Ballad for a Mad Girl Page 23

  I numbly accept the trade, and whisper goodbye to my mother.

  Cody and I choose seats opposite each other in the emergency department waiting room. We’re the only ones waiting. My brother is covered in mud and blood, from his hands and wrists to his jean-clad thighs, and his right foot is tap-tap-tapping on the linoleum floor. Harsh fluorescent lighting casts deep shadows under his eyes, turning his skin grey.

  An hour passes without us speaking. Three times, the triage nurse checks to make sure Cody’s not hurt. Twice, he says, ‘It’s not me. It’s not my blood.’ The last time he takes off his shirt, balls it up, and stuffs it in a rubbish bin. He sits there half-naked, shivering.

  I stare down at my own hands. They’re bloodless but steady, impossibly clean. I don’t have a drop of blood on me, though Cody, Kel Morgan and I carried Dad all the way to the house to meet the ambulance. Dad’s stricken expression is on loop in my head; I’m still feeling the scalpel edge of his shattered leg bone, still smelling the odour of sweet grass and leaking diesel, still wondering how we got through the last two hours and how we’ll get through the next—yet, somehow, my pulse is slow and even.

  ‘He’s gonna be okay,’ I say to break the silence. ‘I know it. This is how it’s meant to be.’

  Cody’s head jerks up. ‘And how do you know, Grace?’ His voice breaks at the end of his question. He clears his throat and tries again. ‘Are you a bloody clairvoyant now? Can you see through walls or something?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumble. ‘Something.’

  He gets up, arms folded across his bare chest, and starts pacing around the rows of plastic chairs. ‘Why aren’t they telling us anything? I’m so cold.’

  ‘You’re in shock.’

  ‘That’s not it.’ He shakes his head and completes another lap.

  ‘You’re not wearing a shirt.’

  He stops. His arms drop to his sides. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he says. ‘Maybe you’re the one in shock. You’re so calm, it’s scary.’

  I shrug.

  ‘You’re not scared?’ he says.

  I’m not sure if he’s angry or dumbfounded. ‘No. Not anymore. I think all of it was leading to this.’

  ‘This? You keep saying that. Why do you keep saying that?’ He pulls away. ‘My chest feels really tight.’ He massages it with one hand. ‘Lucky we’re in the emergency department.’ He sits back down.

  ‘Guilt,’ I say. ‘That’s what guilt feels like.’ He didn’t notice Dad wasn’t home—he’s thinking about what would have happened if he hadn’t taken the keys when I handed them to him. Dad would have bled out in a hayfield.

  Cody’s face goes slack. ‘Maybe.’

  I get up to ask the triage nurse for news and, when she has none, I ask her for a warm blanket. I tuck it around Cody and take the seat next to him.

  ‘I just need everything to be all right, otherwise this is all for nothing,’ I say again, and this time he doesn’t answer.

  Together, we watch the clock tick around and around. I slip into a state somewhere between waking and sleeping, dozing to a persistent hum coming from another room.

  *

  It’s after ten when the double doors swing open.

  We both launch to our feet. This could go one way or the other. I’m ready for both, but Cody—he’s shaking so hard the tendons in his neck look ready to let go, like the winch cable on Dad’s truck.

  ‘He’s doing well,’ the doctor says quickly. ‘He’s still heavily sedated. We’ve given him a transfusion and temporarily set the break, but he’ll need orthopaedic surgery to insert a rod and pins sometime in the next few days. You can see him now for a brief visit, but he won’t know you’re there until the morning, at least.’

  Cody’s mouth is moving; he’s asking questions.

  I’m trying to focus on what the doctor is saying, but the faraway sound is getting louder: snatches of conversations, music, laughter, crying, the spit and crackle of static, like when you spin the dial between the stations of an old radio. The walls are breathing in and out, and there are winged shadows at the corners of my vision. Colours are brighter; Cody’s smile is exquisite.

  I want to tell him: Don’t you get it? She’s everywhere. She’s beautiful, Cody. I wish you could see her, too.

  But I don’t speak. I smile. And just like that my big, brash, overgrown brother is crying into my collarbone—shivering, sighing, talking, all at once.

  I put my arms around him, and they’re stronger than I ever knew. I have the sensation of something bright and unbreakable settling into place at my core; at the same time, the final thread that holds me back—it snaps, like a rubber band letting go.

  With every book, the acknowledgements page is harder to write. It’s not that I need more space, just fresh words to thank the same fine people.

  As always, thank you to Penny Hueston and the team at Text Publishing.

  To my early readers (who also happen to be bighearted, gifted writers) Allayne, Bec, Paula, Kim, Simmone, Cath, Fiona and Emily—thank you.

  There is always a dog—on my lap, under my feet, scattering pages and barking at the moon. It has been Banjo for every story but this one (miss you, mate), and Bowie had a huge dog-shaped hole to fill. He did. Thanks, nutter.

  To my parents, family and friends, my love and gratitude for always being there.

  To Mia and Roan, my beautiful creatures, thanks for yanking me back to reality when I need it. (Not so hard, okay?)

  And to Russ, thank you. You’re a keeper.

  textpublishing.com.au

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  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © Vikki Wakefield 2017

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Cover design and illustration by Astred Hicks, Design Cherry

  Page design by Imogen Stubbs

  Typeset by J&M Typesetting

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Creator: Wakefield, Vikki, author

  Title: Ballad for a Mad Girl / by Vikki Wakefield

  ISBN: 9781925355291 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781925410327 (ebook)

  Target Audience: For young adults

  Subjects: Teenage girls—Fiction.

  Life change events—Fiction.

  Families—Fiction