‘Didn’t Harris go to Melbourne with Rachel’s brother for a while?’
‘Yeah, Mike Watts and Harris are mates. I guess that’s how Harris got involved.’
Harris doesn’t exactly have a reputation as a hero. I try to imagine him swooping in. Can’t picture it. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t with the goons?’
Dad shrugs. ‘Look, I don’t actually have many details about it. Harris Derwent was one of the good guys, that’s all I know.’
‘Harris was helping the cops?’ That gives my eyebrows a workout. ‘No way.’
‘Yes way – but please don’t use that phrasing when you explain it to the hospital staff,’ Dad says with a grimace.
He gives me a quick sound-bite to repeat: Harris and a couple of other kids got caught in the crossfire of a police operation at the Five Mile quarry, but everyone’s okay, Melbourne police have the person responsible in custody, and Harris isn’t a suspect. That’s enough to shut everyone up, and it’s all I have the energy for after dealing with Mr Derwent since Sunday. Harris’s dad always seems to be lurking around, ready to take advantage of every moment his son is left alone. He’s rude, unpredictably short-tempered, and even though it’s none of my business, I don’t like him.
When his dadisn’taround, an outside call is patched through to Harris’s bedside phone. He talks to whoever it is for a long time. His voice works to sound upbeat, saying things like, ‘Nah, I’m good. Yep, it’s all sorted. Just a couple more days. I’ll tell your dad if there’s anything I need. No, no bullshit, I swear’. Then his tone softens as he says, ‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t feel bad. I’m just glad you’re all right…’ I hear this while I’m taking away his meal tray, on which a lot of food has been moved around but nothing much has been eaten.
On Tuesday, Michael Watts’s dad comes during visiting hours. I haven’t seen the family since I heard they moved to Melbourne. I’m cleaning up in the bathroom and catch the end of a stilted conversation where Mr Watts asks Harris if he’s doing all right, and does he need anything, and has he got a place to stay. Harris answersyes,no,sure, to everything.
I exit the bathroom with the rubbish, and see Terry Watts pressing a roll of fifties into Harris’s hand. Harris looks as if he’d rather take a pair of pliers to his own fingernails than accept the money, but he nods and holds onto it anyway. When Terry finally leaves, Harris turns on his side, like he’d curl up in a ball if only his leg wasn’t in the way.
I think he might be in some sort of delayed shock. Also the drugs we’re pumping into him can cause nausea. He kind of zones out for a while there, becomes unresponsive if I come in to serve meals or tidy up. I don’t push him, but I mention it to Barb.
I’ve resigned myself to being ignored while I’m changing the pillowcases. Which means it’s an absolute surprise when I go in later that afternoon and Harris speaks to me.
‘Thank you.’ His voice comes out raspy. I don’t know if that’s the drugs, or lack of voluntary use.
‘That’s okay.’ I think I’d better take it slow. ‘You all right?’
He doesn’t seem to know if he’s really got it in him to reply. He just shrugs. I nod – I don’t understand, but I get it.
‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help more with keeping visitors away.’ He knows who I mean byvisitors. ‘Usually the charge nurse bosses people around. She’s much better trained.’ I give him a little grin, testing the waters.
He shakes his head. ‘Not your fault. Sorry you have to deal with it.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ That’s the second time he’s covered for his dad’s behaviour, I notice. ‘I’m Amie, by the way. If you need anything.’
I replace the pillow and notice him trying to keep his eyes trained away from my boobs as I lean over him. Which means at least some of him is back online. When the patients start checking you out, you know they’re returning to normalcy.
‘I know you from someplace else, don’t I?’ he says suddenly.
‘Um, maybe from school?’ My final year of high school is still hanging off me like a loose thread. I’ve only been legally allowed to buy drinks at the pub for six months. ‘I went to Ouyen Secondary, too.’
Harris still looks mystified.
I explain further. ‘You went through the year above, with Simmo. And uh, Della and Jo and Chrissy.’ I keep my eyes averted when I say that. Harris’s rep with the girls is legendary, but he doesn’t need to know I’ve heard about it. ‘Or maybe you remember me from from West Mallee FNL?’ I slip the second pillow out from under the freshly-changed one, trying not to roll his head. ‘I played netball when you were playing footy. It was a few years ago…’
‘The sarge’s kid?’
I sigh, quietly enough that he won’t notice. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’
He squints up. ‘Was that the under-17s?’
‘Yeah. I only played for two seasons. You gave it away the year after I started. You used to play half forward with Michael Watts.’
He closes his eyes, and I wonder if his leg is hurting him. ‘Yeah, I played with Mike.’
I get a strong memory then of Harris taking a one-armed specky in the middle of some game…was it when they played Mildura South? I don’t remember the opposition. But I remember how Harris looked in that moment: muscled shoulders lifted and arms reaching high, sun-bleached hair whipping back, stretched to his full height. You couldn’t help but admire the scenery. I know a few of the netball chicks actually cried when he quit footy.
‘You were a gun.’ I clear my throat. Hopefully I’m not blushing. ‘Top notch. That’s why I remembered you. Wasn’t there talk of you being scouted?’
