‘You must be Deb. And this is the lovely Ava?’ says Kirsten. ‘I’m the manager here at Rosie’s Cottage. Won’t you come in and have a look around?’
Rosie’s Cottage? The respite place Dad found?
Is Mum sending me to respite?
What if Kirsten’s like Wendy and doesn’t understand me?
But soon I relax because it’s obvious that Kirsten is nothing like Wendy. There are no Sergeant Major instructions and no stern looks through narrowed eyes. Instead, Kirsten’s warm, bubbly voice calms me as she shows us around. Even though there are bars on the windows, the cottage feels more like home than I expected. There’s a kitchen just like ours, a comfy-looking lounge, and two bedrooms with beds covered in colourful quilts. From what I can see there’s no sign of a time-out room like at school. Outside, a deck overlooks a playground with a sandpit.
‘We try to match our clients in terms of ability,’ Kirsten says once we’ve seen everything and are standing in the kitchen. ‘Can Ava talk at all?’
Wouldn’t I have said something by now?
‘No. Ava has never been able to talk,’ says Mum. ‘It’s part of her disability.’
Kirsten glances at the scribbles on her notepad. ‘Any communication? Any cards, or signing?’
Don’t talk to me about cards.
Mum shakes her head. ‘No, not really. We just guess things a lot of the time. You know, like if she’s stressed, we see it in her body language and …’ She looks down at my clasping hands. ‘If she’s unhappy, she’ll scream or lash out. If she’s tired, she slumps in her chair. We just sort of gauge things by how she looks.’
Kirsten nods.
‘We certainly know when she’s happy,’ Mum adds, laying a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Ava has the biggest smile.’
Kirsten’s eyes wrinkle kindly. ‘Nice,’ she says. ‘Okay, so now for the fun stuff. What does Ava like to do on the weekends?’
I’d love to go to the movies, or shopping for new clothes, or …
‘Actually, Ava doesn’t like going out that much. New places can be a bit of a sensory overload sometimes, so she prefers hanging around the house, I think, watching kids’ shows, you know, like Play School and the stuff on ABC Kids.’ Mum strokes my hair like I’m a cat, and I pull my head away.
I’d rather watch the Disney Channel, Mum. Or one of Dad’s animal documentaries.
‘All okay, Ava?’ Mum asks. ‘Getting hungry?’
Squish, clap, clench.
Don’t treat me like a baby.
Kirsten pauses for a second, watching my hands clasp while Mum rummages in her handbag for her stash of snacks.
‘On that, what does she like to eat?’ asks Kirsten. ‘Is she fussy, have any allergies, or any favourite foods?’
Macca’s nuggets and chips.
‘Ava’s a great eater,’ says Mum. ‘I mean, she loves junk food, like any kid, but she’s just as happy with broccoli or a plate of veggies.’
Bleurgh.
Kirsten writes this down before telling Mum that the house’s main goal is to make sure everyone is happy. ‘Here at Rosie’s Cottage we try to offer age-appropriate activities, like bowling, or movies, or shopping,’ she says.
Bowling? How do kids like me go bowling?
I slide my eyes from Kirsten and take a better look around. What other kids visit here? Can they talk and run, like some of the other kids at my school?
Squish, clap, clench.
What if they all go shopping and bowling and leave me staring at the wall?
‘So, remind me,’ says Kirsten as she ushers Mum and me into a small office, ‘what weekend were you after?’
‘Um, well, not a whole weekend. Just any time you can spare. With Ross in hospital, I’m really not coping so well.’
Yes, you are. You’re the best mum ever.
‘It’s not that I don’t love Ava,’ Mum says. ‘I love her very much. But sometimes, at the moment, anyway, I just need, well …’
Kirsten is checking the diary, her finger tapping the pages. ‘Look, we’re already booked up three months in advance, but …’ She stops tapping for a second. ‘Given the circumstances, would an afternoon be okay?’ she says. ‘Three or four hours next weekend?’
Mum glances at me, her face tight.
Kirsten smiles. ‘How about I give you the paperwork to take away, and if you decide to go ahead, just email it back? You’ll just have to make sure all her medication is in a Webster-pak. But other than that, it’s quite straight-forward. We’ll take good care of her, I promise.’
Mum laughs a nervous laugh, before thanking Kirsten for the tour and saying she’ll think about it.
Mum lets me sit in the front seat on the way home, and she reaches to hold my hand. It’s been ages since Mum’s held my hand like this, and for a second I enjoy it. But, after a minute, my urge to clasp is too strong and I yank my hand away and squeeze it fiercely with the other.
Squish, clap, clench.
Mum concentrates on the windscreen.
My hands squish and clap faster than ever.
What if Mum prefers it when I’m at the house with Kirsten?
What if she never collects me?
That night Mum orders Thai takeaway and insists Nic eats with us at the table instead of in front of the TV. ‘We need to talk,’ she says.
‘What’s up?’ grumbles Nic.
‘Can you set the table, please?’
Nic’s texting and doesn’t look up. She’s good at playing deaf when it suits her.
‘Nicole! Knives and forks.’ Mum’s serious tonight, thumping curry onto our plates and practically cracking the china.
‘Jeez,’ says Nic, stuffing her phone in her pocket. ‘What’s the big deal? It’s only takeaway.’
Mum doesn’t realise she’s smeared red chilli sauce on her nose and forehead, and I smile. Dad would tease her about being a grot. But Dad’s not here, and my smile soon slips away.
Nic huffs loudly as she puts the glasses and water jug on the table. Then, once we’ve sat down, she looks sideways at me. ‘Well?’ she says.
‘Ava and I have found this nice respite house – a place that cares for kids with special needs, to give their families a break. They have lots of different clients and they do some really fun things.’
Nic’s pouring water and acting like she’s not listening. But she is.
‘They’ll look after Ava so you and I can catch our breath, spend time with Dad, that sort of thing. What do you think? Shall we give it a try?’
I expect Nic to throw her hands in the air with excitement. Awesome! Free time, without Ava. Surely that’s her dream come true!
Instead, Nic frowns over her plate. ‘What? Send Ava to some random house? With people she literally doesn’t even know? She’d hate that!’
Mum looks surprised. So do I.
Nic glares. ‘Ava belongs here, with us. Yeah, okay – so she’s a pain. But she’s part of our family. It’s bad enough not having Dad here.’
‘It’s only for the afternoon.’
‘No! You can’t just palm people off. Who’ll be next? Me? No, it’s a stupid idea. I don’t care if I don’t get free time.’
I smile. Yeah! Why should I go to the respite house? What if I like being home with you guys?
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Before I know it, I’m spitting chewed pieces of massaman curry, splattering yellow flecks across Mum’s blouse.
‘Ava!’
I spit harder, making Nic jump up and knock her water across the table.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Mum says, diving for a cloth hanging over the kitchen sink. ‘All good. Everyone stay calm.’
Nic pulls our plates away from the spreading water, and I see her eyes clouding with tears.
I sit and stare at the table.
I’ve ruined everything, again.
Nic’s still not happy when Mum drives me to the respite house at 12.30 p.m. the following Saturday. My bag is bursting with spare clothes, nappies and wipes, but my heart is empty and hollow. What if Mum forgets to pick me up?
I feel slightly better when Mum checks five times that Kirsten has her mobile number, and then sniffs and blows her nose as she says goodbye.
‘I’ve popped her favourite book in her bag,’ she says, even though she’s already mentioned it. ‘Just in case she gets upset.’
Kirsten has to practically push Mum out the door. My stomach dips as I watch her drive off. You will miss me, won’t you, Mum?
Kirsten then leads me down to the bedrooms, going slowly so that I can keep my balance. Her grip under my arm is firm but kind, and she makes sure I have plenty of time to change direction. She stops at the room with a single bed covered in a pink butterfly quilt.
‘I know this is just a trial run, but let’s pop your things in here. Next time, if you stay overnight, you might like to sleep in this room?’
There won’t be a next time.
I sit on the bed while Kirsten brings in my bag and when she explains that we’ll be having ravioli for lunch, a smile sneaks out without warning.
I love ravioli.
But then a strange noise comes from the bedroom next door. My smile drops. It sounds like a grunt mixed with a squeal.
‘That’s Aimee,’ says Kirsten smoothly. ‘She’s having a sleepover this weekend. Aimee, do you want to come and meet Ava?’
I thought Kirsten told Mum they tried to match people? Apart from the fact that Aimee can operate her own motorised wheelchair, she’s way more disabled than me. Her eyes roll back in her head, showing way too much white, and her mouth hangs open so wide we can see all her crooked teeth. Even though my hands are useless from clasping, her hands are worse – all gnarled and scrunched up under her chin.
She’s not like me at all.
‘Do you like boys?’ says a voice.
Even though the sound hasn’t come from Aimee’s lips, she’s definitely spoken.
‘Cowboys or astronauts?’
It takes me a second to figure out that the voice is coming from the tablet-like thing on Aimee’s wheelchair tray. When she pushes her head to one side, she presses a button near her ear to type out sentences, which the device then speaks out loud.
Wow!
We wait while Aimee types something else. ‘Kirsten wants to take us to the movies, but I vote bowling. Want to go bowling?’ The words are robotic, but they run together smoothly enough and it’s easy to understand what Aimee’s saying.
Kirsten laughs. ‘Slow down, Aimee. Ava is only here for a few hours. How about we eat lunch first, and then plan what we do with our afternoon?’
Like me, Aimee needs someone to feed her, so we’re each assigned a carer. My carer, Jacqui, wears a wide smile and a dress dotted with daisies, while Aimee’s carer, Jasmine, is tiny with long black hair. Aimee and I sit across the table and dribble as we chew mouthfuls of ravioli. It’s gross looking at Aimee’s food spill from her mouth, but when I check around my own chair I see just as much has dropped from me.
‘Good, huh?’ says Aimee once we’re finished. ‘Best thing about this place, hey, Jasmine? The food.’
Aimee’s carer pokes her arm gently, laughs, and asks why she’s always so cheeky.
‘Okay, okay, so we love you guys too,’ jokes Aimee. ‘Hey, Ava? You ready to have some fun?’
You bet! But you have ravioli stuck on your cheek.
Once we’re cleaned up, Aimee and Kirsten discuss what we’re doing for the rest of the afternoon. Aimee wants us to get our nails painted and maybe buy Slurpees, and she’s pretty firm on the bowling. ‘What do you reckon, Ava?’ she asks. ‘Up for bowling?’
Yeah. Although how are we going to throw the balls down the bowling lanes?
‘Two hours, Aimee,’ Kirsten reminds her. ‘That’s a lot to do in two hours.’
But Aimee insists and I sit quietly while we’re loaded, in our wheelchairs, into the house’s special van. I try not to inhale too deeply, worrying the van might belch diesel fumes like the school bus, but it’s more like a big version of Sam’s taxi, and it doesn’t make me feel sick.
‘You having a mani or a pedi?’ Aimee asks along the way.
I frown. A what?
‘Where’ve you been? Under a rock?’ asks Aimee, shaking her head. ‘A manicure is getting your fingernails painted and a pedicure is your toes. You have to choose. Kirsten said we only have time for one.’
I want to tell her my feet are super ticklish, but I can’t. It doesn’t matter anyway because when we get there, she orders two manis. The staff at the beauty parlour don’t mind our wheelchairs, moving their stools aside to welcome us, and asking us to choose a nail polish colour.
I sit staring at the bulging rack of glass bottles. How can I tell them I want pink? But I don’t need to worry because, after much deliberation, Aimee chooses Oceanic Blue for her fingernails and Flamingo Pink for mine.
Perfect.
‘So, got any brothers and sisters?’ asks Aimee while our fingers are soaking. ‘Let me guess? A brother? No. Two sisters? Huh. I thought so. Like me. Which one’s your favourite?’
Only one sister. Nic. And even if I did have more, Nic would be my favourite.
Clap, squish, clench.
I’m not sure I’d be Nic’s favourite, though.
‘Keep your hands still, love. Keep your hands still.’ My nail technician is working on my right hand while Aimee’s technician struggles to paint her left.
‘So, did you see Bruno Mars in concert?’ Aimee says once both her thumbs are done. ‘Wasn’t he awesome?’
I blink. Bruno Mars? All I get to see is The Wiggles.
‘Wish I had known you then. Would’ve been great, huh? You and me, grooving to the Mars?’ She laughs and I laugh and the ladies remind us again that we need to keep still.
By the time we’re done, I haven’t screamed. Not once. My hands have been twisting around each other, but now my nails glitter and shine.
‘Okay, so bowling now?’ asks Aimee, but Jasmine shakes her head and points to her watch. ‘Ava’s mum will be collecting her soon,’ she says. ‘Maybe save bowling for when Ava comes back?’
Back? I’m about to scream, but then I think, Actually, I’d like to come back.
Aimee begs Jasmine to call my mum and ask if I can stay longer, but Jacqui and Jasmine both say no. ‘Ava’s mum will be worrying about her,’ says Jasmine. ‘Best we stick to the plans.’
But our carers compensate us by buying two extra-large raspberry Slurpees, and Aimee and I spend the ride home grinning at each other with red-stained teeth.
‘Look at you!’ exclaims Mum when she picks me up. ‘You’ve had a ball, haven’t you?’ I expected her to look happy, or relaxed, or something. She just had a Saturday afternoon without me. But instead she’s peering at me worriedly, checking my face and my hands, and then my face again.
I’m okay, Mum. Really.
I smile as Mum picks up my fingers. The polish on my two pointer fingers has rubbed off from my hand squishing, but the rest still look pretty good.
Yes, I had a ball. But, even better, you came back to collect me.
‘Text me, okay?’ says Aimee, while Mum loads my wheelchair into the boot of her car. ‘Let me know if you can make it.’
Aimee wants me to come to the PCYC disco. She says the music is great. There’s no chance I can text Aimee to tell her if I can go, but I like the thought of being asked. No-one’s ever asked me to text them before, let alone invited me to a disco.
‘See you, Ava,’ says Kirsten once Mum’s helped me into the car. ‘Hope you’ll come again.’
I find myself wanting to do a Derek and shout out,
‘Yes, please!’
My smile lasts all the way home, but slips when Mum takes me inside. I wait for her to find the information flyer for the disco, but she folds it away with my medication details and emergency contacts, thinking it’s another form.
I frown. If only I had a device like Aimee’s. I could tell Mum about the disco and the wonderful time I had at respite. I’d tell her I’m older now and I don’t want to be treated like a baby. I want to watch the Disney Channel instead of ABC Kids, and to shop for my own clothes instead of wearing stuff chosen by her and Dad. I’d tell her I like pink, not purple, and how glad I am that she came to collect me.
But I can’t tell her a thing. So when I see the disco flyer wedged beneath the fruit bowl I do what I always do.
I open my mouth and scream.
The new term starts on Monday. Sam’s right on time to collect me, and Mum only has a minute to explain what’s happened to Dad.
‘Bad news, hey, porcupine?’ Sam says as he drives out the gate. ‘Your dad, getting sick? He’ll be better soon, though, won’t he?’
My chin sinks to my chest. I wish more than ever I could talk. If only I could tell Sam about Dad’s drooping lip, the blaring ambulance and our scary visits to the hospital.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
We stop at a traffic light. Sam turns and glances worriedly at me in the back seat. ‘I’m sure he’s in the best hands,’ he says, his face soft. ‘These medical people – smart as houses. Your dad will be all fixed up in no time. You’ll see.’
I don’t smile or react, and when the light turns green, we set off again. Sam reaches for the volume on the radio. A catchy tune belts out, but he doesn’t sing along like he usually does, and his eyebrows dip as he watches me in the rear-vision mirror.
Even before the song has ended, he’s turned the volume back down. ‘I took Mrs Sam to the Greek festival on the weekend,’ he says, trying to cheer me up. ‘Best baklava this side of the equator. But don’t tell Mrs Sam, okay? She thinks hers is the best.’ He chuckles quietly then asks if we did anything on the weekend.
Everything I've Never Said Page 6
