‘Ouch!’
I’ve dug my teeth in hard.
A young guy with a ponytail approaches. ‘Can I do anything to help?’ he asks. ‘I’m studying to …’
I don’t hear the rest. I’m screaming too loudly. Mum bats the guy away. Her arm is bleeding as she hauls me back into my chair, and she’s crying by the time Henry’s unlocked his car. When I’m finally buckled in, she holds her handbag so tight her knuckles turn white.
Henry drives, Nic stares straight ahead and Mum cries all the way home.
Dad’s been in hospital for three days and Mum walks around like a piano’s landed on her shoulders. Vanilla candles burn in the kitchen. Her favourite singer, Norah Jones, plays on repeat.
Luckily it’s school holidays, so Nic can watch me while Mum visits Dad, which doesn’t go down too well with Nic. But for the moment, she’s doing whatever Mum says. In between hospital trips, Mum dashes from room to room, like a ball trapped in a pinball machine. She’s so edgy she can’t relax. Or finish her sentences. Or eat. All she can think about is Dad, and it’s often dark before Nic reminds her we haven’t had tea.
Black rings soon shadow Mum’s eyes. Dirty washing piles up in the laundry and dishes stack in the sink. No-one worries about ironed clothes or messy hair. Mum doesn’t even brush her own hair.
‘Where’s my phone? Nic, have you seen my phone?’ she calls, when it’s right there on the bench.
‘Hurry, Ava, hurry. Eat your breakfast. I need to go,’ she urges, even though she knows rushing me can lead to choking.
‘Takeaway? Again?’ Nic says when Mum brings fried chicken home three nights in a row.
By the second week, Nic demands to see Dad, and Mum braves taking me back.
My heart skips. Is Dad better now?
‘You’ll be okay, won’t you, Ava?’ Mum asks. ‘Just for a little while?’
Yes, Mum. I promise.
But when we get to Dad’s ward, my chest grows tight. Mum’s taken us to a different room; she’s stopped at a different bed. The man in 6037 isn’t Dad. He’s wearing the same hospital gown Dad was wearing, but this man’s hands, resting on a pillow in his lap, are gnarled and clenched and useless.
Like my hands.
My forehead grows hot and sweaty.
My dad’s hands are strong and warm.
This man has dark hair like Dad, but his skin is chalk-white. His droopy bottom lip is making him drool even worse than me.
My dad doesn’t drool.
A lump forms in my throat. My arms stiffen.
Where’s my dad?
This man has a clear tube in his arm, like Dad had, and it runs up to a bag of fluid on a stand, like Dad’s did. Electronic numbers blink and cheep, but they don’t tell me where Dad is.
The carpet patterns whirl. The beeping lights flash.
Mum’s brought me to the wrong room.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
And that’s when I see it. Written on a white plastic band around the man’s wrist: Ross Daniel Mills.
No! This can’t be Dad. He looks even worse than he did last time. Haven’t the doctors fixed him yet?
But then I swallow and soften my jaw. This is Dad. He’s just stuck inside, like me.
‘Ross?’ Mum says. His eyes are closed, but she takes his hand and gives it a squeeze, then leans forwards to kiss his forehead. ‘Ross, honey, I’ve brought the girls to see you.’
One eye slowly opens, just halfway, before sinking shut again.
Nic stands stiff like a robot, a mechanical smile on her lips.
‘There you go. I knew you’d be happy to see them,’ Mum says, even though Dad hasn’t looked over at us or blinked or smiled or anything. His laboured breathing echoes through the room.
Nic glances at Mum, who starts fussing over Dad worse than she fusses over me. She plumps the cushions behind Dad’s back, strokes his head, and asks if he needs another blanket. After about half an hour, she makes a call on the curly-cord phone beside his bed, and a lady comes with a tray of food on a trolley. Dad’s eyes finally open, and Mum helps him sit up.
‘Come on, just a little bit,’ she says, spooning custard into his mouth. Dad opens up his mouth, like a baby bird, then dribbles yellow custard from his loose lip.
Nic doesn’t know where to look. It’s hard to see Dad dribbling. Our dad, who fixes air conditioners and irons our clothes. Our dad, who holds our hands and makes us laugh.
I want my real dad back.
It takes ages for Dad to eat his custard, with Mum wiping his chin, and eventually Nic sits on one of the chairs. She pulls out her phone and starts tapping, while I glance at the rest of the food on the lunch tray. Dad’s egg sandwiches sit untouched on the plate. I’m staring at them, wishing I could ask Mum for a bite, when a lady wearing a white blouse and black pants bustles in.
‘Good morning, folks,’ she says, looking over her glasses at us. ‘I’m Judy. I’m an occupational therapist here. I was hoping to have a little chat.’ She looks back towards the door. ‘I have a few students with me today. Is it okay if they sit in on our conversation?’
Please don’t let them stare. I can’t take staring today.
When Mum agrees, two girls and a guy come in. The guy seems familiar. With a black plug earring in his ear and his hair in a tiny ponytail, he looks like he should be on a skateboard down at the park, not standing beside a hospital bed like Dad’s. But, he’s wearing a green polo shirt and black slacks and black shoes like the girls, which I guess is not skate-park gear.
Judy checks Dad’s wristband and asks him his date of birth and his name. Dad’s eyes are shut again, so Mum answers for him. The two girls listen carefully, but the guy turns and gives me a wink. I smile. He’s only a few years older than Nic and has a dimple in each cheek.
Mum smiles too and says, ‘This is Ava, my youngest daughter. And that’s Nic, my eldest.’
Judy nods, and then starts asking Mum questions. She wants to know about Dad before his stroke. What job did he have? What did he do in his spare time? What was his role in the home?
The two girls take flurried notes, while the guy crouches beside my chair. His eyes are level with mine. ‘Hello, Ava,’ he says, holding out his hand like I’m any other ordinary kid. ‘I’m Kieran. Have we met before? In the car park?’ When I don’t return his handshake, he tries to squish his hands together like me. ‘Cool,’ he says when he can’t do it. ‘Quite a talent you got there.’
Like the girls, his polo shirt has a university logo on it and says ‘Occupational Therapy – student’.
‘Right, Mr Mills,’ Judy says. ‘Let’s see how that arm’s going. Are you okay for me to touch you? Does it hurt? Can you wriggle your fingers? That’s it – great work. Can you lift it up for me, like this? Okay, how about like this?’
Dad doesn’t react, so Mum moves the lunch tray away while Judy takes Dad’s arm and lifts it slowly, asking if it feels alright. ‘We’ll just take it nice and slow, one step at a time.’
Mum and Nic are watching, making sure Dad’s alright. So are the students. They take notes while Judy finishes moving Dad’s right arm and then walks around to check his left.
‘Any luck with renting a flat?’ whispers one of the girls as Judy checks Dad’s legs.
Kieran shakes his head. ‘Nope,’ he says. ‘Same story. Not too keen on my dog.’
The girl keeps her eyes on Dad, but gives a sympathetic nod.
‘Stupid, really,’ says Kieran. ‘Banjo has better manners than most people.’
Judy shoots Kieran a look and that’s the end of the conversation. But Kieran’s face is so friendly and his voice so calm I forget about Dad being sick for a few minutes and imagine Kieran playing with his dog. Does he throw Banjo a ball? A frisbee? Does he take Banjo to the beach?
Soon Dad’s exercises are done
, and Judy is jotting notes on the clipboard at the end of Dad’s bed.
‘So, what have you got in place for when Mr Mills comes home?’ she asks.
Mum hesitates. She glances down at the clipboard like maybe it will give her a clue. ‘I’m sorry?’ she asks.
‘You’ll be very busy with an extra patient on your hands.’
An extra patient? Is that what I am? A patient?
‘It’s imperative Mr Mills continues his therapy. We can arrange some help for him with showering and other everyday things, but you’ll need some extra support for your daughter.’
My shoulders feel suddenly heavy. Like I’ve got my own piano bearing down on me. ‘What in-home help do you currently get for Ava?’ continues Judy. ‘I’m just thinking, perhaps you should arrange some more carer hours, to help you manage when Mr Mills comes home.’
‘Um,’ says Mum. ‘Well, I haven’t really got anything formal in place, but my eldest daughter could …’ Mum swallows. ‘She’s been sitting with Ava while I …’
Judy adjusts her glasses and looks at Nic. ‘What a beautiful sister,’ she murmurs before glancing at the students, a hint for them to move to one side. As they busy themselves with their clipboards, Judy steps closer to Mum. She lowers her voice. ‘Look, I don’t want to lead you astray in your expectations,’ she says softly. ‘I would really recommend getting help. Especially in the first six months. It’s such a crucial time after someone has a stroke. I mean, obviously things may be different in a couple of months, but making sure everyone gets what they need at this time is so important. We’ve all got to stay healthy.’
Mum’s face turns slightly pink while Judy clears her throat and gently continues. ‘I know asking for help can be hard, but it might be the conversation to have.’
Mum tries to explain how she’s already called Disability Services, but Judy jumps in. ‘Can you promise you’ll give it another go? Make some enquiries about getting some assistance?’
Mum opens her mouth, but this time no words come out.
‘Please?’
Mum finally nods and Judy turns to wash her hands at the sink. ‘Right, well, we might leave you to it,’ she says. ‘Come on, gang. Off to bed 6038.’
The girls follow Judy to the door, but Kieran lingers beside me. ‘Don’t let them go to waste,’ he says, nodding towards the sandwiches still sitting on Dad’s tray. ‘Egg and lettuce? They’re the best.’
I smile as he waves and says, ‘Bye, Ava. Enjoy those sandwiches.’
The holidays are nearly over. Nic’s looking after me, again, while Mum visits Dad.
I watch Nic scoop crunchy Milo off the top of her glass of milk while she texts her friends. ‘What?’ says Nic, glancing at me. ‘Are you hungry?’
She pulls out a packet of wafer biscuits from the cupboard and is separating out the different flavours when Mum finally comes home.
‘Boy oh boy,’ she says, slumping onto a kitchen chair beside us. Her eyes are sunken and dull. ‘What a morning.’ She reaches to feed me a chocolate wafer, but Nic points to the strawberry instead.
‘She prefers the pink ones,’ says Nic. ‘How’s Dad?’
Thanks, Nic. I didn’t think you’d noticed.
Mum explains that the physiotherapist wants Dad to start walking, but every time Dad stands up, he looks like he might pass out.
‘Poor Dad,’ says Nic, pushing more strawberry biscuits towards Mum. ‘Some of the others are going to the movies tomorrow. Any chance I could go too?’
‘Sorry?’ says Mum, going full chook-bum face.
‘The movies. Everyone’s meeting at ten, but as long as I get there by …’
‘Sorry, Nicole. I need you to sit with Ava.’
‘But I’ve looked after Ava all holidays. You’d only have to drop me there. I can scab a lift home afterwards.’
Mum wipes a hand wearily across her forehead. ‘I can’t, Nic. What with Dad and …’
Nic stares at the floor. ‘What about Henry? Can’t he mind Ava for a couple of hours?’
‘Henry?’ Mum sighs and softens her voice. ‘No – sorry, love. Henry’s really too frail.’
Apart from running Nic and me in to the hospital, Henry’s been collecting the mail and putting our bins in and out, but I’m pretty sure he couldn’t cope with looking after me anymore.
Nic’s face crumbles. ‘I know Dad’s sick, Mum, but how long will I have to do this? It’s bad enough …’ She flicks her eyes towards me. ‘Oh, never mind.’
I swallow. It’s bad enough, what? That I embarrass you in front of your friends? That I take up every last shred of what’s left of Mum’s attention?
‘Nic,’ Mum says quietly. ‘It’s not all about you. Your dad is very, very sick. I need you to help.’
Nic’s face turns pink. ‘I have helped, Mum. I have. But I’ve done nothing all holidays. Did I go shopping with my friends? No. “Sorry, Nicole. Can you look after Ava?” Did I go to even one sleepover? No. I would have killed to go to a friend’s house, just once. Do you know how many …’ She thinks better of mentioning the parties she’s missed. ‘Mum, I’m thirteen, not thirty.’
Mum’s chook-bum face gets more pinched than ever. But she doesn’t shout. Instead, she offers – in a voice hardly more than a whisper – to visit the hospital earlier tomorrow, so Nic can go to the movies.
Then she heads out to put on some washing, leaving Nic and me at the kitchen table.
My stomach twirls. Nic and I have had the most boring holidays ever. Even I’m feeling housebound, and I basically don’t have a social life.
I concentrate super hard to stop my clasping hands.
I understand, Nic. I really do.
I try clucking with my tongue, but Nic doesn’t smile or cluck back.
‘I wish you could talk, Ava,’ she whispers.
Me too, Nic. Me too.
Bang, crash, whack! Something loud wakes me the next morning. It takes me a while to work out it’s Nic, bashing on her drums, and I’m smart enough to know she’s not practising for another talent show. The interschools comp at City Hall was last weekend, but with everything going on with Dad, Nic and Mel didn’t compete. I listen for ages, hoping Mum will come and get me, but then the drums stop and it’s Nic who opens my door.
‘Mum’s gone early to the hospital,’ she says. ‘I have to get you up.’
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
I hold it together while Nic dresses me, even when she bends back my fingers while pulling on my shirt and almost knocks me over when she’s tugging up my leggings.
‘Don’t!’ she says sharply, slapping away my hand when I nearly pinch her. ‘I’m not Mum.’
After she’s put my shoes and socks on, she walks me out to the kitchen, where she texts while putting bread in the toaster. She spreads it with jam, still texting, and I do my best not to dribble or choke when I eat it.
‘What are you looking at?’ she says when she finally glances up from her phone.
I focus on chewing. Nothing – just wanted to say thanks for giving me jam.
After breakfast, she flicks the TV onto the Disney Channel and sits with me while the time ticks by. At 10.15 her phone starts to buzz. ‘Hey, Mel. No. No, not yet. My mum’s still at the hospital, so yeah, I have to … huh? What? Now? No, she’s … Mel! Mel?’
Mel arrives ten minutes later, but not before Nic’s given me a lecture about dribbling, screaming and hair pulling.
‘Hey, Ava,’ says Mel when she comes in. Her nose wrinkles, but only the tiniest amount.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
‘Nice t-shirt,’ she adds. Nic’s dressed me in my Elmo t-shirt. Red without a trace of purple. ‘So, how’s your dad?’
Nic’s trying to stand between me and Mel, probably so Mel won’t see the dribble on my chin. ‘Yeah, he’s,
you know, pretty bad.’
Mel glances down the hall. ‘So, is your mum looking after Ava while we go?’
‘She’s still at the hospital.’
‘Seriously? So, like, what? Your life’s literally still on hold?’
Nic pushes a stray curl from her face. She’s hardly touched her hair all holidays, just throwing it up in a messy high bun. ‘Kind of.’
‘But everyone’s waiting. Just come. Ava will be right, won’t you, Ava? Pleeeease?’
What? Leave me here on my own?
Luckily Nic shakes her head, making Mel push a little harder. ‘Go on. Just text your mum. And tell her to hurry.’
Nic sighs and does what she’s told. When her phone buzzes a few seconds later, her face breaks into a tiny smile.
‘So? Can we go?’ Mel reaches to look at the screen, but Nic turns away so she can’t see it.
‘Mum’ll be here in half an hour.’ Nic glances down at her crumpled sausage-dog pyjamas. ‘Oh my god! Look at me. I have to go get ready.’
Mel laughs. ‘Yeah, you do. So, is it okay if we meet you there? Just, it’s already 10.30 and …’
‘Sure.’ Nic’s pulling at her hair in front of the hallway mirror. ‘See you there.’
Nic’s ready and waiting when Mum pulls up. Once I’m in the car, we drop Nic at the cinemas, but take a different route home. Where are we going, Mum?
Mum’s quiet. Too quiet. Is Dad okay?
She pulls up in a suburban cul-de-sac, in front of a weatherboard cottage where the front yard is surrounded by a high white pool-style fence. What is this place?
My heart pounds as Mum turns to me in the back seat. Something’s wrong. She’s swallowing very hard.
‘It’s okay, Ava,’ she says. ‘We’re just looking, okay? And if it’s not one hundred per cent perfect, I mean one hundred per cent …’ She glances over at the fence.
What are you talking about, Mum?
She helps me up to the gate, which is locked, but when she presses the buzzer, a lady appears with a rattly bunch of keys. Her name badge says ‘Kirsten’, and she’s wearing friendly bright red glasses.
Everything I've Never Said Page 5
