We’ve been waiting about fifteen minutes when the glass doors slide open. A tall boy about my age ducks through the door as if he’s worried he might hit the frame, before loping in and sitting down beside me. His mum follows and heads to the reception desk, but I hardly notice her. I’m too busy wondering about the boy. He has freckles across his nose and twinkling caramel-coloured eyes.
Hi. I’m Ava.
The boy looks around, then opens up his palm to reveal a plastic figurine. It’s a man in a silver zip-up suit, with half an eggshell on his head. The boy’s face is serious as he rests the figurine gently on my knee. ‘Cyber-Controller,’ he says in a stilted voice.
I smile. Dad and Nic like Doctor Who too.
My hands won’t unclasp, so the boy leaves the plastic figurine on my knee, where it wobbles as if dancing to a secret song. Next, he pulls out a red beetle-like man with claws for hands and feet. ‘King Hydroflax,’ says the boy, as he places it on my other knee. He pulls out two more: one in an old-fashioned flying outfit, with whiskers and fur on its face, and then another wearing a red-and-gold cloak. Soon I feel like I have half the cast of Doctor Who balancing on my legs.
The boy’s mum glances at the wobbling figurines and catches my mum’s eye. ‘Sorry,’ she mouths, but Mum smiles and says it’s okay.
It’s better than okay – it’s wonderful.
I laugh, and the boy laughs too. It’s a happy laugh, and it makes his serious face relax. Until the speech therapist appears.
‘Ava!’ she shouts out.
I jump. The figurines tumble from my legs.
The boy panics and scrambles to the floor. ‘Controller, Catkind, King Hydroflax,’ he wails. ‘Lord Rassilon!’
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
His mum gets down to help him while my mum helps me up. I don’t even get to say goodbye.
‘So, what can I do for you today?’ booms the speech therapist once we’re seated. Her voice is like Wendy’s. Inappropriately loud.
We’re not in the army.
The therapist’s name badge says ‘Priyanka Starr’ and my skin prickles when I spy cards like Wendy’s arranged in four neat columns on the table.
Priyanka’s thick perfume crawls into my head, fogging up my brain.
‘Before we start,’ says Mum, ‘I just want to explain …’ She’s gripping the eye-gaze brochure from the expo, but Priyanka is concentrating on the cards.
‘If you don’t mind, we’ll do the assessment first,’ Priyanka says, her voice prickly, ‘so we can see where we’re at.’ She nods sharply, then points to the table. ‘Ava, choose a card, please. See here? Show me what you had for breakfast.’
I know what you didn’t have for breakfast this morning. Enough sugar in your coffee. You need some sweetening up.
‘Ava. What did you have for breakfast?’
The cards show pictures of toast, porridge, bacon and eggs, fruit salad and a chocolate cake. Who has chocolate cake for breakfast?
I want to tell her ‘toast’, but I don’t want to use my hands. I want to use my eyes. My hands, if I can even unclasp them, will swipe and lurch and make the wrong choice.
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
My hands clench worse than ever. I stare at the picture of toast. Toast, that’s what I had for breakfast. It’s what I always eat for breakfast. Toast, toast, toast.
Priyanka talks more slowly as she leans over the table, pointing out the cards and naming each one, like I’m two years old or stupid. Her perfume is suffocating and my eyes are starting to sting. ‘It’s not hard, Ava. What … did … you … have … for … breakfast? Porridge … fruit …’
Her long hair is lank and greasy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s loaded with nits. Just thinking about them makes me want to scratch my head, but my hands are squishing like mad.
Mum tries again to show Priyanka the eye-gaze brochure. ‘We saw this at the Disability Expo last week,’ she explains, handing it over. ‘It’s an eye-gaze device and I was wondering if you …’
Priyanka doesn’t read the brochure. Instead, she taps her desk impatiently with her pen. ‘Yes, I know what an eye-gaze device is,’ she says tersely. ‘But in my opinion, a device like that will be far too complicated for Ava. I just can’t see that she has the intellectual capacity. I mean, it’s entirely up to you if you want one, but in all honesty…’
Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream.
‘But …’ Mum is trying to take the brochure back, presumably to point out the programs and modifications, but Priyanka has it pinned under her wrist. ‘How do we know what she’s capable of?’ says Mum. ‘I mean, she can’t tell us anything, so how do we know what she understands?’
EVERYTHING! I understand EVERYTHING!
Priyanka scratches irritably at her head. ‘I’d stick to low-tech models if I were you. Cheaper and more effective for someone … well … someone like Ava.’
‘Low-tech?’ Mum’s eyes are slits now, and her breathing is loud.
‘Yes, you know, communication cards. Like …’ She clears her throat and eyeballs the cards laid out on her desk. ‘Like these. It’s quite a simple technique and many kids like Ava use them.’
I can’t pick up cards. I CAN’T use my hands!
I’m screaming now, screaming, screaming, SCREAMING.
Priyanka’s pointing at her stupid cards. Her arm is right in front of my face. I lower my chin and … CRUNCH.
The meatiest part of her arm is in my mouth. I bite down as I hard as I can.
‘Aaagh!’ yells Priyanka, trying to yank her arm away. But she’s trapped. I’m like a terrier with a bone. As she pulls, the cards spill from the table, and I nearly topple from my chair. If I wasn’t gripping so hard, I’d have a grin from ear to ear. Arm flesh on toast for breakfast. Yum!
Mum’s jumped up and is calling my name while Priyanka’s using her spare hand to prise my mouth open.
‘Ava, let go,’ begs Mum. ‘Ava, honey, come on. Let go of the lady’s arm.’
Eventually I open my mouth and, once released, Priyanka flees from the room, slamming her shoulder against the doorframe in her hurry.
What’s the fuss, nithead? I didn’t even break the skin.
‘Oh, Ava,’ Mum scolds, helping me stand by supporting my elbow. ‘What did you go and do that for?’
Did you see her, Mum? Did you hear how she spoke to me?
Mum sighs and leads me back to reception, where we glimpse Priyanka in a side room with an icepack to her arm. When Mum mouths sorry, Priyanka turns away and shuts the door.
We need to fill in an incident report and pay before we go, but the receptionist is on the phone, which makes Mum start grinding her teeth. My back’s hurting, but Mum’s in a hurry, and doesn’t want to waste time helping me sit on a chair. Instead, she shifts from foot to foot, practically taking all my weight.
‘No … Yes, the Eftpos machine,’ says the receptionist into the phone. ‘Yes, it’s not working. And when I try to …’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Mum, leaning forwards across the counter. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt – it’s just my daughter … She’s very tired. I’m sorry, but we can’t wait …’
The receptionist looks at us like Mum’s speaking Swahili. She’s running a card through the Eftpos machine, while taking instructions from the person on the other end of the line. ‘Yes. One, three, A for alpha, C for Charlie … No, sorry, D for delta … No, sorry – start again.’
Mum sighs. My knees wobble. Mum grips my elbow harder.
An Asian man who’s been sitting in the waiting area steps forwards. ‘Take seat?’ he says, offering his chair to Mum.
‘Oh, thank you,’ says Mum, trying to force a smile. ‘I wasn’t going to sit Ava down but…Okay, thanks, only for a sec. We’ll be done in a sec.’
&nb
sp; The man nods slightly, while Mum helps me to his seat.
My ribs are squeezing. A giant scream is about to erupt.
Mum heads back to the counter. ‘Sorry, so sorry,’ she says to the receptionist. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I was wondering, can we just go? Obviously you won’t be billing me for the speech appointment since, well, we were only in there a few minutes and I don’t think …’
The receptionist holds up a stop hand signal and keeps talking on the phone.
I decide it’s time to show Mum how it’s done. I open my mouth and let rip. The man flinches, clasping his hands over his ears. The receptionist stops mid-sentence and, as my screams rise, quickly waves us away.
Mum practically runs me to the car. ‘I mean, honestly,’ she says, as she’s buckling me up. ‘You’d think they’d be more understanding. The place is for people with disabilities, for goodness sake.’ Once she’s in her seat, she turns and stares past me out the back windscreen to reverse. ‘You can’t be the first person who—’
There’s a knock on Mum’s window. Mum stops reversing and turns around in fright. It’s the man from the waiting room. ‘You leave this,’ he says through the glass, while holding up my change bag.
Mum winds down her window.
‘First time always hardest,’ says the man, smiling kindly. ‘Better second time.’ He’s so friendly – I hope he doesn’t have Priyanka for his appointment.
Mum thanks the man, takes the bag and winds up her window. ‘Except there’ll be no second time,’ she mutters as she finishes reversing.
I’m sick with disappointment. Mum should have complained and asked for another therapist. Maybe Priyanka was having a bad day?
I stare out the window. Mum won’t complain. She’s got enough on her plate.
So, I guess that’s the end of me talking.
‘Did you tell them about her eyes?’ asks Nic when we get home. She and Dad are at the kitchen table.
Mum settles me before flopping down onto one of the dining chairs. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Well, no. I tried, but …’
Dad’s forehead puckers. Nic crosses her arms. ‘What?’
Mum explains about Priyanka and the cards, while I wish my hands and feet weren’t so sweaty. But when Mum tells Nic how I bit Priyanka, Nic smiles.
‘Way to go, Ava!’
‘Nic!’ says Mum. ‘Your sister injured a therapist! Don’t encourage her, please.’
Nic doesn’t say anything, but flicks her eyes to me.
Yeah, she deserved it.
Nic smiles.
And I smile back.
‘So, what now?’ asks Nic. ‘We’re still getting Ava an eye-gaze machine, right?’
‘Well, we won’t get funding without a referral.’
‘But we have to get the machine.’
‘I know, Nic, I know. But Dad and I don’t have a spare twenty-two thousand dollars.’
Nic and Mum are so busy arguing they don’t notice Dad’s trying to say something. His eyes squeeze tight as he concentrates, but no words come out.
‘Can’t we try another speech therapist?’ Nic asks. ‘Get a second opinion?’
Dad opens his mouth again, then gives up.
‘We have to keep trying, Mum,’ says Nic. ‘Check the internet. There must be someone else.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘Look, Nic, I …’
Dad coughs, his face tight.
Mum sits up straight. ‘Ross? Are you okay?’
Dad shakes his head and takes a breath. ‘Keep try,’ he says.
Nic grins. ‘See. Dad says we shouldn’t give up.’
Mum sighs. ‘Okay,’ she agrees. ‘I’ll keep trying. But don’t go getting your hopes up. This could all lead to nothing.’
Kieran makes enquiries at uni and the hospital about the eye-gaze devices, but unless we can prove I can use my eyes to communicate, no-one will write me a referral. Mum’s tried everything but so far no-one’s helped. Without the machine in front of me, the therapists can’t see what Mum and Dad and Nic and Kieran see.
Am I ever going to talk?
‘Come on. I want to show you guys something,’ says Kieran a few weeks later. Mum has taken Dad to a rehab appointment, so it’s just me and Nic at home. Kieran holds my elbow as he leads me to his room, Nic following behind. She’s supposed to be going round to Mel’s, but Kieran’s persuaded her to look at something on his computer.
It’s the first time I’ve been inside Mum’s garage office since she started renting it to Kieran. Now leads and cords run everywhere. Controllers and headphones litter the floor and I wonder how long it’s been since Mum came down here.
Nic steps gingerly over the mess while Banjo barks and jumps and wags his tail. Even if I had a tail, I couldn’t wag it today. I’m having one of my floppy days. I’ve been having a floppy week.
‘It’s not a dumb computer game, is it?’ asks Nic.
‘Just give me a sec,’ says Kieran. ‘It’ll be worth it.’
My heavy heart thumps. What is it? Another funny cat video?
Kieran’s couch smells of dog hair and stale pizza. A strand of cooked spaghetti hangs from the ceiling. I’ve heard of the ‘throw spaghetti against the tiles to see if it is cooked’ method, but I didn’t think you could also throw it at the ceiling.
‘Here, sit down next to Ava,’ Kieran tells Nic. ‘I’ll set it up.’
Nic sinks beside me on the saggy sofa bed and kicks at a squashed pizza box on the floor. I slide my tongue across the roof of my mouth. I still have a square of Vegemite sandwich from lunch stuck to it. But with no energy to swallow, I can’t seem to get it away.
Kieran’s flicking through options with his gaming console. But I hardly have the strength to care. My head’s heavy, my shoulders ache, and I feel like a buffalo is sitting on my chest.
Kieran fiddles with the console until green ‘yes’ and red ‘no’ squares come up on the screen, just like on his iPad. The Vegemite grows sour in my mouth. Not this again.
Nic’s frowning. ‘What? I don’t get it.’
‘Wait. I’ll show you.’ Kieran helps me over to the chair in front of the computer and flicks on the camera on his screen. ‘Look. See there in the corner? That’s you, Ava.’
There’s a video of my face in a small square in the corner of the screen. I look cramped and pale compared to the bright red and green of the squares.
‘Okay, so I have this idea. We need to show the speech therapists that Ava has the capacity to use an eye-gaze machine, right? What if we use the webcam on my computer to capture Ava making choices? We can record it. So, you ask her a question. She’ll look at the screen. She’ll focus her eyes on the “yes” or “no” square, depending what she wants to say, and the webcam will capture her shifting gaze. Awesome, right? We’ll be able to prove she uses her eyes to communicate.’
Kieran – you’re a genius! Nothing less than a genius.
I stare at the screen. Vegemite dribbles from my mouth.
This is it. I’m ready.
Blood thunders in my ears. My head’s spinning. I want to get started. The ‘yes’ and ‘no’ squares are like Christmas presents waiting to be unwrapped.
‘Shall we give it a try?’ asks Kieran. ‘Ava? You ready?’
He sits me straighter in the chair. The ‘yes’ and ‘no’ squares are right in front of me. So real, so close I could almost reach out and touch them.
Kieran and Nic sit on the floor beside me. The room is hot. I smell a whiff of stale anchovies from the crumpled pizza box at my feet.
‘Go on. Why don’t you start?’ says Kieran. ‘Ask Ava a question.’
‘Who me?’ Nic’s voice sounds high, like a baby bird’s. ‘No – you go. I might ask the wrong thing.’
‘There’s no right or wrong,’ says Kieran. ‘We’re just experimenting.’
/> I stare at the screen, waiting. Nic swallows and takes a deep breath.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Ava, do you like wafer biscuits? Tell me, yes or no.’
Kieran places his hand over my squishing hands to help settle me. I’m looking at the screen. Yes no yes no. Focus!
The thought of wafer biscuits makes me want to gag. No more food. My swallowing’s not up for any more food today.
Green for yes, red for no.
‘Just look at the answer, Ava,’ Kieran says. ‘You don’t have to press anything. Use your eyes.’
Nic nudges my shoulder. ‘It’s just like that day in the garden, when you looked at the birds.’ She repeats: ‘Do you like wafer biscuits?’
Green for yes, red for no.
I look at the green square.
‘YES!’ shouts Nic. ‘Did you see that, Kieran? She moved her eyes to “yes”.’
The webcam’s captured my stare! My heart leaps. I want to hug Nic. I want to hug Kieran and Banjo, and I get the feeling they want to hug me, too.
‘Should I ask her another one?’ says Nic, excitement ringing in her voice.
‘Just wait. I’ll double-check it’s recording. Hang on. Okay, go.’
‘Ava, do you like Slurpees?’ asks Nic.
YES!
‘Do you like school?’
NO!
There’s a shout of laughter from Nic. ‘Hey, Ava,’ she says. ‘Am I the coolest big sister ever?’
I’m tired now and slumping into the chair. But I lift my eyes and focus on the screen.
YES!
‘And what about Mum?’ Nic asks. ‘What do you think about Mum?’
‘It has to be a yes or no question,’ whispers Kieran from beside me.
‘Ava, do you love Mum?’
I try to ignore the lump of Vegemite sandwich rolling towards the back of my throat. I can’t get this question wrong. But if I don’t swallow soon, I’m going to …
The sticky ball of gooey bread jerks towards my tonsils. I cough. It jams. I can’t get any air. I’m gagging. Banjo starts barking, Nic and Kieran are thumping my back, but the bread won’t budge. My lungs are burning. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. Black spots appear in front of my eyes.
Everything I've Never Said Page 13
