The leg.I put my hand on his shoulder to get his attention.
‘Harris, look at me. It’s not ‘the leg’. It’syourleg. D’you get that?Your leg.And if you don’t take proper care of it, you’ll lose it.’ I take my hand away. My eyes should be enough. ‘Do you want to come back for an amputation? Seriously?’
‘No.’
He looks sulky. I need him to get past that. ‘No? You sure? Because if you want a prosthetic, you’re going the right way about it.’
That seems to sink in. ‘I don’t want a prosthetic.’
‘Good choice. But if you want to keep your leg, then you need to clean it and dress it every day, like we agreed. You’ve gotta do it – no, look at me for a sec. You’re miles away, without proper care if you don’t visit the hospital in Mildura, and you’re walking around on a post-op injury that could easily take a turn. Find a place. In your car, at a truck stop, in a public toilet – wherever you can, all right?’
He nods, glancing away.
I wonder if he’s really getting this. If my voice is firm enough, serious enough. ‘I’ll give you antibiotics and extra supplies, okay? I’ll give you everything you need. Sterile wipes, bandages, tape, distilled water, whatever you –’
‘Pain stuff?’ He presses his lips together. ‘Can you give me more pills?’
‘Are you in pain?’
He nods again.
‘On a scale of one to ten? Gimme a number.’
‘Five.’
And I know straightaway he’s not lying. The wound is healing slowly; it still looks very tender. It’s at that level where you can cope if you keep really busy or preoccupied, but let your guard down and the constant hum of it gnaws at you. I wonder if that’s why he’s tired, if it’s keeping him up at night.
I start slow. ‘Harris, you’re supposed to get an assessment for pain meds. Barb’s supposed to have a look at you.’
But if Barb has a look at him, she’ll go the whole hog. She’ll probably want to admit him. Part of me thinks he needs to be admitted. He’s not keeping up with post-op care, he’s in a high-risk living situation, he’s underweight and probably at risk of infection…
‘I don’t want an assessment,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m close, Amie. A couple more weeks, I’ll have the info your dad needs. I can feel it. Fine, I’ll start looking after my leg, I’ll get on it.’
I’m still torn. ‘I can’t prescribe pain medication for you, Harris. All I can tell you is to get some extra codeine-based painkillers from the chemist. But if you look after your leg properly, it’ll get better faster. The pain will ease.’
‘Then that’ll have to do me. I guess I’ll have to pick up my game.’ He looks at the exposed wound on his leg. ‘I’ll…I’ll try to rest it every day. I dunno how I’ll do that, exactly, but I’ll try.’
‘Okay.’ His eyes are so honest when he looks back up that my stomach clenches. ‘I still have to dress this. Um, hang on –’
I cut myself off, start cleaning out the wound. My fingers fumble with the sterile wipes. Harris makes a faint hiss.
‘So I’ve given you all my info.’ He grimaces, looks at the ceiling. ‘What’ve you got for me?’
‘You mean from dad?’
‘Nah, not that. Just… anything.’
‘Anything, huh?’ He’s after a distraction. I can see it in his face.
‘How’s the photography going?’
I try not to startle. He remembered. ‘It’s going good. I took a couple of nice ones near the saltworks, and I bought a foldaway light deflector for bouncing natural light.’
‘You’re pretty into it, huh?’
I’m so into it, I got an opportunity to do it overseas but I’m too scared to open the information folder about it.Crap. There’s no way I’m saying that. How can dealing with a few papers be scarier than being a narc’s contact? But it is, somehow.
I focus on what I’m doing. ‘My first camera was an old one of Mum’s. Some of her shots were really good. She had a decent old SLR and she handed it on to me.’
