Status: hiatus
Marrow
TWO
I don’t leave the house for another three days and two nights. At twilight on the third day, that same little melody drifts through my open window, and I am lured out on to the front verandah like a snake from a basket.
“What is this song?” I call out, to the cream linen shirt and mop of brown hair sitting on my brick fence.
The boy turns and studies me carefully. I can tell he is analysing every inch of me, from my bare, bony feet to my bandana, and the spare, stubborn strands of black hair which float in to my eyes that not even the chemo could kill. I note absently that I have still not removed the small circular IV band-aids, and the edges are now blurring in to my skin.
“I told you already,” he replies, in a voice high and sweet, “it’s called Breakin’ Up. It’s by The Ronettes. Do you even know The Ronettes?”
I remember sunny Sunday afternoons in my Great Aunt’s kitchen, the smell of butter and my tiny hands, coated in puppy fat. I move cautiously closer to him.
“Yes. I know The Ronettes.”
We end up sitting quietly on the fence and watching the sun go down over the vacant block across from my house, a sizeable space between us.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Jamie.”
“I’m Patrick.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You smell like old people.”
Jamie gestures vaguely at his clothing- the linen shirt, high waisted pants and suspenders. All of it too big for his tiny frame.
“These are my grandfather’s.”
I nod, because I think it’s a little strange he is wearing his grandfather’s clothing, especially when it smells like mothballs and dust and hospitals and baby powder, but I’m not going to say that to him. Suddenly his sharp eyes are on me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
The question is forthright and almost a little presumptuous, because what makes him think I want to talk about this? I purposely evade his question and start explaining that I’m sorry, but I’m a little bit socially awkward and I don’t ever mean to be rude, but he cuts me off and says
“You know what I’m talking about.”
I pick at the bricks beneath my knees, and the mortar crumbs off under the pressure of my fingers.
“I’m sick in my blood. Or, I was. I don’t know. They mixed up my insides and they did some other things, and my body doesn’t feel like my body anymore but they said it’s for the best.”
“Well, you look it.” He states, before jumping off the wall, carrying his tape deck, which is now playing Walking In The Rain.
“…thanks.”
He reaches up, and for a second I am certain he is going to cradle my heavy head in his palm, but then he reaches up and pulls out one of the stubborn strands from my temple.
“Better.”
And then he is gone.
“What is this song?” I call out, to the cream linen shirt and mop of brown hair sitting on my brick fence.
The boy turns and studies me carefully. I can tell he is analysing every inch of me, from my bare, bony feet to my bandana, and the spare, stubborn strands of black hair which float in to my eyes that not even the chemo could kill. I note absently that I have still not removed the small circular IV band-aids, and the edges are now blurring in to my skin.
“I told you already,” he replies, in a voice high and sweet, “it’s called Breakin’ Up. It’s by The Ronettes. Do you even know The Ronettes?”
I remember sunny Sunday afternoons in my Great Aunt’s kitchen, the smell of butter and my tiny hands, coated in puppy fat. I move cautiously closer to him.
“Yes. I know The Ronettes.”
We end up sitting quietly on the fence and watching the sun go down over the vacant block across from my house, a sizeable space between us.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Jamie.”
“I’m Patrick.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You smell like old people.”
Jamie gestures vaguely at his clothing- the linen shirt, high waisted pants and suspenders. All of it too big for his tiny frame.
“These are my grandfather’s.”
I nod, because I think it’s a little strange he is wearing his grandfather’s clothing, especially when it smells like mothballs and dust and hospitals and baby powder, but I’m not going to say that to him. Suddenly his sharp eyes are on me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
The question is forthright and almost a little presumptuous, because what makes him think I want to talk about this? I purposely evade his question and start explaining that I’m sorry, but I’m a little bit socially awkward and I don’t ever mean to be rude, but he cuts me off and says
“You know what I’m talking about.”
I pick at the bricks beneath my knees, and the mortar crumbs off under the pressure of my fingers.
“I’m sick in my blood. Or, I was. I don’t know. They mixed up my insides and they did some other things, and my body doesn’t feel like my body anymore but they said it’s for the best.”
“Well, you look it.” He states, before jumping off the wall, carrying his tape deck, which is now playing Walking In The Rain.
“…thanks.”
He reaches up, and for a second I am certain he is going to cradle my heavy head in his palm, but then he reaches up and pulls out one of the stubborn strands from my temple.
“Better.”
And then he is gone.