Shortly
By
Margarete Schulz
Smashwords Edition
Copyright (c) 2011-2012 Margarete Schulz
This ebook is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living or deceased, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Knots
For Brigitte
She likes that old wardrobe, scuffed and battered as it is; doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with having a music box sitting on her dresser, rather than a stereo system. Her friends think it’s “strange and un-hip”. ‘Yeah, like, whatever,’ she says to them, but they don’t listen: as if they ever do. Their thoughts, their teenage preoccupations, are like wild animals, leaping hungrily over the scorching hot sands of a far-off desert. And she’s one of them, she reminds herself: a teenager. Still, she likes that old wardrobe, with all of its scuffs and chips; she likes the way the handles, worn from use, feel warm under her fingers. She likes that her wardrobe has seen life and its dramas; it’s a very grown-up wardrobe, not like those new fan-dangled things, with their chipboard and hard plastic coatings. Her wardrobe feels for her when she cries, feels happy when she’s happy; her wardrobe has seen it all before, has felt it all before: and understands. And somehow, her funny old music box is always her last resort at night, when she can’t sleep. Even with anxiety knotting her stomach up tight, that old music box always knows just the right tune to play, and play it does, perfect every time. Her music box has a magical power all of its own: it sends her right to sleep. So, even with her friends pulling sour faces at her – ‘Your room’s so not cool, Jude’ – she can always stick to her guns and say, a warm feeling of shared experiences rising in her chest: ‘Maybe not, but it gets the job done!’
Today, she’s off sick. ‘Takin’ a sickie, Jude, or just fakin’ it?’ Loni had asked that morning, when she’d borrowed her mum’s mobile and rang up to let her friends know the news: she wouldn’t be coming in to school today so about that shared assignment they had “we can talk about it later”. Her friends’d be ’round later, anyhow, to see how she was, or if she’d really just had one over her old woman and – lucky bastard! – had gotten away with it. Of course, they’d be at it again, having a go at her stuff: ‘Gosh, gee, Jude, what century are you living in?’ ‘Gosh, gee, Mona, the same one you’re living in. Unless you’re, like, a spirit medium or somethin’ and you can see through the ages...!’
She snickers. Yeah, that Mona is a hoot alright! But, strangely, no-one says one word about Mona’s eccentricities. No, she gets to say stuff like “bee’s knees” and “ant’s ankles” and “unbecoming unitards”: not a word. Mona must have some kind of charm, Jude always thinks. Another kind o’ charm altogether. But Mona is charming, with her small, pale face and pokey little chin, with her short, sharply-cut black hair. If Tink had ever had a human cousin, it would have been Mona Sampalucci, without a doubt. Mona is Jude’s second-best best friend.
Her first best friend, her best best friend, is Loni. Loni’s blonde, so, naturally, Mona’s exact opposite. Funny how that works. The two aren’t really all that different, in reality. Well, who is? People do so like to go on about how people from other countries are “not like us”, but they – those other-place people – still seek the same things everyone else does: food, shelter, warmth, companionship. Love. Loni’s an expert on love, or so she likes to say. She likes to say a lot of things, to be honest, so, chances are, some of it’s gotta be on the money, can’t all be off mark. Because, that girl, she sure can talk. She could talk your ear off, if you let her.
Jude never does. Loni would’ve been perfectly content to dominate conversation with the sound of her own sweet voice, but then, that would hardly have been conversation; then, it just would have been Loni talking. So Jude’s always the one interrupting Loni. ‘What a rude friend you are!’ Loni sometimes jokes. But it is just a joke. Jude likes to think so, anyway.
But enough of that, Jude thinks now. Her toes feel cold, under her blanket. It’s time to get up. Rise and shine, and all that. Her mum’s taking her to the doctor’s later. She didn’t say when exactly, but Jude wants to wear something halfway decent, anyway. She hates looking like a slob in front of other people: it makes her feel shitty. She supposes everyone’s a bit like that though, a bit self-conscious. Nothin’ really wrong with it then.
Her toes don’t fare any better on the floor than they had underneath her doona; the floor’s like ice. Jude’s asthmatic. When she was a kid, her parents had the carpet taken out to save them the trouble of the continual hassle with “Jude’s condition” and the continual vacuuming. Jude used to have a pair of slippers, but they got lost. She means to buy a new pair, or to get around to having a good look for the ones she’d lost, but, somehow, she always finds something else to do instead, like looking for a pair of slippers is sooo tedious. Yeah, funny that. The things you’ll suddenly find yourself not looking forward to, not really wanting to do, and finding an excuse - any excuse - not to do.
That’ll have to change some time, Jude supposes. Some time, she’ll just develop this magic ability to tell herself, ‘No, look, it’s got to be done so just you go and do it!’ Another part and parcel of the process of growing up, she decides. She’s still waiting, though, and she’s eighteen. How much longer is it gonna take? she wonders.
She’s made her way to the old wardrobe now, fingers clasping the handle that’s strangely cold today, pulling open the wardrobe door; eyes, searching for the right ensemble. Okay, what about that? Yeah, that’ll do. No. That’ll go better with the skirt, in actual fact. Cool.
She lays her outfit out on her bed, like they do in the movies – feels like raising a hand to her mouth and drawing her eyebrows together in a critical little frown: My, my, but will it do? Will it do? – and she’s off, to the bathroom, this time. Her teeth feel yucky, kinda furry. She hates that feeling. She’s got to brush then she’ll get some brekkie in her. Maybe her mum’ll even let her out for a morning run. It’s not her usual time of day for it, but it’s better late than never, she supposes. Got to keep up that fitness regime to keep fit.
Mona’s always moaning about what she calls the “inhumanity” of flabby guts – ‘Especially on guys! God save me, I can’t stand the sight of it!’ – and Jude supposes it’s rubbed off on her, too. But then, it’s not great being out of condition. The proof is everywhere. She doesn’t have to be a part of that proof to get it. Staying fit is easier than getting fit.
She takes longer than she thought to get breakfast down; her stomach’s feeling sorta resistant to food, at the moment, and she sits at the table, chewing slowly, hoping that the feeling will pass. It’s not dread, it can’t be dread, she’s not this baby that can’t stomach the thought of going to see the doctor anymore! No, it’s not that, she tells herself; it’s just this... thing, whatever’s wrong with her. The cold, or whatever. That’s why she’s having trouble eating. It’ll go away when she gets better. Thinking that makes her feel a bit better and she can actually finish her cereal.
Well, it’s certainly not the sight of her little brother, Orlando, making faces at her from across the table. He’s four, so he doesn’t yet know the torture of school, but he will soon. She doesn’t exactly relish over the thought, but what is there to be done about it? She’s tried to talk to him about stuff like that, discipline and all the rest, but then Mum comes along and tells her she’s going too heavy on him. Anyway, Mum’s sending him to kinder in a couple of months, so he’ll see what it’s all about when he starts there. The hierarchy, the grown-ups who’d much rather tell you what to do than listen to you ’cause little squirts don’t know chops; the meanies who throw sand in your eyes and stomp on your finger-painting masterpiece. Oh joy! What joy!
See what kind of a face you’ll be pulling then, Orls! she thinks. C-c-cry baby! Then she feels like slapping herself. What a meanie! But it’s just her stomach, she tells herself. It’s making her cranky, disagreeing with her when really she’s hungry. She wants to go on eating, to eat another bowl of cereal, or a couple of slices of toast, marge and honey, but it won’t let her, the control freak.
All of a sudden, she can’t wait ’til the afternoon, or whenever it is she’s gonna go to the doctor. She just wants to find out what’s wrong with her and get something for it. Not being able to eat properly is not cool! Not being able to eat properly is trying her patience!
She stands up, takes her bowl and spoon to the sink, dumps it down and runs some cold water over it, and heads for the kitchen door, stopping to ruffle Orlando’s hair – and get her hand pushed off his head – on her way out. ‘Mean boy,’ she teases. ‘Mean, mean boy.’
He pokes his tongue out at her. Typical kid. She’s smiling as she leaves the kitchen, toes still freezing.
The shower really takes it out of her. It’s never been like this before, that she can remember, and it makes her kind of mad. She can’t believe she’s being such a baby, her body’s being such a baby - she wants to go for a damn run, damn it! But her limbs are tired, sluggish, like a truck chugging its way uphill, and even her lungs are acting funny. It’s so hard to breathe, and it’s not her asthma, either, because she’d know. It’s as though her whole body is suddenly so, so tired.
She retires to bed, still dressed in her unflattering monkey-print jamies, and falls promptly asleep. She doesn’t crack open an eye until her mum’s hand is suddenly on her shoulder, shaking her awake, her mum complaining, ‘Get up, love, it’s half-past. We’ve got half an hour to get to the doctor’s and you know how the lunch hour traffic is. Come on!’
She doesn’t know where the time went, but it must have slipped through her hands when they were feeling so weak.
***
It’s crazy, at the clinic. First, finding a parking spot, then, finding a chair in the waiting area. All the magazines are yonks-ages old and it seems like there’s always someone coughing. It makes her uptight. If she’s not already sick, she knows she will be, by the end of this. It’s fairly bloody lousy, too, ’cause she doesn’t want Orlando coming down with something, too. He’s just a kid and stuff like that for kids can be bad, can affect their growth badly. No frickin’ way! she thinks, over and over, always hoping that the next name called will be hers.
But it isn’t.
Her mum’s gone out to take a call on her mobile and Jude feels uneasy: alone, but caged, strange eyes she knows nothing of on her, their mouths never asking her name, never stating their intentions, like an animal at the zoo, but worse; worse because there’s no habitat enclosure, no simulated environment, no frickin’ cage. She wants her mum back, just, like, to be there with her. Where is she, anyway? What’s takin’ her with the call? How long do people talk to each other on phones these days? Shee-yikes!
She feels sick again, badly sick, kinda like she’d felt that morning, but much worse. Please come back, Mum! Please! I don’t feel well, and I don’t like it here! You know I’ve never done well with places like this. Never!
Still, her mum takes ten minutes to come back. Says, ‘You’re looking pale, hon. How do you feel? You want me to get you something to drink?’
***
She’s not a suspicious person, but perhaps, had she been, it wouldn’t have surprised her as much when – even after the blood-sucking incident with the nurse – the doctor suggested she see about some more tests “just as a precaution”.
This is a week later and Jude’s not really up for listening to the doctor ramble at her instead of to her – like you would a real human being – but, no matter, her mum’s sitting beside her, nodding along. ‘What the bugger are you nodding for?’ she feels the urge to snap, but that’s catty in the extreme, and way, waaay out of orbit with the reality of the situation, just her teenage hormones acting up, so she discards the thought. She’s still discarding the thought when she’s being ferried out the door, her mum going on about how her CAT scan’s going to mess things up: it needs to be done, yes, no doubt about it, if the doctor says so, but it’s really going to wreak havoc with her plans.
Not a thought as to my plans, I see, Jude thinks, stepping over a lump of concrete designed to keep cars from getting too close to the fence in the parking lot. Nope. She hates being off school, hates what it makes her teachers think of her, the other kids, too, and she kinda likes being able to see her ratty friends five days a week. After all, it’s been a part of her “normality” now for years!
It makes her itchy, thinking about that CAT scan. Uck, what’s that all gonna be about? Will it hurt, feel kinda funny, what? Will she feel kinda like someone’s taking the piss, plain stupid? But the car’s worse. The car makes her feel full-on sick. It’s on the tip of her tongue to scream, ‘Somebody blimey wind the window down and let some friggin’ air in!’, but the air-con’s on and the city air’s not really the kind people write love poems about, especially the sort coming off the roads, with all of those ugly fumes. To make matters worse, typically, it looks like it’s rush hour. In the big smoke, it’s rush hour every hour, baby! She could write a song out of that, but she’s tired. Tired of all the tests, tired of Orlando’s stupid faces, tired of how grown-ups go on about kids learning the importance of keeping healthy, of balancing consumption with physical exercise, and then putting a truckload of kiddy shows on first thing in the morning of a weekend to get the kids out of bed and glued to the TV set instead of off their arses and out the door. Yeah, that stinks, in her opinion. She remembers being that young and sitting, totally absorbed as though the aliens had taken her brain and transplanted it into the thing itself, and the only way for her to feel anything, to know anything, to sense anything, was to stare at it, gape-mouthed, in front of the telly. She hates it now; hates the memory, the negligence there, the utter brainwashing.
She winds the window down anyway, cops a disgusted look from her mum and an, ‘Oh, Jude, don’t. You’re gonna make yourself ill sucking up all those fumes. Put it back up, go on.’
Love the concern, Mum! she thinks sarcastically, but winds the damn thing back up anyway.
***
Her music box hasn’t been working lately, and every time she touches the wardrobe doorhandles, they’re hard and cold like Christmas candy that nobody wants to eat, full on so much other stuff. She gets angry about that, and other things, too. Orlando, staring just that bit intently at the TV screen when an ad for some crummy video game comes on; her dad, getting home late from the office, though he’d had to work overtime and looks like crap, missing dinner with the family; Mona, going on and on about Derek, Derek, Derek. Who the heck is Derek anyway?!
She thinks maybe it’s just that it’s coming up to that time of the month, it’ll be time for her period, soon, but it doesn’t sit right. It’s more than that. She’s just never been good with certain types of stress, she tells herself. But it’s more than that, even.
She just doesn’t know what; how much more.
***
Tests. Always the tests. And then, words. Words like “brain tumour”, and then “inoperable”. She wants to add to that list: “my bonce” and “bollocks to you all”, possibly even “sick freaks”. She keeps her words locked down inside her. These aren’t good words, but then, neither are all of the others, but these are different, somehow: a different sort of not-good.
Knots. Knots, she thinks. There’s a knot in her head, in her brain, to be precise, somewhere up there; an unpickable, unravelable knot. What’s it gonna do, nobody knows. Have an idea, but don’t know for sure.
Morbidly, she thinks, A new friend. How très cute! But it isn’t cute. She worries she’s never going to get to see Orlando grown up, or taking his first steps into education, or kinder, or anything, really. He’s her b-b-brother. She’s not his mum, but she hates the thought that- Damn it! That she might have to leave him. He’s a shit but he’s her shit: her brother! She’ll miss him. He’ll probably even miss her, if he doesn’t forget her...
She’s playing the old music box, hoping to lull herself towards calmer thoughts, only eleven at night, but still so late, and she suddenly sits, grabs the music box, hurls it as hard as she can at the wall. It’s probably broken, after that, but she doesn’t go to look, doesn’t spare it a second glance, just jams her eyes shut tight and lies back down, tells herself, You bloody chicken, you’re just afraid you’re going to lie down tonight and never wake up in the morning! Get over it, freak! Have some frickin’ guts! That’s the best frickin’ way to go. You’d be so lucky!
***
‘You can’t just run away from this!’ her mother yells, a red spot coming up on her face, just under her right eye, like she’d done something to it, but no, she’s done nothing: well, nothing apart from allowing herself to get so worked up, allowing herself to feel deep, dark anger.
But Jude doesn’t care about her mum’s words, doesn’t care if she was just bagging her or her running – her one moment of me-time – or not, she just knows she’s not going to go along with her mum this time, with this “therapy”.