You Don't Even Know

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Special Thanks To

copyright

Dedication

Also by Sue Lawson

Alex Hudson is a good guy.
He plays water polo.
He has a part-time job.
He's doing okay at school.
Then the thing that anchors Alex
is ripped away and his life seems pointless.
How can he make anyone else
understand how he feels, when
he doesn't even know?

“A torn jacket is soon mended,
but hard words bruise the heart of a child.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A low keening noise ices my skin and fills the room
.

I slip out the door, down the corridor and into the faded afternoon
.

As I stumble past the man in a wheelchair sucking on a cigarette and the two guys in green scrubs laughing, I grind to a halt
.

Around me people bustle to the tram stop, weave between cars to cross the road and send text messages as they walk back the way I've come
.

My life has shattered into a thousand shards of glass, yet nothing out here has changed
.

I want to scream and yell and kick and punch
.

But I don't
.

Instead, I sprint up the road, away from the pain about to swallow me whole, towards home
.

Because maybe, if I go home, Mia will be there, chattering and giggling and sucking her thumb
.

A group of bright-eyed interns, wearing lanyards around their necks and clutching folders, glide into the four bed ward, and cluster in the space between the beds nearest the windows. The interns shuffle aside to create a path for the surgeon, who flips his identity tag so his photo and title are visible.
Mr Michael Dobson, Deputy Head, Neurosurgery, Prince William Hospital
.

Mr Dobson surveys the patients lying in the beds, their heads swathed in bandages. Both bodies are pierced by needles and attached by drips and tubes to machines that pump intravenous fluids and measure blood pressure and blood oxygen levels.

“Jeremy, fill us in,” says Dobson to the intern closest to him.

The intern consults his folder. “Both patients had brain surgery last night, so the next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

“Excuse me,” says a girl, frowning. “I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr Dobson, but do you think this is wise?” She shifts her folder from her right hand to the left and glances at the other students around her. “I mean, honestly, should these two be sharing a room?”

“Are you questioning my judgement, Eloise?” The girl wilts under Mr Dobson's glare. “Continue, Jeremy.”

Everything is black and quiet, yet not silent. Sounds are muffled, as though my ears are filled with cotton-wool. Footsteps and the squeak of wheels on vinyl draw nearer.

I can feel the weight of a blanket or maybe a sheet on my skin.

I'm cool, no, cold.

A wave of panic swamps me.

I'm dead – but not in heaven, because, if heaven even existed, Mia would be here, cradling Rabbit and sucking her thumb.

But there's no Mia, so if I am dead, I'm in a morgue, surrounded by other bodies. Or maybe some place far worse.

Settle down, Alex
. The voice in my head is strong and calm.
Listen. Just listen
.

The fog filling my head lifts, allowing the rustle of material and voices to reach me.

Dead people can't hear. You aren't dead
, continues the voice.

I hear machines beep and a throat being cleared.

Open your eyes, Alex
.

That simple task takes a huge effort. A woman, wearing a spotted shirt, swims in and out of focus. She's writing in a blue folder.

I try to speak, but my tongue, my whole mouth, is sandpaper.

The nurse looks up. “Hello, sunshine.” She closes the folder and disappears from my view.

My eyelids are too heavy. They slam down.

When I force them open again, the woman is beside me, pressing something into my ear. I concentrate on the identity tag around her neck, willing the fuzzy letters into focus. Beneath a photo of her – hair tied back, expression bland – is her name.
Jenny Dickson
.

The machine beeps and she moves it from my ear and rubs my arm. “You're cold …”

“Cold or not, finish your dinner,” snapped Dad, glaring across the dining room table at Harvey, my younger brother.

Ah, Thursday night dinner at the Hudson house. So. Much. Fun.

At the start of the year, Mum insisted we share a meal once a week, like a family, no matter what. Mum, Dad, Ethan, me, Harvey and Mia eating dinner and talking was not my idea of togetherness, but then again, Mum, Dad, Ethan, me, Harvey and Mia were not my idea of a family.

My older brother Ethan rattled off a thousand reasons why he couldn't commit to any night Mum suggested. Footy or cricket training, depending on the season, study, extra classes for VCE, his work at Dad's office, even helping out with school stuff because he was a prefect, and the most important of all – rowing practice.

I'd expected Dad to back him up, as usual, but Dad sided with Mum. “Enough, Ethan. Thursday night is family night. No excuses.”

As if being forced to eat together one night a week wasn't bad enough, Dad, Ethan and Harvey had rowing practice every Thursday after school. That made dinner a feat of endurance. Though strictly speaking, only Ethan and Harvey had training. Dad just hung around helping head coach, Wortho, who was also Dad's best mate.

“Harvey, to build up those arms, you need to eat a proper meal.” Dad scooped risotto onto his fork. “When Ethan was your age, he was pumping iron three times a week.”

Harvey nodded, face serious.

I wondered if I should share the stuff Scotty, our PE teacher, had covered in class that day. Apparently lifting weights before puberty, unless supervised by a professional, is seriously bad for growing kids. Despite what Dad thought, he wasn't an exercise expert; in fact his only expertise was running a family wrecking business. And a being prick.

Instead of pointing out the danger to Harvey's health, I swallowed the facts with a mouthful of water.

“We'll sign you up at Wortho's gym tomorrow,” said Dad.

“He's eleven,” I muttered into my glass.

“What did you say?” Dad's eyes reminded me of wolves on nature documentaries – the ones that stare at the camera with the “you're dinner” expression. Dad's eyes were like that – especially when he looked at me.

“Nothing. Just drinking.” I lifted my glass.

Dad's eyes narrowed. “Powerful legs too, Harvey. Being a gun rower takes hard work and discipline.”

Hard work and discipline. The two things Dad kept reminding me I lacked.

“Dad's right, Harv. If you work hard now,” said Ethan with a superior smirk, “you'll make the school's rowing squad, like me.”

Now there was something to aspire to. Being a nob who strutted around the riverbank in shorts that showed off his knob. Except in Ethan's case, there wasn't much to show off. I sniggered.

“What's your problem?” spat Ethan.

I pulled my best innocent expression. “Who me? Nothing. I was thinking about something that happened at water polo.”

Maybe tonight they'd ask me about my sport.

“We'll work on it, Harvey. Together. Course, Jake isn't half the coach Wortho is …”

Maybe if I stripped naked and smeared myself with risotto, he'd change the topic.

To block out the rowing talk I pulled a face at my little sister, Mia, who sat across the table from me. She giggled. I scrunched up my nose and poked out my tongue. Mia mirrored my face. A grain of rice clung to the corner of her mouth.

Mum, who sat at the opposite end of the table from Dad but between Mia and me, reached across and brushed the rice from Mia's face.

“Stop it, Alex,” Mum whispered.

Dad's voice boomed around the room. “Huge honour being picked to represent your school, Harvey. Huge.” He stabbed the air with his fork. “No greater honour.”

No greater honour. Really?

When I'd found out two days ago, I'd decided to keep it to myself, but all that rowing talk forced it out. “Guess what? I made the team for the state water polo championships.”

Dad continued raving and pointing. “When I rowed for St James, we won Head of the River. Maybe you two can do the same.”

“How about that, Dylan?” said Mum.

Silence dropped over the table.

Wolf eyes glared – not only Dad's, but Ethan's too.

Harvey took the distraction as the perfect time to hide a mound of risotto in his serviette.

“How about what?” asked Dad.

“I've been picked for the state championship team.”

Mia clapped. “Hooray for Alex.”

“Cool,” said Harvey, grinning.

Dad sipped his wine. “Water polo?”

I wanted to say, no ballet, what do you reckon, but I didn't. “Yep. Benny announced it to the team this week.”

“Benny?” asked Dad.

I'd told him a thousand times about Benny – Derek Benson. Benny was an Olympic medallist and one of water polo's national selectors. But seeing as it was only water polo, none of that rated on Dad's radar. “Benny's my water polo coach.”

Dad nodded. “Right.”

“Not much of a talent pool though, is there?” said Ethan. “I mean, how many losers play water polo?”

I'd expected him to be at his sarcastic best, but his words still stung. “There were heaps at tryouts.”

“Yeah, but it's not like rowing for St James.” Dad stared, daring me to argue.

“Good point.” I screwed up my serviette and dropped it on the table. “State championships are nothing like rowing for a school team. Good old St James. All hail the rowers.” I picked up my plate. “Okay if I'm excused? I have homework.”