*
The night sky offers me some comfort. I lie crooked on my bed with the windows open so I can gaze up into it. I stare at the blanket of stars high above me. I imagine Poppa up there among them. The longer I look, the closer the stars appear. I can almost make believe that our universes are still connected.
In the middle of the night when I still can’t sleep, I creep out of the house and into the orchard. The light from the moon helps me to navigate my way through the trees. I follow the orderly rows until I find myself under the old pohutukawa.
I wrap my arms around the trunk and lean my head onto the bark. It still holds the warmth from the day’s sunshine. I remember Poppa telling me that all trees hold stories and magic within them. I hope for some of the magic to soak into me.
I look up into the sky.
‘If you’re up there Poppa, please make me well.’
The only answer I receive is a rain shower. It sends me scuttling inside.
I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The rain and wind lash at the windows. It crosses my mind that this must be how prisoners feel. Trapped inside their thoughts. Waiting for a morning that holds no promise.
I’m bundled into the car under the cover of darkness, like an illegal human package. Grey smoke from the exhaust fumes mixes with the cold morning air and sends up signals about our secret mission.
‘Buckle up.’ The corners of Mum’s mouth stretch sideways. She stares straight out the front windscreen.
My reflection in the passenger window keeps me company on the long silent drive to Auckland. My thoughts tumble – too fast for me to catch one and hold it long enough to make any sense out of it.
I glance over at Mum. Maybe I could talk to her. Tell her how confused I am. Her knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. Now is definitely not a good time.
We fly along State Highway One. I’m surprised when we take the Takanini off-ramp; we’re heading for a suburb on the outskirts of town. I don’t know why, but I presumed we were going into the heart of the city.
We dash past houses lining the sides of the streets. A lot of them have weeds that grow wild and tall enough to peek inside the grimy windows. Fridges and prams rust away on the front lawns. It seems that people here just open up their front doors and fling out anything that’s no good.
We pull up in front of a building that looks like an afterthought. It’s a skinny two-storey building, jammed in between a garage and a scrap-metal factory. Mum gets out of the car first, and I reluctantly follow. The downstairs window has horizontal bars on it. The door beside it has Consultation rooms of Doctor Vivian stencilled in black on it, but someone has scratched out most of the letters of ‘Consultation’, so it reads nut rooms of Doctor Vivian.
Mum makes eye contact with me for the first time today. For a second I think I see doubt in her eyes, but then without a word she grabs my hand and pulls me inside, and then along a narrow corridor.
I want to tug on her hand and pull her away from this horrible building. I want to scream. But I don’t. I don’t make one sound. Not one tiny little sound. Not even a reflex that tells her I don’t want to go in here. But a small part of me is clinging to a life raft; hoping that behind these grimy doors is a cure.
The small waiting room has green plastic chairs pushed up against the wall. Even they look like they don’t want to be here. Mum strides up to the counter and leans over like she’s telling the receptionist a secret.
‘What did you say your name was?’ the receptionist asks in a loud voice.
Mum leans in and whispers it again.
‘OK, Mrs Morgan. Fill out this new patient form and then bring it back.’ She slides a clipboard with a pen dangling from some dirty string across the counter.
I sense Mum’s discomfort as she takes the only spare seat in the room. I stand by the door. A movie reel in my mind is playing an escape movie, but I’m not brave enough to star in it.
On one side of Mum is a young girl nursing a toddler. The girl can’t be much older than me. Her baby has a filthy jumpsuit on and snot crusted around his nose. The girl looks sad. Wedged in on the other side of Mum is an old lady who keeps looking through a worn white handbag that rests on her knee. She continuously mutters to herself as she searches for something.
Mum takes a pen from her handbag and scribbles details on the form. After handing it back to the nurse she goes back to her seat and smoothes out imaginary creases in her skirt. I smile. God, she’d hate it if I told her how much at home she looks in this place.
‘Mrs Morgan. The doctor will see you now.’
I follow Mum in.
The office is small, like the waiting room. The only impressive thing in it is a huge mahogany desk. The doctor sits behind it. His high-backed chair has ornate carvings on it of tigers with jaws wide open and fierce-looking black bears standing on their hind legs.
Doctor Vivian doesn’t quite match his furniture or his name. I thought he was going to be a she. His torso only goes half way up the chair. He’s like the small man in a circus act. His limbs are stunted, and his fat threatens to spill over the armrests. The way he’s wedged in his chair makes it look like a highchair for grown-ups.
‘Take a seat.’
I notice a thin moustache of sweat on his upper lip.
‘So what can we do for you?’ He clasps his hands in front of him, directing the question to my mother.
I see her chest rise as she draws in a deep breath, and watch as all the air goes out of it.
‘Elizabeth has taken to mutilating herself.’
Those words pull the doctor forward in his seat. ‘What sort of mutilation?’
‘Well, um …’ Mum takes another breath. ‘She pulls her hair out.’
A look that I can only describe as excitement flares on the doctor’s podgy face. ‘How long has she been doing this for?’
‘I am here, you know.’
They both look at me. And then ignore me.
‘She says only a few weeks, but to be honest I’m not sure. I’ve been under enormous pressure. I’ve had a funeral to organise and a sick mother-in-law to look after, and I’ve been running a business at the same time. Elizabeth’s father has been away through most of it.’
It’s my turn to take in a big breath of air. I want to tell the doctor that she’s lying about most of it, but Mum surprises me by bursting into tears.
I have never seen her cry.
‘It must be very hard for you.’ Dr Vivian passes her a tissue. ‘Looking after someone who’s harming themselves takes a big toll on the carer.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Mum sniffs and nods her head in agreement. She dabs at her tears like she’s in some old movie.
The doctor swivels around in his chair. His eyes feel like a probe as he squints to look at me. It’s like he’s trying to work out what species I belong to.
‘Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.’ He frightens me as he jumps off his chair and drags a footstool over to where I’m sitting.
Without another word he pulls the scarf off my head and pushes my head down. His stumpy fingers search around my scalp.
‘Ow, that hurts!’
He ignores me again, and carries on searching like he’s on the Big Dig.
I quickly swipe a tear away. I need to take myself somewhere else. I concentrate on the paisley fabric on the chair. I imagine that I’m one of the green coils that looks like a ponga frond. The gold thread swirls around me like sunshine on a gorgeous day. Its rays wrap their protective cloth around me. I start humming silently to myself until I drown out their voices.
*
We leave the offices without me having participated in the discussion at all. Mum has a prescription clutched in her hand.
‘The tranquilisers will work during the day to keep her calm,’ the doctor had said, ‘and the sleeping pills should take care of the night. The third one is for you. It’s for anxiety, and should ease some of the pressure on
you.’
As we make our way to the car, I laugh at my ridiculous hope that we were going to find a cure for me. I wonder if this appointment had ever been about me.
Around the corner we park outside a block of shops. Rubbish is littered over the pavement. Most of the shops have boards or bars over the windows.
‘Wait here.’ Mum gets out of the car and strides into the chemist shop. I know it must be killing her to be in such a rundown area. But not as much as it would kill her to have our secret discovered by our local chemist.
An old couple come out of another shop carrying bread and milk. They both smile at me when they notice me sitting in the car. I don’t have the energy to smile back. I envy them as I watch them getting on with their day. I close my eyes to try and shut down the thoughts of what a faulty human I am.
It doesn’t work.
I’m now officially mad, and I’ve got the drugs to prove it. Drugs so I can survive the day and drugs to put me to sleep at night.
As soon as Mum is back in the car, she locks the doors, takes the cap off one of the bottles and swallows two pills without any water. She tosses the paper bag over to me. A look of irritation crosses her face as she notices my tears.
‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I’m all out of sympathy. I still can’t believe that you’d intentionally disfigure yourself.’
She shoves the car into reverse and pulls back without looking. A car horn blasts, but the driver manages to avoid us.
She gives me the silent treatment all the way home.
*
Poppa and Nan used to have an old record player in their bedroom. When I was little I put on miniature shows for them. The floor was the stage and the bed the place that the audience sat. I dressed up and entertained them with songs and stupid riddles. The one that got them laughing the most was my slow-motion dance.
I’d put a 45 record on the turntable and set the dial to the 78 speed. Imitating the music, I would float around their room in slow motion, mouthing the words slowly as I lifted one limb and then the other.
The drugs make me feel like my inner turntable is set on the wrong speed.
Every day is the same.
I wake but it’s like half of me stays asleep. I make myself get up and move about. Then it’s lunchtime. Beside my plate are two tranquilisers. I don’t get to leave the table until I swallow them. The feeling is the same as if I was drinking concrete. It slowly sets in my body, making thinking and moving hard. Just when it’s starting to dissolve, it’s time for the sleeping pills.
Mum has rung the school and a few of her friends and told them that I have glandular fever. ‘That will buy us at least a month.’
I get a get well soon card in the mail from Lucy.
‘Isn’t that lovely,’ Mum says, as she sticks it up on the mantelpiece.
I wonder again which of us is really mad.
Dad avoids me. I push open the heavy doors to his office. He’s having a heated conversation on the telephone. He acknowledges me with his eyes but holds up his hand like a stop sign. I freeze, like we’re playing statues, and wait for him to finish.
‘Sorry about that, Libby. An order didn’t get to where it was supposed to. Are you OK?’
‘No, Dad. I’m not. I want to stop taking the pills.’
‘You can’t do that, Libby. Your mum said that it takes a while for them to work.’
‘What would she know? She just wants me to be quiet and you don’t care.’
‘That’s not true. We love you.’
‘If you loved me, you’d let me stop taking the pills. They make me feel like I’m half dead.’
‘Half dead is quite a statement. Your mum tells me that you’ve stopped, you know, pulling. That’s got to be a good thing, right?’
‘Yeah, I’ve stopped pulling but I’m the sacrifice.’
He frowns and I can see that he has no idea what to do either.
‘I think I’m getting sicker. Maybe I could stop taking the tranquilisers during the day and see how I go? You could convince Mum to at least let me try?’
He releases a huge sigh, but nods his head.
‘OK, Libby. I tell you what. I have to go to Wellington for three days. How about you stick with the pills until I get back and then all of us can sit down and talk about it.’ He pats me three times on the arm.
‘Sure Dad. Why don’t I just stay in hell for a while longer?’
‘That’s not fair, Libby.’
I turn and walk out of his office.
They’re right about me not pulling, but every day another part of me feels like it slips away. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and hardly recognise the face that stares back.
Chapter Six
I have a thudding headache. Something cold touches my wrist and my eyelids flick open.
A face I don’t recognise stares down at me. Confused, I turn my head from side to side. A harsh light overhead distorts my vision. I go to sit up but the face tells me to keep my head back.
‘Hi, love. I’m Judy. One of the nurses here.’
Again I try and sit up. This time she helps me by propping a pillow up behind me. She pumps a lever on the side of the bed. It makes the back of it tilt up.
I try and ask how I got here, but when I go to speak the back of my throat feels like someone has had their hands down it and ripped out my vocal chords. She must see me struggling, because she hands me a glass of water.
‘Just take little sips. The tubes have just come out, so your throat will be a bit sore for a few days.’
I nod my head and try and clear the fog in my brain.
The last thing I remember was climbing the stairs to my bedroom after talking to Dad in his office. I force myself to trace my steps back.
A vision of me throwing myself down on the bed and landing on a pill bottle is the best I can do. I remember seeing that they were the sleeping pills but nothing much else, other than a feeling of wanting the confusion in my brain to stop.
The nurse interrupts my thoughts as she fusses around my bed.
‘Your parents just slipped downstairs to get a coffee while you were sleeping. They’ll be back in a moment. I’m sorry, love, but I just need to check a few things.’
She pops a thermometer under my tongue and shines a small torch in my eyes. When she’s finished I close my eyes and lean back on the pillows.
I hear Mum’s brisk footsteps marching along the lino hallway. I’m surprised that the flimsy white curtain doesn’t shred as she whips it back. Dad stands behind her. Relief floods his face when he sees that I’m awake. He comes around to the side of my bed and kisses my forehead.
‘You don’t know how pleased I am to see those blue eyes of yours open.’
I manage a weak smile.
‘My God, Elizabeth. What were you thinking?’ Mum looks tired as she slumps down into a chair. ‘You’re a very lucky girl. If you hadn’t wandered out into the orchard, you might not have been found in time.’ She pushes herself up in the chair.
‘I thought Toby had done something to you when I saw him walking across our front lawn with you in his arms. The doctor said that the outcome might have been quite different if we hadn’t got you here when we did.’
Exhaustion creeps up on me. I rub my eyes to keep it away.
I’d forgotten that the nurse was still here. She moves in and tucks a sheet around me. ‘You need to rest and be gentle with yourself for the next few days. I suggest you keep as quiet as you can until your throat recovers.’ She leaves me with a smile and a promise to check on me later.
‘She’s right, Libby. Just take it easy.’ Dad says this to me, but is looking directly at Mum.
‘You don’t need to be a nurse to see that Elizabeth needs a rest,’ Mum says, scowling at Dad. ‘You get a good night’s sleep and we’ll pick you up in the morning.’ She leans down and pecks me on the cheek.
Dad looks reluctant to leave. He gives me another kiss and a hug, while Mum stands and holds back the curtain for hi
m.
*
A young Indian doctor spent an hour talking to me this morning before Mum and Dad arrived. He pulled the brown hospital chair right up beside my bed and started chatting like we’d been BFFs for years.
I kept getting a waft of a spice, as he talked. Like when a song keeps repeating itself in my head, I couldn’t concentrate until I knew the name of it. ‘Paprika,’ I thought, about the same time he said ‘Depression and a mild antidepressant’.
I nodded as if I agreed with him.
*
Follow-up appointments at the outpatients’ clinic are made. It takes less than twenty-four hours for the hospital to discharge me. Mum squints to read the discharge papers before scribbling her name on the bottom of the form.
Just last month, I’d waited patiently by her side at the optometrist for nearly an hour while she agonised over which pair of reading glasses looked the best on her. ‘Red or green frames? Red or green?’ I don’t know why she bothered – she’s too vain to wear them in public.
My brain slows down and my eyelids grow heavy as I doze off in the back seat on the way home. The leather upholstery is cold and the smell reminds me of another time. A time when all was well.
I wake as we drive up our driveway. The poplars on each side arch over to meet in the middle. The tunnel of leaves is dense and blocks out the sun.
Toby waves out to me as I step from the car. I wave back. He puts down the bucket he’s carrying. Mum puts her hand on my back and pushes me inside. The door slams closed behind me.
‘I think it’s best if you stay up in your room.’
Dad follows me up the stairs and pulls back my bedcovers for me. Once I’m in bed he arranges the blankets around me like I’m the centrepiece of a flower posy.
‘Can I get you anything, Libby?’ The floorboards creak as he shuffles from one foot to the other at the side of my bed.
‘No, I’ll be fine.’ I hesitate but then add, ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
The Scent of Apples Page 7
