The Whole of My World (16 page)

Me
. It's shaping
me
. I'm a lie. A great big, enormous lie. My whole life. Dad's whole life. It's not even a choice anymore. It's just who we are.

 

I stand in the living room doorway, wishing I'd made it home in time to see the news.
M*A*S*H
is on TV, and Dad's asleep in his chair. I missed the last bus from the station and spent the long, dark walk home wondering how I can find out the latest on Mick.

The reek of garlic and onion from my stained shirt is overwhelming, and my bones ache with the cold. I want to change out of my uniform and wash my hands in warm soapy water, as much to get the feeling back in my fingers from the icy air as to rid myself of the smell. But I have to find out about Mick first. I can't think about anything until I know. I have to wake Dad. I have to ask him what happened.

I scan his face in the flickering grey of the TV. He looks as relaxed as I've seen him, despite the almost ghostly shade his skin has taken on in the filtered light. The lines around his eyes have almost disappeared and the usually firm etch of his mouth is slack. Unworried.

I reach out to touch his shoulder, but my hand stops before I make contact. I can't wake him. I can't hate him, either. I want to – it would make life so much easier if I could just shut it off, like I've shut off much of my life from before. But it's not in me. I'm not strong enough or good enough or . . . angry enough. I withdraw my hand, tucking it under my blazer where it can do no harm. I don't want to rob him of this momentary calm. I wish I could be the one who gives him peace and not the one always driving it away.

Even as I wish this, I know it's too late. My mind wanders to that day, before the accident – my thirteenth birthday,
our
thirteenth birthday – and I remember my words. I remember the look on Dad's face, on Mrs McGuire's, how Dad followed me when he should have stayed behind. How loud those words sounded in the months after, even though he never once repeated them to me.

It's okay though. He doesn't need to; I hear them all the time – in his eyes, every time he looks at me. In my eyes, every time I look at myself.

I dump my bag, heavy with the homework I haven't done yet, and head to the bathroom, where I strip off my clothes and wash my face, neck and arms. But the smell is still there. I turn on the taps and let the hot water warm up, filling the bathroom with steam. I step into the shower and feel the powerful stream squeeze the tension out of me. I'll check the late news after my shower. I remember then that I have to finish my History essay on the Falcons before I go to school tomorrow. My heart sinks at the prospect of how much I have to do, and then I quietly thank God – or whoever's in charge of things on this earth – that I chose a subject I can get lost in, because it's going to be a long and sleepless night.

 

 

I hurry to the train station and stop at the newsstand. Despite staying up for the late news, there was no mention of Mick on the Channel Seven broadcast. I buy a copy of
The Sun
but, incredibly, all I can find is a tiny paragraph two pages in from the back. There's not a lot of detail, but they say it was his knee again and that he was taken to a hospital in the city.

The train ride to school passes in a blur. It's only when Tara asks me if I'm going to training that I realise how distracted I've been all day. I honestly have no idea what we did in any of my classes.

‘Not sure,' I answer quickly. There's a training session on Friday because we're playing Sydney on Sunday.

‘When do you think you might know?' Tara asks dryly. The bell has finished ringing and we're packing up our stuff to go, so she has a point. I focus on the thick, four-ring binder that won't fit in my bag while I buy myself a minute to get my story straight. I don't know when I decided to lie but it comes out suddenly and naturally, like I'd planned it all along. ‘Dad's arced up about it and wants me to cut back.' It's not really a lie. Dad
has
arced up. It's just that I'm not going home either. But I can't tell Tara this; I know what she'll say. I can feel her eyes boring a hole through the back of my head as I frown and huff at the ridiculous binder. I sigh, giving up. I look over at Tara, who's shaking her head in disgust. ‘What?'

‘You think you're special, don't you?' she says. ‘You think you matter to him.'

‘What are you talking about?' I turn away, the heat of her gaze cutting through me. I suddenly don't know what to do with my hands. I let go of the binder and try to make room around it. Yes, I know exactly what Tara is talking about – and why – because I
know
I matter to him, but that doesn't make it any less infuriating. I blush, because that's what I do exactly when I don't want to, and any chance I have of maintaining the look of innocence goes sailing out the window.

‘He's married, you know. With
kids
!' Her eyes glitter like shiny gems. She looks like she might cry, which only confuses me, and suddenly my innocence is back where it should be – front and centre.

‘So? It's not like that.' It's not. It's really not.

‘You have no idea what you're doing,' she says. ‘No idea at all.' Tara pushes past me with the kind of disgust she saves for Angels supporters – or worse, umpires.

‘What?' I say, to the empty space left in her wake. ‘
What
?'

 

Two tram rides and a half-k walk later, I'm hovering by the reception area of the small private hospital on Mary Street, trying to convince the nurse to let me in. After much negotiation she purses her lips, and calls Mick's room. She doesn't tell me what he said, but points me towards the lifts opposite the empty cafeteria, her lips still pressed into that tight line. ‘Third floor, Room 312,' she says curtly.

As soon as I see Mick's face I know he's hurting. And it's not just about the knee.

‘Hey.'

He smiles. ‘You didn't have to come.'

He makes it sound like I'm doing him a favour. As if I
wouldn't
come. The only hard part was waiting for school to finish and getting away from Tara. ‘So what's the deal?'

He shrugs and taps his leg, grimacing. ‘They don't know. It should have been fine by now but it's not. We have to wait and see.'

I let the words sit in the room while I adjust to this turn of events. I want to say something, to offer reassurance, but I know I'll sound naive. He's in hospital and he's out of the team. Telling him he'll be okay won't cut it. When in doubt, change the subject. ‘At least it's warm in here. Like the bloody Antarctic outside.'

‘I'll have to take your word for it.'

Mum always said that if the weather's all you have to talk about, it's best to say nothing at all. Saying nothing right now is easier said than done. I drag the visitor's chair over to his bedside and plonk down, buying myself a few moments while I fiddle with my schoolbag, pulling the zip shut before making a show of deciding where I should put it. I push it back towards the wall where the chair was, turning away from Mick in case he sees through my cover. I straighten my skirt, brush the hair from my eyes, then pull it down over them again, and stand up, fixing my face into careful detachment. I sit down again.

Mick raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything.

‘So an ambulance, huh? Seems like a lot of drama for a leg. It's not
The Restless Years
, you know.' I'm doing an excellent job of feigning nonchalance, considering I tossed and turned all night, imagining all kinds of career-ending illnesses. I finished my essay with the telly on in the hope they'd break with some details after the late news. It was after midnight when I slid my essay into its folder, finally done. But I stayed up until the channel had shut down, taking a full five minutes to realise the hissing static wasn't just bad reception. I finally dragged myself to bed at two o'clock, so tired I didn't even touch my scrapbook. ‘Not like it's life or death, Mick.'

He smiles but it doesn't touch his eyes. There's more going on that he's not telling me.

‘So . . . how long do they think you'll be out?'

He won't look at me now. He can't. ‘We'll know more on Monday. I'm sure I'll be fine by then.' The dismissal in his voice takes my breath away. I dip my head, intended as agreement and understanding, but really I'm hiding the tears that sting my eyes. I make myself look up at him again, feeling the distance between us in a single glance. He's so cold now, so distant.

‘I finished my History essay,' I say, just realising that I'm genuinely pleased with what I wrote. I was exhausted by the time I'd finished, but I woke up early this morning to check it over and handed it in during third period. Sister Brigid tsked-tsked because it was two days late, but let me off this one time because she liked my idea. She told me her cousin worked at Glenthorn, something to do with sales, and that he could have helped me if I'd asked. That was never going to happen, but it's the first time anyone at St Mary's has done anything really nice for me. The tears that threaten to spill burn hotter behind my eyes just thinking about it.

‘Well, I hope you feel better soon,' I say, carefully avoiding Mick's gaze. I bend over to find my bag, stealing the moment to wipe my eyes. I'm a mess and I have no idea why. Or what's happening. I just know I can't let Mick see. I can't let anyone see.

‘That was quick.' He smiles, but there's an edge of confusion in his voice.

I laugh. It's a brittle, uneven sound. It doesn't sound real. ‘Yeah, well, I'm meant to go to athletics training tonight. There's time to make the last half if I leave now.' Another lie that comes out too easily. I pull my bag over my shoulder, straighten my skirt and yank my hair out from under the bag strap, then offer him the coolest smile I can manage. ‘Hope you feel better soon,' I say, and turn to go. ‘And say hi to your wife,' I add.

The room falls silent as though the sound has been turned off.

‘Shelley?' Mick's voice is rough, quiet.

I stop and turn to face him, bracing for . . . I don't know what.

Not this. Not what I see. His face is gaunt, his eyes are unsteady. His hand shakes . . . He's frightened. He's not hiding it from me now and my heart breaks as I absorb this. I don't know if it's because he's hurting so much or because he trusts me to see it, but I know I'd walk over broken bottles for Mick Edwards right now. I'd do anything he asked.

‘I have to come back,' he says. His voice catches and he clears his throat. ‘I can't lose the season. It's my last shot.'

I nod. ‘You'll be back for the big one. I know it.'

‘Not at full forward.' His voice barely above a whisper.

‘No, probably not,' I say before I can stop myself. Brendan O'Reilly has done well in Mick's absence – just like Lisa said he would – but that's not what Mick needs to hear right now. Sometimes I wish my football brain would shut up and let the other Shelley – the one here, standing before Mick Edwards, wishing she could heal ruined knees and soothe broken hearts – take over.

But all I've got – all we both have – is this Shelley. The stupid, naive, blushing one.

Mick's hand clenches and unclenches the blanket across his legs. He turns away to stare at the wall. I reach out to touch his hand. To hold it, like Mum used to when I was trying to be strong, back when the only thing I had to cry about was Gabriella Johnston not talking to me in Year 2, or the sting of gravel rash on my palms from my latest bike stack. I curl my fingers under his hand, feeling their warmth spread through me like something alive. I have no idea what to say. I want to tell him it's not all about full forward. That all he needs to do is get back into the side in time for the grand final, and that he can do that – that he
will
do that. As long as we win, he'll be okay. None of this will matter then. I want to say all this to ease his mind, but after an impossible silence his whole face shifts and the moment has passed.

He forces a grim smile and shakes it off – my hand, the moment. He'd looked like he was about to say something more, but whatever it was doesn't come out. ‘Thanks for coming,' he says instead. Polite again, and distant.

I can't help feeling like I've just lost something, though I have no idea what. I don't answer or even nod. It's too late. The tears squeeze out of my eyes, and I grab my bag and run out of his room. I know he'll think I'm immature and pathetic, but I can't watch this special thing fall apart too. I can't see properly as I run towards the tram, blinded by tears and humiliation. I just know that I need to get back to that place where he trusts me and needs me.

The place that feels like home.