quick peck on the cheek, saying, ‘Love you, honey’ before grabbing the handles of my wheelchair and zooming me out of the ward.
Henry and Nic stumble after us. We make it to the lifts. The doors close and …
I scream and scream and scream. My back arches. I’m almost falling out of my wheelchair. Mum, Nic and Henry run with me towards the car park. My screams bounce off the concrete walls.
Nic’s eyes dart towards the people walking towards their cars. ‘Make her stop!’ she hisses.
Henry fumbles at the automatic ticket machine. Everyone is staring. A mother carrying her sleeping toddler moves away; an old lady tuts. We’re nearly at Henry’s car when I slip beneath my wheelchair strap and half-fall to the bitumen.
Henry freezes.
Mum and Nic race around the front and try to heave me up. They hold me tight, afraid I’ll fall completely. I’m thrashing around, limbs jerking and pitching. In the panic, I bite Mum’s arm.
Everything I've Never Said Page 4
