‘I know. I saw them…’ She looks down, pressing her lips together, as if she’s trying to stop herself from crying.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. I just need to catch my breath.’ She makes a brief humourless laugh. ‘I’m not really used to this nursing thing yet. I have to get a bit tougher.’
‘Siddown.’ I nod my chin at the chair near my bed.
She shakes her head. ‘Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll be okay.’ She looks around suddenly, like she’s just realised where she is. ‘Damn, I should go.’
‘Relax, mate. Give yourself a minute. I’m sure there’s plenty of people out there who can hold the fort.’
Amie sighs, sinks her head back against the door. ‘God, I’m kind of crap at this, aren’t I?’
I frown and smile at the same time, ease back on the pillows. ‘What are you talking about? You’re a good nurse.’
Amie snorts.
‘You are,’ I say. ‘You handle my dad like a champ. And you were great with me this arvo.’
‘You don’t have to keep apologising for your dad, Harris. And the nursing…’ She straightens, rubs at her forehead. ‘I don’t know sometimes.’
‘You always wanted to do this kinda work?’ I don’t know why, but I feel the urge to keep her talking. Being high sometimes makes me chatty. Amie looks like she needs a chat, and I don’t mind the company.
She shrugs. Some of the colour is returning to her face. ‘I guess. My mum did it. I know the life.’
‘Not your dream job, though?’
She laughs softly, but it’s a proper laugh this time. ‘I’m a few decades too late for that. My dream job would be to work with Ansel Adams.’
I dunno who that is. I like seeing Amie laugh, though. Good-looking chick. Gotta admit, whenever she’s in the room it’s a struggle to keep my eyes off her rack.I look at her plait now instead, which is flopped over her shoulder. Her hair must be long when it’s loose – the plait is a thick rope. Her eyebrows are dark and her skin is an even light brown, like a really nice tan, and everyone knows the sarge’s wife was Indian, or Pakistani, or something like that.
She takes a step closer, tucking in her work shirt at the back. I catch her scent, which I remember from when she changed my sheets earlier – some sort of flower shampoo. ‘What wasyourdream job? When you were a kid?’
The question takes me by surprise. I have to think about it. ‘Um, I dunno. I think I wanted to be Matthew Richardson.’
‘The Richmond footy hero? Makes sense.’ She smiles, tilts her head. ‘You never said anything.’
‘What’s that?’
‘About having a senior sergeant for a father. You never said anything. Everyone makes stupid jokes about staying on the right side of the law…’
I shrug. ‘I’m not everyone.’
Well, of course I never made a joke. She didn’t think I noticed, but I saw her expression this afternoon when I made the connection between her and her dad. I know what that’s like: having everyone raise their eyebrows when they hear your name, cos of what your parent did.
‘Well…thanks. For not making a joke out of it.’ She bites her lip. ‘I’d really better go. You should sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She eases the door of the room open, pokes her head out, slips through. The door sighs as it closes behind her. I sigh, too.
Maybe Amie and me can cut a deal. I won’t make jokes about the cop thing, if she’ll stop asking about the footy thing. I haven’t played footy in three years. Thinking about it just makes me feel like crap. And I’m worried a genuine answer might pop out of my mouth if she keeps pushing.
Better not to talk about it. Better not to remember what it feels like to run hard on the freezing winter ground with a slippery ball in your hands, judging the kick. Having a whole team of mates calling for you to belt it their way. Leaping for a mark, with the sky so close that you…
Shit.
I’m not gonna explain it to her. How Dad was being smart about it. HowSaturday was match day, so bruises that appeared on Sunday could be explained away by the clashes at footy the day before.
That was where I collided with Simmo’s head.
