Nothing Matters (Family Matters Book 1) (15 page)

I never confronted Dane about going to see Magdala.  It was like I couldn't be bothered, knowing nothing good would come of it.  It was bad enough that Tom and I had been in a funk.  I'd hated it, and knew I had to get over myself.  We had never fallen out with each other and if things weren't bad enough in my life, I hardly needed another drama.  I always tried to go back to Mom's words, about Magdala being in more pain than me, because, really that's what it came down to.   I'd guessed Tom's mother had phoned my Mom, because Mom started paying me more attention and Dad was sent to give me a talk.  I was out in the garage lifting weights when he came out one evening, a surprise to see him leave the comfort of his armchair.

He had pretended to be checking my technique while I was doing a dumbbell chest press, and he'd complimented me and remarked I was lifting good weight.  Then he'd said, "Is everything all right Nate?" And I'd immediately clicked, because it's not Dad's style to ask those questions.

"I'm fine," I answered.

"School's okay?"

"It's fucking fine," I said, annoyed, but knowing Dad didn't care about me swearing.  I didn't like him invading my space, I liked privacy when working out.

"Nate, your mother's worried about you," he said, as if he was relieved to reveal it, as if he didn't have to tread lightly.

"Dad, I'm fine," I said harshly, hoping to get rid of him.

"Your mother's been talking to Molly..."

I cut him off.  "Look I just got pissed with Tom and Dane.  They went to see Magdala and didn't fucking tell me.”

"But you've sorted it?"  Again relief in his voice.  "And you're okay?"  It's as if he was verifying what he would be able to report back to Mom. 

"Everything about my fucking life sucks," I said, almost with a laugh, "but I'm okay."  And I added, "So don't worry.”

"Okay," he said, and he grinned, "I'll hand my report in to your mother."  He turned to leave, but then stopped, "Nate, just hang in there son, things will get better."  And he gave me a light slap on the back.  It was as much affection as he'd ever give; Dad was not a demonstrative man. 

I don't know why, but I end up being the first to get the tattoo done.  I get mine high on my arm, so it's not visible when wearing a t-shirt.  I'm not sure what my parents will say which is why I get it done and then tell them about it.  Mum blows her top, telling me it's limiting my job opportunities, Dad has no opinion.  But the revelation to me is the pain.  The pain is real, but tolerable because I know it's going to end.  But again, like weights, it feels like a penance for what happened to Magdala.  I decide I want a reminder of Magdala on my body, and I get the date we met tattooed on my shoulder, but in Roman numerals.  Then a heart on my chest, with the initial M inside it.  Nobody sees these.  But the addiction increases, and as my budget allows I keep adding, each mark connects me to her in some way.  A tribal like pattern which looks like waves, because she loves surfing, a seahorse, because she loves the sea and horses.  The letters of her name scattered across my back in Old English script, which nobody would ever know about, but I know is there.  And each one comes with pain to remind me what I had, what I lost and what she's going through.

I happen to come out of the shower shirtless one evening and Michelle sees me, makes a face and says, "When did you get all those tattoos?"  Then yells running to Mom, "Nate's got heaps of tattoos!" At this point I quickly put a shirt on.  But Michelle has dragged Mom to my room and is now trying to lift my shirt.

"Fucking leave it," I snap at her. "Mom knows I've got a tattoo."

"I know you've got one" Mom says, "I don't know anything about heaps."

"I saw them," Michelle whines and I feel like slapping her.

"What have you done?" Mom asks frustratedly.

I'm thinking if I just show her the seahorse that should satisfy her.  "It's just one here," I say, exposing my collarbone, but not low enough to show the heart.  Mom peers at it.

"He's got some on his back too," Michelle accuses and now I feel like punching her.

"It's my fucking body," I say annoyed, but Mom is lifting my shirt and sees the waves, also a horse, which was Magdala's favorite one, Sierra, at her Grandad's ranch.  I squirm away from her.

"What's the horse for?" Mom asks, frowning.

"It symbolizes peace and purity."  The words tumble out with a fake authority, I can't tell if she believes it.

"I don't know why you want to mutilate your body," Mom says.

"It's hardly mutilation," I scoff. 

"It's a waste of money," Mom says, and as usual with her, everything comes down to dollars and cents.

"Well it's my money I'm wasting," I tell her, "so don't worry about it."  I know I don't regret a single one, and if anything, there will be more.  Magdala's chosen to deal with things in her own way, without me.  This is my way of dealing with things, my fucked up way.

MAGDALA

Something strange was going on with Cassian and Jakey.  Raff phoned to say they were having a fight, like wrestling each other, and not in a playful way either.  He said Cash was swearing and they looked like they wanted to kill each other.  I thought Raff was probably embellishing that a bit; Cash hardly ever swore and Jakey liked to act tough, but he was usually all talk and no action.

For some reason I feared I was involved.  Ever since
It
happened, both boys had been weird, and I didn't want to be the reason for their fighting.  Raff said he didn't think it had anything to do with me, he told me to stop feeling guilty.  But Cash and Jakey were my two most favorite people in the world, and as if my life didn't suck enough, I didn't want them falling out.

Dad and Aunt Kate made them reconcile immediately.  Jakey was ordered to our place, Dad shut them in the living room and they were told to sort it out.  Thankfully they came out smiling, arms around each other's shoulders and proclaimed everything was all right in the world.  But there was something about Cash that I couldn't pinpoint, a change, an anxiety  that I couldn't quite figure.

Jakey took me out surfing one morning, just to Bay Street, the waves weren't the greatest, and he ended up going for a run along the beach while I surfed.  Afterwards he collapsed on the sand, sweat running down him, as if he'd broken some sort of record.

"Fucking hell," he said, panting, but smiling.  "I'm stuffed!"  He lay there for awhile, recovering.

"Hey," I said.  "Should we do something this Sunday?"  I'd already been thinking about it, but I wanted to see if Jakey thought it was a good idea. 

"Like what?"

"What if we went to lunch at Cassian's restaurant?"  For some reason I wanted to see him at work.  Jakey sat up.

"That's a great idea!"  He was more enthusiastic than I expected.  He said he'd make a booking, and we agreed we wouldn't tell Cash and surprise him. 

Well, we sure did surprise him.  His face dropped when he saw me, Jakey and Raff, and he came over, his face in a scowl, as if we were cramping his style.  But he soon lightened up, introduced us to his manager, who offered us a free meal seeing we were family.  I thought that was highly unusual, but Jakey refused her generosity, he said it would be his treat.  Which meant Connor was really paying.

Cash surprised me.  He looked and acted so professional.  He was wearing a white shirt, black pants and a vest, which had the restaurant's logo on it.  He carried a pad and took orders, he carried trays of drinks and sometimes three plates at a time.  My heart swelled with pride, and in a way I was envious of what he was doing.  He was communicating with all these people, who admittedly were well off, upmarket Beverly types, and it's almost like he was flirting with the customers, making them laugh, making the women swoon.  But Cash is like that, he has a power over people, one he doesn't even recognize. 

"No wonder he's making good tips," Jakey said, looking at the table of ladies he was serving.  They were all looking across at us too, and it appeared that Cash was pointing us out.  We all smiled.

"There's plenty of money at that table," Raff commented, "and plenty of Botox too."

We all laughed.  Cash glanced over, now looking annoyed with us.  We laughed even more.  We had a delicious lunch and later that afternoon we went to Grandad's house for his birthday dinner.

Cash came to my room to say goodnight, and I said, "You're not mad at me are you?  For gate crashing your restaurant?"

"You took me unaware," he grinned, "but I'm glad you came."

"You look so handsome as a waiter," I teased, "and your manager was so nice, giving us our drinks."

"Mmmm," he said, "that was good of her.  There was one table that didn't tip so great though."

I picked up my pillow and hit him, laughing.  "You did all right out of us," I retorted.

"Nothing compared to what my regulars tip," he announced, and I hit him again.  He laughed and gave me a hug and I went to sleep smiling, knowing it was the best day I'd had for a long time.

I read a story someone had shared on Facebook.  About a ten year old girl who was standing outside a 7-11, sucking on a lollipop, waiting for her friend to come out.  A drunk driver plowed into her with his car, killing her instantly.  A photo showed a girl with shoulder length blonde hair, freckles on her nose and a big smile.  One minute alive, the next second dead.  For some reason I couldn't stop looking at her picture, the little girl called Rose.  I found the story in the newspaper, it took up only a small square, the headline reading, Girl hit at 7-11.  Her life summed up in a square inch box.  I browsed through the online news, there was a story about a mudslide in the Philippines, over two hundred people missing, presumed dead; an earthquake in Nepal, a thousand dead; another shooting at a mall, four random people killed.  Something resonated inside me, deep inside.  I was alive, I was here, living.  I may have been raped, may have been stabbed, but I didn't die.  Rose had been sucking a lollipop, she's now dead.  The people who got washed away in the mud, the ones squashed under buildings in the earthquake, all gone.  I was alive.  I survived.  Injured, traumatized, broken - sure.  But all temporary conditions, right?  I could fight back couldn't I? I could, I would survive.  I didn't have to be  defined by this, did I?  I had to stop my slide into the pits of hell.  He'd put me there, but I had no right to keep myself there.  It was up to me, right, up to me to claw myself up.  Rose didn't have that chance, didn't have that opportunity.  But I did.  A voice inside of me was telling me to fight.  I had so admired Cassian at work, the way he so effortlessly worked with people, and I knew I wanted to be like him.  I wanted to pick myself up and enjoy life again.  I didn't want to be drowned in self pity anymore.  I didn't like this life, this life that made me want to be a prisoner, scared of going out the front door alone, this life where I wasn't participating.  And like a revelation, although there were no heavenly choirs or bells attached, I decided that I no longer wanted to be The Girl who was Raped.

* * *

Part 2

FLYNN

I'm at the hospital waiting for Mom to finish work.  She says she has one more patient to see, so I'm just sitting on the patient bed in her consultation room, trying to talk her into giving me some money for some new headphones.  She tells me to save my own money, asks how necessary they are, haven't I actually already got headphones?  She's missing the point.  The door opens and Sandy the nurse pokes her head in.

"Magdala's here," she says to my Mom, and she pushes the door wide open, seeing that it's only me in there.

Mom looks to me and says, "I won't be too long."  I jump down off the bed.  A girl follows Sandy in.  For a moment I'm frozen, unable to move.  The girl stops.  We seem to be staring at each other, our eyes have connected.  I quickly fiddle with the jacket I'm carrying, covering it over my right arm.

"Hi Magdala," my Mom is saying and nodding towards me, "this is my son, Flynn."

I think I nod, I think she smiles and I kind of sideways walk out of the room, but now my eyes have averted to the floor, my face feels hot, like its on fire.  Sandy follows me out, I hear the door shut.  I walk down the corridor to the waiting room and sit down.  I can't explain the feeling that's come over me.  It's something new, an experience like no other.  I don't know what it is.

She's a girl, right?  Blonde hair, well not totally blonde, honey blonde maybe.  But what do I know about hair color?  Green eyes, tanned skin, a beach babe I'm thinking.  Tall, thin.  Wow!  Why have I broken into a sweat?  I wipe my brow, flick my hair out of my eyes, sit down and try to breathe normally.  I take my phone out of my pocket, but just stare at it.  Why is she seeing my Mom?  My Mom is a pediatrician, is this girl sick?  She didn't look sick.  Has she got cancer, a disease? There has got to be something wrong with her, otherwise why would she be at the hospital.  My mind is coming up with a list of possible reasons that she might be here.  Leukemia, bone cancer, car accident, AIDS, Ebola.  Now I'm just thinking crazy thoughts.  I start looking at my phone.

There are footsteps approaching, and then she's there, standing in the doorway, Sandy saying, "I'll come get you shortly." 

"Thanks," she says.  Her voice is soft.  She sees me.  Her smile comes slowly.  "Hi," she says.  I'm the only one in the room, yes, you dumbass, she's talking to you.

I hesitate, swallow, and then say "Hi."  It comes out sounding weak.  I shift my jacket, making sure it's covering my right arm.  For some reason I don't want her to see.  That I don't have a right hand, that my arm ends in a stump.  The jacket is secure.  My left hand is just holding my phone, but  I'm no longer looking at it.

"You're Dr Surridge's son?" she asks.  She goes to the water cooler, pulls off a paper cup and pours herself some water.  She then sits on the opposite side of the room to me.  She's wearing dark skinny pants with blingy type sandals, a plain loose white t-shirt with a print on the front.  I don't try to read the words, it might look like I'm staring at her chest.  Her hair hangs down past her shoulders, but it's pushed to one side, covering her neck.  She is pretty, like stunning.

"Yeah," I say, and clear my throat again.  My cheeks are burning again.  Why is that happening?  She smiles.  Maybe she can't see the color in my cheeks from over there, maybe she thinks I've been in the sun too long.  I flick my hair out of my face, a bad habit I have, from having such a long fringe.  She asks me where I go to school.  I tell her, and when she doesn't volunteer her own school I ask, "What about you?"  A full sentence at last.  She says she's going to start there in the fall, saying she's going to be moving here.

"Oh where did you come from?"  This is good, two sentences spoken now. 

"Just from Beverly Hills," she laughs, and the sound is heavenly.  "It's not a very big move."  I smile, I can't help it.  She has me.  I think I'm in love.  I hope she's not dying of cancer.  What a pathetic thing to think about.  She asks me what the school is like, what year I'm in.  I'm back to my one word answers, wishing I sounded more intelligent.  She tells me she just started working at the surf shop in the mall, I'm thinking I'll  check it out.  Sandy reappears at the door.

"Magdala honey, we're ready for you," she says.  She rises, throws her cup into the bin and gives me a smile as she leaves.  I'm mute, unable to even say goodbye, see you, later.  What a dud.  "Flynn, your Mom is ready now," Sandy adds, and I get up, ruing my missed opportunity, but knowing really that I'd never have a chance in hell with a girl like that.

On the car ride home, Mom's chatting about this and that.  I wait for the right time to bring up the girl.  "What's up with that girl you just saw?" I say, in what I think is a casual, just making small talk tone.  Mom glances across.  "She was saying she's starting at school this fall," I add, as if I need to justify the question.

"Did you chat to her?" Mom asks.

"Yeah, we were just talking," I say, as if that was normal for me, to talk to a beautiful girl.

When in fact I never talk to girls.  Never had a girlfriend, kissed one once back in sixth grade or something.  Girls aren't into cripples, handicapped, one hand guys, as a rule. 

"She's a lovely girl," Mom says, "but she's been through a rough time."  She'd turned her doctor voice on, which means I'm not privy to any private and confidential information.

"But she's not dying or anything, is she?" I ask.

Mom laughs.  "I assure you she's not dying."

Her name is Magdala, that I know.  I'm telling James about her, the beautiful blonde in the hospital.  He just laughs knowingly, gives me my five minutes of fantasizing, completely sure that nothing will ever come of it.  I guess that's why he's my best friend.  He lets me think I would have a chance, if only our paths would ever cross.

"Why don't we go check out the surf shop then?" he asks.

"Oh, no, I don't think so," I say, "that doesn't sound cool."

"You're so chickenshit Flynn," he laughs.  And of course I am.  I don't even try to deny it.  She wouldn't look at me in a million years anyway.  She probably has a boyfriend, of course she would have a boyfriend.  "We'll check it out on Saturday," James says, and I agree, but hoping he'll have forgotten about it by then.

MAGDALA

Everything felt a bit strange after my hospital appointment with Dr Surridge.  The visit had gone well.  She'd talked to me about whether I'd seen a counsellor.  I hadn't; would I reconsider?  I was non-committal.  She checked my scars, happy with her handiwork on my neck, and the surgeon's down below.  She sent me for blood tests.  No, what was strange is that I couldn't stop thinking about her son.  I wondered if he knew anything about me, wondered if he liked me, because blushing can indicate embarrassment as much as shyness or anxiety.  I'd never known a boy to go so red.  And I know I'd exploited it, been bold in the way I spoke to him, confident even.  But somehow it had felt good to feel brave, for too long I'd felt weak, meek, imprisoned.

So, a few days later when I am serving on the counter and I see him come into the store, my heart rate lifts.  He is with a friend, and I notice him looking around, perhaps looking for me?  I am busy with a customer, so I can't follow his movements.   And if he wants to talk to me he will have to buy something because I am the only one on the counter.

My last customer leaves, and I see him approaching the counter, a t-shirt in his arms.  Again, my heart starts beating faster.  Crazy. 

"Hi," he says, putting the shirt on the counter.

"Hi, how are you?" I reply automatically, but my smile is genuine.

"Good," he says.  I take the t-shirt off the hanger, take my time folding it, he is searching his wallet for his card or money, and that's when I notice his right hand.  Or his absence of one.  He is wearing a hoodie, but there is no hand where one would usually be.  I try not to stare.  He leans his wallet against the counter to pull out his card with his left hand. I've folded the shirt neatly, but realize I have forgotten to scan the barcode, so I hastily unfold it. 

"Ready," I say, indicating he should put his card in, thinking, Has he just stretched his sleeve down real long and is his hand up his sleeve.  It is a bizarre thing to be thinking about, I feel flustered.  Then realize I haven't tried to upsell him.

"Do you need any surfboard wax?" I say, even though the transaction has been completed.

"Uh, no."  He shakes his head, must think I'm mad.  His cheeks are pink again.

"Well this is the best stuff if you ever need any," I blabber, tapping on the jar.  I refold the

t-shirt and put it into a bag, pop it onto the top of the counter.  He puts his wallet into his pocket with his left hand, then uses his left hand to pick up the bag.  There I am, staring again.  I feel embarrassed by my behavior.  There are no customers behind him, so I quickly say, "How's your day been?"

"Just been working," he says, his eyes looking somewhere behind me.  I wonder if my supervisor is lurking.

"Oh, where do you work?" I ask, trying to keep the conversation going.

He says the name of a pharmacy, also in the mall.  "Oh, I might see you around then," I say, and he says, "Sure, maybe."  And I want to curl up and die, like how obviously desperate do I sound, and how turned off by me is he?  A rude, staring girl.

"See ya," he says and smiles and I give a pathetic wave as he leaves, then give a giant sigh of frustration.

Nick, my supervisor gives a snort behind me.  I turn and glare at him.

"You weren't half obvious," he laughs.  I frown.  "Don't worry," Nick continues, "he was hot for you."

"You think?" I say wistfully.  "I don't think he was interested."

"The kid was shaking," Nick laughs, "I thought he'd have a heart attack when you spoke to him."  I toss a coat hanger at him, and he manages to just catch it.  "I'm telling you, that kid will have twenty new shirts by the end of the week," he laughs.  And Nick sends me off to tidy the racks.

But I can't stop thinking about him, wondering how he only came to have one hand, wondering if he's had cancer, wondering if he's thinking about me at all.

The following week we get a chance to check out our new house in Santa Monica, get to have a look inside, see our bedrooms. Dad had said it was a good time to buy, the real estate market was favourable for buyers and it was about time they committed to owning their own house.

Antonia is measuring curtains and walls and taking photos of blank spaces, so Cash suggests we go down to the mall and get something to eat.  We are wandering around the food court, trying to decide what to eat.  Cash wants Turkish kebabs, I choose sushi.  He is about to follow me to the sushi place, but I tell him it's okay.  I feel I can do it myself.  He says he'll meet me at a table.  I'm holding my tray, scanning, trying to locate Cassian, when I see Flynn.  He's at a table with four other boys.  He's looking at me, like he must have seen me before I saw him.  He smiles, I smile back, my heart does this fluttery thing.  Several of the boys at his table turn and look at me.  I hear Cash's voice call my name and I go over towards the table, set my tray down.

"Who are you looking at?" Cassian asks, looking over in the direction of their table.

"That's Dr Surridge's son," I say.  "In the blue t-shirt."

"How do you know him?" he asks.

"I met him at the hospital the other week." Cash gives me a look of uncertainty.  "He's in my year," I say.

"They're all looking over here," Cash says.  I don't turn around, start eating my food.  "Is he interested in you?"

I shrug.  "How would I know?" I pretend to be clueless.  "You wanna try one of these?" I say, offering him a piece of sushi, trying to change the subject.  He shakes his head.

"Are you interested in him?" Cash asks.  I don't look up.  "Magdala?"  He knows I haven't denied it.  He has a look of concern on his face, like he wouldn't want me to be thinking about someone else, like it would be wrong to be even thinking about another boy.

"He's really shy," I say, and I'm about to tell him he only has one hand, but I don't.  Like it's not that important, like I know Cash would never describe someone that way, that it shouldn't be his defining feature. 

We talk a little about the house, and in awhile, Cash comments, "They're leaving."  I pretend not to care, but out of curiosity I turn around, but they've already moved on.  "He was looking over here," Cash says, finishing up his food, drinking up his bottle of water, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Cash indicates we should go, so I carry my drink, sipping as I go.  We walk along, just sauntering, glancing in store windows, but not looking at anything in particular.  Then Cash nudges me.  Flynn and his friend are standing outside a sports shop.  My heart rate accelerates.  Cash guides me over in that direction, even though we're now walking into pedestrian traffic.  I wonder what he's up to, I felt sure he disapproved.  Flynn's friend sees me first, then Flynn turns.  He flicks his hair and smiles.  He looks to Cassian, would he think he's my boyfriend I wonder.  Surely not.  Everyone says we look alike, there's no doubt we're siblings.

Cassian stops a few feet from them.  He's taller than both of them, like by half a head.  I notice that Flynn is quite skinny, compared to Cash, who these days is all muscle.