White Noise, page 17
‘I’m fine. He has a concussion,’ I tell her. ‘And look at his arm!’ A pink tinge is already staining through the bandages.
‘Sorry, James, you know the rules. From most severe to least.’
‘For crying out loud, I’m hardly dying. Just stitch her up!’ Dad demands.
Dr Woodroffe ignores him and begins her examination. ‘Do you know where you are, James?’
‘The bloody ER.’
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday. Well, Friday now, I guess.’
‘Do you remember what happened?’
‘Fell out of bed. Knocked over my water glass. Must have hit my head against the bedside table. Next thing I knew, Emma was in the room, bleeding from her foot. Can someone please tend to her? She’s been unwell as it is.’
‘I know, James,’ Dr Woodroffe says gently. ‘Emma will be absolutely fine. It’s you I’m worried about.’
We’re worried about. I want to correct her.
But I don’t.
Sixty
I’ve never seen Dad like this. Not even after Mum died. He always loved to run. Not only around East Point, but through everything: work, the house, me. He was always, always doing something. I can’t remember him getting sick. Ever. The only time he stops is when he sits on the couch with me to play video games. And even then, I can hear his brain ticking over.
But now he’s lying in his bed with a pillow over his face, stitches in his arm, barely moving, and I suddenly realise.
He never made it to shore. He pushed me to land and higher ground. To where only the ripples can catch me. But he’s still wading waist-deep. Shallow enough to run; too deep to get far.
I want nothing more than to curl up next to him and hide away too. But one of us needs to keep it together, and it’s my turn.
I’m not sure where to start.
My eyes fall on an empty water glass. That’s as good a place as any. I take a clean glass from the cupboard and fill it with water. I’m careful to place it far enough away to avoid a repeat of last night. He doesn’t move when I enter the room.
I haven’t bothered to open any of the curtains in the house. Dad’s sensitive to the light because of his concussion and me because of my meltdown, so I keep them drawn. Still, I can see the day’s starting to fade and he’ll need to eat dinner soon.
I survey the contents of the fridge. Nothing appetising, and besides, I don’t have the energy to cook. I find Dad’s bank card and order Uber Eats from the kebab shop down the street. Anything is better than nothing. I sit on the couch to wait for the order. I don’t turn on the TV or the Switch. Don’t play music through my phone. I’m listening out for any sign that Dad’s awake, or that he needs something.
I wonder if this is how Dad feels when I’m comatose in the midst of a shutdown. That it’s impossible to do anything other than wait and worry and hope that once the worst has passed, everything will be as it was. Kind of like a tidal wave, I guess. Except after a tidal wave, nothing is ever the same. The ripples keep nipping and nagging and watching and waiting and seizing their chance when you start to think everything is fine and as it always was, and was always supposed to be. I sit on the couch in the silence, subsumed by my thoughts; one ear open and trained towards any sound from my father’s bedroom.
Headlights shine through the curtains. I push myself up and hobble to meet the delivery driver at the gate. The doctors decided I didn’t need stitches in the end, but my foot is bandaged so heavily it’s difficult to walk on it properly. Back upstairs, I get two plates and carry the food in to my father. It doesn’t look like he’s moved.
‘Dad?’ I ask. ‘You hungry?’
‘Em, you don’t need to take care of me.’ His voice is muffled under the pillow.
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘You need to rest. And eat. Here.’ I gently pry the pillow away from his face. He relents and sits up. I hand him his plate. He’s never been a good liar. The circles under his eyes and the dullness in his voice betray his words.
‘Thanks.’ He takes a bite, chews, swallows. Looks at me. ‘You need to eat and rest too.’
He’s not wrong. I’m still fighting against the after-effects of my meltdown, but I can hold it together until Dad’s better. I sit down beside him on the bed with my kebab and take a tiny bite. This seems to pacify him. Once he’s finished eating, I take his plate. He lies straight back down. Drapes the pillow back over his face. I carry our plates out to the kitchen. Rinse them and put them in the dishwasher.
I know that despite everything, I could call Zoe or Paul and they’d be here in a heartbeat. Aunt Ivy would jump on the next plane if I told her we needed her. But we’re okay, just the two of us. We’ve always been okay since it became just the two of us. Except Dad’s stuck in the tide right now. I pull my phone from my track pants pocket and set alarms: five times a day, three hours apart, and back-ups for each. The least I can do is remember to eat.
We exist in this in-between state for four days and withdraw into ourselves. On the third day, Dad finally leaves bed and we oscillate between our beds and the couch and order Uber Eats for four nights straight. My body is fighting me to give in to a shutdown but I refuse: not until Dad’s okay. I’m afraid if I don’t keep one eye open he’ll disappear.
On the fourth day, Dad gets up early, showers and pulls back the curtains. Light floods into the house. I can relax. I stop fighting myself and fall inwards.
It takes me two days to come back. I emerge from my slumber late one afternoon and I’m finally feeling better.
I step out into the hall. The door to the office he never uses is open. I’m surprised to find Dad sitting on the floor in the room, sorting through boxes and piles of stuff. Mum’s stuff. For once, his face looks relaxed. Like he’s not working hard to hold his face muscles neutral.
‘When did you know?’ I ask. Dad jumps at my voice. Looks up. ‘That Mum was your person?’
‘The very first time I met her.’
‘At the house party in Nightcliff?’
Dad nods. ‘I would have trusted her with my life from that very moment.’ A pause. ‘I did trust her with...how are you feeling?’
‘Better. You?’
‘I’m good now.’ He pauses. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s okay.’ I step into the room. Sit down on the floor next to Dad.
‘That’s what it’s like for you almost always, isn’t it?’ Dad asks.
‘The world turned up to one hundred?’
‘Right.’
I think before replying. ‘Pretty much. But not always. Not at home.’
‘My nightmares,’ Dad says. ‘I’m standing in a white room. It’s full of mist. I can hear you crying, your mother screaming, but no matter how fast I run, I can’t find you.’
‘No one could have saved her.’
‘Not from the cancer,’ Dad agrees. ‘But the melioid...’
And I finally get it. It’s not that she died that keeps pulling him under. He knew that was inevitable. It was how. How it wasn’t how it should have gone. How he should have caught the melioidosis in time. Could have caught the melioidosis in time.
‘You couldn’t have known,’ I tell him. ‘They told us. The symptoms mirrored the symptoms she already had. Impossible to catch.’
Dad doesn’t reply.
My phone starts beeping. I swipe it off. Dad’s looking at me. ‘An eating reminder,’ I say.
‘Feel like pancakes?’ he asks.
‘Sounds great.’
‘You can keep anything you’d like out of all of this. I’m just sorting it.’ Dad gets up, and I follow him from the room. We don’t pull the door closed.
‘What do you say we drive down to Aunt Ivy’s for Christmas this year?’ Dad asks as he rummages in the pantry for ingredients.
‘Drive?’
‘I figured we could take our time, visit some places along the way. Maybe drive back via the Nullarbor.’
‘Is there enough time for that?’
‘We could leave in a couple of weeks. Before school lets out.’
‘Before school lets out?’
‘Yeah?’
I smile. ‘I’d really like that.’
Sixty-one
Elliot comes over to hang out in the pool after school on Monday. I wait for him on the stairs. Dad’s in his room, resting. I see Elliot’s car pull up and run to meet him at the gate.
‘Hey.’ Elliot kisses me and pulls me into a hug. ‘You okay?’
‘Getting there.’
‘Good.’ We pull away and wander to the pool. Elliot throws off his T-shirt and I step out of my dress. We jump into the pool together and spend a lazy hour floating around, flicking water at each other.
‘Alright, you two.’ Dad’s voice reverberates over the pool fence. Elliot quickly untangles himself from me.
‘Hi, um, James.’
‘You’ll stay for dinner, mate?’
‘Um...’
‘Yes, he will.’ I answer for him.
‘Good. I’ll go pick up some Thai food.’ Dad gets into his ute and backs down the driveway. We climb out of the pool and dry off.
Dad’s not gone long. We eat together at the kitchen counter.
‘Excuse me, but I need to go rest,’ Dad says once we’re done.
‘We’ll clean up,’ Elliot offers.
‘Thank you.’
Once we’ve thrown the containers away and put the cutlery in the dishwasher, I take Elliot to my bedroom.
‘But your dad,’ he hisses.
I shrug. ‘We’ll keep the door open.’
I lie down on my bed.
Elliot gingerly sits on the bed beside me. We gaze at each other. I force myself not to break eye contact. It feels like he can see straight into my soul. But tonight I don’t mind. Tonight, I want him to read me. I reach out, take his hand. He leans over and gently kisses me. My body’s on fire. I lose all sense of time as we kiss, over and over again. Neither of us instigate anything more and, too soon, Elliot pulls away.
‘I have to go,’ he whispers.
‘Why?’
‘Will you be at school tomorrow?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
‘Okay. I’ll message you.’
I get off the bed and walk Elliot to the gate. Gaze out at the street as he drives away. Then I sit outside on the couch on the balcony and watch as lightning rips across the sky. I get lost in my own mind and then I must doze off because the next thing I hear is Dad calling my name. The balcony door opens.
‘There you are! Thank God.’ Dad shakes his head. ‘I went past your room and the light was on but you weren’t there.’
‘Sorry.’ I make room on the couch and Dad sits down beside me. Together, we watch the lightning.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.
‘I’m okay, Em.’
‘You don’t have to lie.’
Dad pauses. ‘Migraine’s back.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Pretty standard for after a concussion. How are you going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re eating.’
‘I always try to remember to eat.’
‘But you don’t always eat.’
‘I have the alarms now.’
Thunder rumbles through the night.
‘Ice-cream?’ I suggest.
‘Sure.’
I collect two half-empty ice-cream tubs and two spoons from the kitchen. We sit watching the storm and eating ice-cream, content in the silence of each other’s company. When I can’t physically eat any more, I set the tub down and lean against Dad’s shoulder. He presses a kiss against the top of my head.
‘I love you, Em,’ Dad whispers the words so softly they almost get lost on the wind.
Sixty-two
I don’t want to go back to school, but that’s not an option. Dad drops me off on my first day back. I see Elora and Tash over by the bike racks with Aaron and Ben. Zoe pulls up right behind Dad. In tandem, Summer and I get out of the cars. We share a look and, without a word, both head towards the bike racks.
‘Did you guys hear?’ Ben’s saying to the others. His voice drifts in the breeze. ‘Jaclyn and Elliot slept together at Lachlan’s party on Saturday.’
‘What did you just say?’ Summer demands. We’re standing right behind them. I’m still rolling the words around in my mind, trying to make sense of them.
Ben won’t meet her eye. ‘Nothing.’
‘Jaclyn and Elliot?’ Summer clarifies. She turns to me. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Of course not!’ I tell her. Jaclyn. Elliot. Slept together? I know they kissed at the formal afterparty, but this doesn’t make sense. Something doesn’t add up. I don’t believe it’s true. I won’t believe it’s true until I hear it from Elliot himself.
Summer pulls out her phone. Swipes it unlocked. She stares intently at the screen for a few seconds. A tear slides down her cheek. She turns and marches off. Walks across the carpark, away from school. Disappears.
‘Is it even true?’ I ask the others.
‘As good as,’ Elora says. ‘Even if they didn’t, I mean, do you see the way they look at each other?’
‘Elora!’ Tash admonishes her.
‘Text Summer,’ I tell Elora. ‘Find out where she’s going.’
‘You do it,’ Elora says.
‘She won’t reply to me. Please?’
Elora pulls out her phone and sends the text. The siren sounds. I follow Elora to her locker. Her phone vibrates.
‘Well?’ I demand.
‘Far out. Okay. She’s on a bus to Casuarina.’
‘Thanks. You coming?’ I ask.
‘Where?’
‘To get Summer.’
Elora shakes her head. She throws her bag over her shoulder and heads to homegroup.
I walk the opposite direction, out of the school grounds.
I catch the next bus to Casuarina. It snakes its way through the suburbs, turning an easy fifteen-minute car trip into a thirty-minute bus adventure. I stare out the window.
I still vividly remember when I told Summer about my diagnosis. We were in the pool. I told her and she just looked at me and said, ‘So?’ And that was that. She didn’t treat me any differently. Had always been the first to jump to my defence even before my diagnosis and remained the first to jump to my defence after. She was always there. Through all of it. Despite what was going on in her own life.
I unlock my phone. Elliot’s sent me five messages and has tried to call me three times. I ignore him and text Summer instead: I’m in Casuarina. Where are you?
She replies immediately: Cinema steps.
I find her sitting there. She’s been crying. I sit down next to her.
‘Is it even true?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘No idea. But Jaclyn broke up with me.’ She shows me a long text message on her phone.
I check my own phone again. Two more missed calls from Elliot and four from Dad. The school must’ve rung him. I send a quick text: Sorry but I’m fine, long story, I’ll tell you later. I continue to ignore Elliot.
‘You really loved her, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. Foolish, huh?’ She pauses. ‘Don’t you love Elliot?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘We’re in high school. We won’t last forever.’
‘My parents have,’ Summer reminds me.
‘They’re really lucky. You’re really lucky.’
Summer’s crying gets louder.
‘Sum?’
‘I had a really awful fight with Mum this morning,’ she says. ‘Told her she’s a terrible mother.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Did something happen?’
Summer sniffles. ‘I was babysitting the kids last night. Again. They’ve been leaving them with me so much. But last night...’ Summer draws in a deep breath. ‘I gave them something to eat and Oliver started choking. I didn’t know what to do. That’s never happened with any of them before, ever.’
I gasp. ‘Is he okay?’
Summer nods. Wipes her eyes. ‘He’s okay, I managed to get it out but...it was so scary. I tried to tell Mum and Dad what had happened when they got home, but Saph woke up crying and then Oliver woke up and so they found out this morning when Aurelia blurted it out over breakfast. Dad was mad I didn’t tell them last night, and that’s when I started yelling at Mum. Pretty sure he’s going to put me on house arrest. I’m already grounded for the drinking and the weed.’
‘That’s so scary, Sum. I’m glad he’s okay.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. And...not there. I miss you.’
‘It’s okay. It’s not your job to take care of me too,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you like that.’
‘I shouldn’t have cared so much about the institute. Getting that would have been something that was mine, you know? Something to remind my parents I still exist.’
We sit together on the stairs. People walk around us. My phone goes off again. Dad. If I don’t call him within ten minutes, he’s going to call the police.
‘Hang on, Sum, I need to call Dad back.’
Dad answers my call on the first ring. ‘Emma, what on earth?’
‘Long story but—’
‘Is Summer with you?’
‘Yes—’
‘Thank goodness. Zoe’s going out of her mind. Where are you?’
‘Casuarina.’
‘Stay put. I’ll take you back to school.’
I glance at Summer. A fresh downpour of tears stream down her cheeks. I take a moment to ensure my voice is strong, but calm. ‘We’re not going back to school today.’
‘I’m coming to get you.’ He hangs up.
‘Sum, they know you exist,’ I say. ‘Your mum is blowing up my dad’s phone trying to find you.’
Summer pulls her phone out. Shows me the screen. Thirty-five missed calls.
We wait on the steps until Dad texts: In the carpark. We trudge out. Find the ute. I slide into the back with Summer.
I see Dad looking at us in the rear-view mirror. He seems caught off-guard by how dejected Summer is. But doesn’t say anything as he pulls out onto the street.
Sixty-three
