My smile widens when Mum and Nic leave, and Kieran sets his iPad down on the kitchen bench. I hope my fingers will work if he asks me to press ‘play’ on YouTube today. I stare at the screen, hoping he remembers how much I like it.
He sees me looking. ‘Wait till you see what I’ve done,’ he says, turning the screen to face me.
My nose scrunches. It’s not the YouTube site, but a screen filled with eight evenly spaced, colourful squares. Each square has a picture, just like the ones Wendy uses, but on the iPad instead of on a card.
No, Kieran. Anything but cards.
And so many of them? I couldn’t even press one ‘play’ button last time. Now there are eight ‘buttons’ to try to aim my finger at.
My palms instantly grow clammy. My head slumps. The smell of rockmelon in the fruit bowl makes my stomach gurgle.
‘It’s for you,’ says Kieran, pushing the iPad closer. ‘I found this cool app where you can use the pictures to tell me what you want. Good, huh? All you have to do is press one.’
Unlike Wendy, at least Kieran’s giving me decent choices. There’s a picture each of a Slurpee, a drum set, a TV, a bed, a park and a bowl of ice-cream. He’s worked hard, and I should be grateful. But it’s just like the days of Hayley’s Dynavox at school. Too many buttons. Too small. But Kieran doesn’t know about the Dynavox, so he doesn’t understand.
It won’t work. I can’t do it. Don’t make me.
A baby cries in the distance and someone’s automatic car lock beeps in the street.
Clap, squish, clench.
The afternoon sun glints in through the louvres, making the room too bright.
It won’t work. I can’t do it. Don’t make me.
‘Here, I’ll show you,’ says Kieran. ‘It’s easy.’ He reaches over and presses the TV picture. He smells nice – of Minties or peppermint chewy.
‘I WANT TO WATCH TV,’ says a voice.
A posh adult voice. Like a car sat nav, or Siri on Mum’s phone. Not a kid’s voice.
‘Go on. Dive in!’ encourages Kieran. ‘Choose something. Anything.’ He’s smiling at me, pleased as punch.
I stare at the blob of dried-up choc-chip ice-cream on the side of the iPad case. I scan all the pictures.
Can I do this?
I focus on the Slurpee square. My hands clench, my fingers twist. I concentrate hard until finally my hands pull apart. They wobble and hover in front of my chest until my right hand lurches out. A raspberry Slurpee would be nice. Extra large.
‘I WANT TO GO TO BED,’ blurts the iPad.
What?
‘Bed?’ says Kieran, his eyebrows high. ‘But it’s only four o’clock?’
I look at him, my stomach tight. I wanted ‘Slurpee’. Slurpee! A scream hovers in my throat.
Kieran bites his lip. ‘It’s okay, Ava. Don’t worry; maybe it’s all too hard.’ He glances nervously towards the door. ‘I’ll put you to bed if you like?’ He stands up and starts helping me off my chair.
No! I can’t go to bed. Dad will be home soon. I turn back to the screen, stabbing my free hand towards it. My fingers hit the screen. Hard.
The iPad skids across the kitchen bench and hovers dangerously near the edge.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
‘Everything’s okay,’ says Kieran, making a grab for it. ‘Everything’s fine.’ He wipes the smeared screen with his elbow and turns it over to check it’s okay.
‘How about I put the TV on for you instead?’ he suggests.
He leads me towards the TV room. I try not to dig my nails into his arm, but it’s hard when I’m so tense and frustrated.
Once I’m settled, Kieran lets Banjo inside, and the excited dog races in, hops up on the couch and covers my face with licks. I relax my clasping hands. It’s like Banjo understands me.
Kieran flicks on the TV before turning to his iPad again. I resist the urge to grab it. Maybe he’ll let me have another turn of the pictures later.
Banjo’s soon snoring so loudly we almost don’t hear Kieran’s phone. It’s a text from Mum. They’ve left the hospital and are only minutes away.
Kieran looks at me and smiles. ‘All good, Mrs Mills,’ he says, typing back his reply. ‘We’re fine.’
And we are fine. We’re watching another animal documentary, where the male penguin is singing his heart out to his mate.
He’s still singing when the TV-room door bursts open.
‘Why’s the dog on the couch?’ Nic glares at Kieran like he’s something the cat dragged in, while Banjo slinks off the couch with his tail between his legs. Kieran jolts forwards in his seat. His iPad falls to the floor. The screen brightens and a voice says, ‘I WANT A SLURPEE.’
I freeze, my hands mid-clasp. If Kieran tells Nic about the squares on his iPad, she might let on about the Dynavox and he’ll never try helping me again.
Luckily Kieran doesn’t say anything about me speaking. Instead, he scoops his iPad off the floor while Nic explains Mum and Dad are on their way in from the car. Then she arches her brows. ‘I’d take that dog outside if I were you,’ she says.
Mum’s made Nic vaccum every inch of our house, ready for Dad to come home. She’ll spew if she sees Banjo’s hairs plastering the couch.
Banjo’s only just been banished to the garden when we hear voices from the front door.
My heart leaps. He’s here! Dad’s actually here. Then my chest squeezes. Will he be the same old Dad? The one who sings silly songs and reads me Little Ginger?
But I needn’t have worried. Dad’s face is a little crooked, but his lip isn’t as droopy and he looks more like my old dad.
Hi, Dad!
‘Hi, Mr Mills,’ Kieran says, pressing the mute button on the TV remote. ‘Welcome home!’
Dad’s lips try to form a smile, but it’s like a bee sting is making them stiff. He’s skinnier than before and leaning heavily on a walking stick. ‘Heno,’ he says. He takes a slow, heavy step closer, and I can see how hard he’s concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
‘Good work, honey,’ says Mum.
Dad tries again. ‘Hello.’
‘Here, Ava, let’s pop Dad right here, near you,’ says Mum. Nic hovers by the door while Mum helps Dad into his special recliner chair beside me.
‘Okay?’ Mum asks, taking Dad’s hand. ‘Shall I get you a coffee? A glass of water?’
Dad’s eyes move slowly, like a crocodile’s.
‘Coffee?’ repeats Mum, and he manages to nod.
‘Wonderful. Kieran, you’re welcome to stay, but …’
Kieran jumps up. ‘No, no. I’ll leave you all in peace. But yell out if you need anything. Always happy to help. Nice to see you, Mr Mills. Bye, Ava.’
Once Mum’s gone to make coffee and Kieran’s left for the garage, the TV room is silent. The figures on the muted TV move their lips but make no sound.
I know how they feel.
Nic’s still in the doorway, her eyes wide as she watches Dad staring straight ahead.
Why doesn’t she come and join us? Tell Dad how pleased she is to see him? Instead, she’s just standing there, looking helpless, like she doesn’t know what to do.
He’s not an alien, Nic.
I know what I’d say if I could: ‘Good to have you home, Dad. Guess what? Kieran’s going to help me talk. He’s made these pictures on his iPad, and if only I could press them, he’d know what I want.’
But Nic doesn’t utter a word.
Mum soon comes back with Dad’s coffee and an apple-juice popper for me. She puts them down on the coffee table before checking that Dad’s comfortable and helping him with his drink. ‘It’s hot,’ she warns. ‘Just go easy.’
Dad holds his cup with two hands and brings it carefully to his lips. He’s slow and has to concentrate hard, but he manage
s to take a sip.
Once she’s sure he’s okay, Mum turns to help me with my popper. ‘What do you think, girls?’ she says. ‘Nice to have Dad home?’
Nic still doesn’t say anything, and Mum shoots her a worried look.
‘Nic, honey, come sit with us on the couch. I’m sure Dad would love to hear what you’ve been up to.’
Mum pats the spot beside her, but Nic stays where she is. It’s only when Dad’s slow crocodile gaze shifts to her that she forces a tiny smile.
‘Dums?’ slurs Dad.
Nic nods.
‘Fends?’
‘Yep. Me and Mel still hang out.’
‘Schoo?’
Nic shrugs. ‘School’s okay, I guess.’ She takes one tiny step towards us.
‘Tell Dad about your first-aid course,’ Mum says, encouraging Nic with a smile. ‘What have you been learning up at the aquatic centre?’
‘Oh, um … just, you know, CPR and stuff,’ mumbles Nic. ‘So next time, if like …’ Her eyes drop and she scuffs her shoe against the carpet.
Now it’s Dad’s turn to smile. ‘No nes time,’ he says firmly. ‘No nes time, I pomise.’
I really hope he’s right.
On Friday after school, Mum packs my suitcase and we drive to Rosie’s Cottage. Kirsten’s had a last-minute cancellation and, although Kieran’s moved in, Mum decides to take up the offer.
We ring the bell at the gate, and after one look at Mum’s sunken cheeks, Kirsten gently ushers us inside. I glance around for Aimee, but the place is empty.
‘The others will be back shortly,’ explains Kirsten, taking my hands so Mum can unload. ‘They’ve just popped out to the shops.’
Mum brings in my bag and my wheelchair. She has a strange look on her face, like she’s afraid she’ll cry.
I’ll be okay, Mum. Don’t worry. I’ll have a great weekend here with Kirsten and the others. You just look after Dad.
I’m smiling, trying to show her I’m happy about staying at the house, when the buzzer at the front gate blasts. Mum flinches but Kirsten jumps up to answer it.
‘Ava! You’re back,’ says a familiar robotic voice.
Aimee!
My smile goes into overdrive. I’ll definitely have a great weekend now. I lean forwards with excitement as Aimee wheels herself inside. ‘Super, super cool. We just bought stuff for nachos. Want to help?’
‘Do you think, maybe, I should just take Ava home …’ Mum begins.
Nooooo! I want to stay!
Luckily Kirsten’s shaking her head. ‘Nonsense. Ava will be fine. The girls are going to make nachos and then we’ll plan the activities for the weekend.’ She calls out to Aimee’s carer, who’s taking shopping bags to the kitchen. ‘You okay with that, Sheena? Can Ava come and help?’
Out in the kitchen, Aimee’s teasing Sheena about something that happened at the shops. ‘You should have seen her, Ava. She just made a beeline for the chip aisle and I’m like, “Sheena, wait for me!” And everyone’s looking, like literally staring, thinking maybe I’m the carer and she’s the one with special needs. So funny. I nearly peed my pants!’
We laugh and laugh and I nearly miss Mum’s goodbye. I look up as she waves, and for a second, my bottom lip wobbles. I’ve never had a sleepover before.
‘Hey! You piked on the disco,’ Aimee says. ‘You’re coming to the next one, right? Kirsten, Kirsten, give Ava another flyer.’
Kirsten tucks a new one in with my documents, then asks us what we want to do on the weekend. ‘Still keen on bowling?’
I hardly hear Mum’s car drive off, I’m so caught up in the chatter, and before I know it, I seem to have agreed to bowling.
I’ve never been before, since Mum thinks the loud crashing of the ball against the pins would do my head in. And it probably would, except for Aimee being there.
Sheena and my carer, Kim, load the balls onto a special metal ramp – like a giant pinball ramp – that holds them at hip height. They wheel our chairs close and support our hands to help us send our balls hurtling down the lane.
I grin. Gravity can be helpful sometimes.
But my first ball heads straight for the gutter. ‘Gutter ball!’ says Aimee through her speech machine.
‘Babying the ball,’ she croons when my second dawdles down the laneway.
I don’t care. With Kim helping me push, I’m actually playing a game. Wait till I show Dad. Wait till I show Nic.
Next it’s Aimee’s turn. She wheels her chair up to the ramp and, with Sheena’s help, tap, down goes her ball. It glides down the middle of the lane and knocks over eight pins. ‘And that’s how I roll!’ she exclaims.
I don’t stop laughing all through our first game. We stop for a break before starting our second, and Kim and Sheena duck off to get us some water. It’s so good sitting with Aimee I hardly notice two boys arriving at the lane next to us.
‘Oh great,’ complains one of them. ‘We’re next to a bunch of retards.’
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
‘This coming from a guy who fell from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down?’
It takes me a second to realise it’s Aimee talking. My mouth drops to the floor.
‘Fail,’ says the second guy.
‘No-one asked for your life story,’ says Aimee.
I wait, expecting the boys to say something mean in return. But Aimee’s smart comebacks have taken them by surprise. They start laughing. No-one expects a kid like Aimee to say stuff like that, and by the time Kim and Sheena have come back with our water, Aimee has them nearly doubled over.
‘Call us butter, cos we on a roll,’ says Aimee. ‘Bowlers never die; they just end up in the gutter.’
‘Ready for game two, girls?’ says Sheena.
Then it becomes a competition. The boys against us. Thanks to Aimee’s tips on how to angle the special ramp, my score jumps up impressively. Aimee and I are neck and neck with the boys. They’re really feeling the pressure. One ball each to go.
‘Come on, Ava,’ says Aimee. ‘Pinhead pride!’
Kim lines up my ramp. She helps me up to it and holds her hands over mine so I can reach out and push my ball. Not a tap this time. A hard push. The ball hurtles down the lane. It veers to the left. It’s going too fast, straight for the gutter. But then, at the last second, it hits a side pin, which smashes into the others.
‘You hit the messenger! Ava! You got a strike!’
My first strike.
Aimee and I win by two points. The boys slap our scrunched hands with stinging high fives. And afterwards, they don’t even wipe their hands on their shorts.
Aimee is the best friend ever.
‘Hey, Ava, want to come to the park? Want an ice-cream? How about a trip to the shops?’ Kieran’s collected me from Sam’s taxi today; Nic’s at band practice, and Mum’s taken Dad to a therapy session.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table, where Kieran’s testing out his latest efforts with his iPad. This time, instead of lots of small picture squares, he’s just made two. The green one says ‘yes’ and the red one says ‘no’.
‘Better, hey?’ Kieran reaches over to the fruit bowl and picks up an apple. ‘Let’s start with something easy. Ava, do you want an apple?’ he says slowly.
No, of course I don’t. I had an apple for lunch. This is afternoon tea and I’d like wafer biscuits, please.
I stare at the ‘no’ button.
Squish, clap, clasp.
Kieran waits.
The myna birds squawk from the grevillea bush; a bee buzzes against the glass.
I eventually force my clasping hands towards the iPad. I can’t pull them apart, so I close my eyes and jab my crooked fists towards the screen.
The iPad tips over. ‘NO!’ it says.
Banjo barks and wags
his tail.
Kieran grins. ‘Great! Good job! You don’t want an apple!’
I smile and squish my hands together. My squishing gets extra fast while Kieran thinks about his next question. I hope it’ll be a good one.
‘Ava, do you want to play on Nic’s drums?’
Not what I was hoping for, but a turn on Nic’s drums isn’t a bad offer. Nic never lets me go near her drums. I reach out to press the ‘yes’ button, but my arm won’t stretch across properly, and I hear the loud ‘NO!’ of the iPad voice.
Kieran looks surprised. ‘No?’ he says, his eyebrows high. ‘I thought you’d like the drums. It’d be kind of like the sound you make with your hands, but louder.’
‘I would! I would!’ I want to shout. But instead a horrible scream escapes my lips.
‘Okay, no need to get cranky,’ soothes Kieran. ‘How about we look up those funny animal videos on YouTube again? Yes or no?’
I reach my clasped hands for the ‘yes’ button. I try more slowly, hoping maybe my aim will be better this time.
‘NO!’ shouts the iPad.
What?
I want the ‘yes’. The ‘YES’! I try to swipe at the iPad, but Kieran grabs it and holds it just within my reach. ‘Careful, Ava. Take a breath. Try again.’
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
But I do scream, and Kieran quickly shuts off the screen.
My heart sinks. There’ll be no YouTube watching. No talking. No nothing.
‘Sorry, Ava,’ says Kieran. ‘I thought I had it figured. I really thought I could help you talk. No biggie. I just need to work on it more.’
I stare at the blank screen. My head is heavy and my back slumps.
Don’t give up on me, Kieran.
‘Come on. Let’s have a feast instead,’ he says. He begins his routine of raiding our cupboards, and we’ve eaten all the Tiny Teddy biscuits, half a packet of Tim Tams and an entire block of cheese before Kieran notices the second disco invitation poking out from the papers wedged under our fruit bowl.
‘Whoa! A disco? Sweet.’ He pores over the invitation, smiling as he reads.
‘Special Needs Disco, 6 p.m., Friday 10th June. That’s tonight, Ava.’
Everything I've Never Said Page 10
