‘He has to stay off that leg for a while, and keep doing the wound-dressing we talked about –’
‘He’ll be right once he gets home.’ Dennis licks the edge of his rolling paper. ‘You’ll be right, won’t you, Harris?’
It doesn’t quite sound like a question. Harris is still looking out the window.
‘Yeah,’ he says, over his shoulder. ‘Yeah, I’ll be right.’
‘See?’ Dennis slips the cigarette into the corner of his mouth as he looks at Barb. ‘He said he’ll be right. He’ll be fine.’
I’m not really supposed to be party to this conversation. I’m just the clean-up lady, the silent unnoticed servant. I slip over to the trolley by the window on Harris’s near side and tidy the rubbish on the tray.
Barb talks on behind me. ‘Is that true, Harris? If I sign you out and give you some wound-dressing stuff, will you be okay at home?’ She gives the words a strange emphasis.
Harris turns his head to reply and sees me there, my fingers busy on the tray. When our eyes meet, it’s like they get stuck together. And while his expression is frozen in neutral, there’s a whole world of stuff in his green gaze that worries me. I don’t recognise everything in there, but I know it’s a far cry from the relief most patients feel when they check out and return home.
We share that moment of recognition. Then Harris swallows, blinks, and turns back to the window.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘All good.’
Barb makes a little sigh. ‘All rightie.’
I lift the tray and escape.
Harris goes home an hour later. I carry his duffel bag for him as he hobbles behind his father towards the sliding glass doors. Harris has to hunch his shoulders over the crutches. It makes him look smaller.
His dad opens the passenger door of a beat-up white Toyota ute and Harris clambers his way in. The afternoon light is fading, taking on a cool blue-grey tone from the shadow of the pergola above the ambulance bay. Harris takes his bag, props it on his right leg as I help wrangle his crutches into the cab.
‘Cheers.’ He only looks at me once, and it’s a quick glance.
He pulls the door shut, still not looking at me, as his dad starts the engine. I get that feeling, like the person I’m trying to engage with is uncomfortable because of something I said or did. It rankles me. I’m damned if know what I’ve done to make Harris Derwent feel uncomfortable.
Then I think about what I saw back in his room. What I saw in Harris’s face. And I realise something: that is a secret part of him. Something he never shows anybody.
A powerful urge wells up inside me to reach out and grab the door handle of the Toyota and yank it open again. But I don’t do that. Mainly because I have no idea what I would say after that point. ‘Get out of the car’? Or ‘Don’t go home with your dad’? And what would happen then?
I don’t know. I don’t know what else I can do, so I just stand silent on the pavement as Mr Derwent revs the engine. Harris sits in the passenger seat, his face turned forward. His profile doesn’t give anything away as the old ute eases out, drives off.
Barb moves to stand beside me. She scratches the back of her neck as she watches the ute turn onto Britt Street. ‘Hm. Not exactly what you’d call an ideal outcome.’
‘Why did he do that?’ I’m thinking of Harris’s expression. ‘Why did he even agree to go home?’
‘Who can say?’ Barb shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘Sweetie, I’ve worked at this hospital for seventeen years. Worked with your mum in theatre, worked A&E… Seventeen years is a long time. Some things just curl your hair. You don’t get used to them, and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.’
‘So you knew.’ I didn’t mean it to come out so accusing.
Barb doesn’t seem to take it personally. ‘Every time that boy came in to A&E, I wanted to punch his father in the face. I tried reporting it, and I wasn’t the only one. But Dennis always had Harris cleaned up and polite when Social Services came knocking. That kid…’
‘He’s not a kid now,’ I point out. ‘He’s nineteen.’
‘That’s right. And he’s old enough to make his own choice. He chose that.’
A mental image of Dennis Derwent, casually rolling a cigarette, clashes in my mind with an image of Harris, white-faced and sweaty when I prodded him to give me a number. I don’t know Harris, not really. I can’t hope to understand why he did this. But I have a sick feeling I know what it will mean for him.
‘Maybe he doesn’t think he’s got choices,’ I say.
Barb shakes her head as she turns away. ‘Lord only knows, Amie. Lord only knows.’
*
