The Full Ridiculous. Mark Lamprell
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turns. A sea of girls parts, opening a path between Rosie and Eva. ‘Why don’t you go suck your black boyfriend’s cock, slut!’
Some of the girls snigger.
A crimson wave roars into Rosie’s head and she charges forward. Eva also charges forward and thrusts her textbooks into Rosie’s chest. Rosie lets fly with a great gob of spit which lands with spectacular accuracy in Eva’s open mouth. Eva emits a howl of horror and, spitting compulsively, grabs Rosie’s ear. Rosie slaps her hand across the side of Eva’s head. Eva crumples to the ground, screaming like her legs have been amputated without anaesthetic.
Rosie sees that Eva is already amplifying the extent of her injuries as part of a strategy to have Rosie nailed as the unprovoked perpetrator of this attack. Rosie no longer gives a flying fuck. She draws back her right foot, intent on shutting down Eva’s left kidney, just as Mrs Millington comes sailing round the corner in her signature tartan skirt, red cheeks blazing.
You wake up. Or not. Where are you? Banks of fluorescents swirl overhead. An institution. You are in some kind of institution. You’re ill, trapped in a night terror dream. Wake up! No, you are awake. Shapes. People? Wendy and that doctor, the Indian one, and other doctors. Fresh Face looks frightened. They’re staring at you.
You feel like you’ve died but the Indian doctor tells you that you passed out. You had a little fit and you passed out. It’s probably a reaction to having things put in your veins. Some people get it. Not to worry too much. They’ll keep an eye on you.
Wendy looks sick. She kisses your hand. You close your eyes.
Who’s shouting? Why does there have to be shouting? That Indian girl. Indira bloody Gandhi. She wants someone to open their eyes. You. She wants you to open your eyes. You don’t want to but you open them to shut her up. Bossy doctor. Questions. Blah blah questions and you answer blah blah. And you feel…
the feeling…
the feeling of…floating.
You are floating.
You are
You’re thirsty. Parched. Water. You open your eyes to find Wendy sitting next to you. She smiles. You try to say water but your lips stick together. You push your tongue through the sticky stuff on your lips and rub it back and forth. Your lips are sore. So sore.
‘Water?’ Wendy reaches for a plastic decanter and pours water into a vessel that smells of your childhood lunchbox. She holds it to your lips and you guzzle it like a man who’s spent forty days and forty nights in the desert. Some of it goes down the wrong way and you splutter and gurgle, which draws the attention of your Indian doctor. She says she likes your colour and you almost tell her you like hers.
Wendy and the doctor discuss your condition as if you’re not there. The doctor feels confident he’s going to be fine. It takes a moment to realise that he is you. You’re going to be fine. According to her. She even wants you to try walking.
‘So soon?’ asks Wendy, a little shocked.
‘With crutches,’ says the doctor.
You sit up and the world seems to drop away from you and you say, ‘Whoa.’ Wendy shoots a look at the doctor, who nods and smiles and beckons you forward. You launch yourself upright on one crutch then the other. You lurch forward, a single step on your good leg, and despite the painkillers you feel the horrible throb of your bad leg. Thrusting your awkward crutches before you, you stagger across the cold linoleum floor like a newly hatched stick insect.
‘Good,’ lies the doctor.
While you’re up she hands you a little plastic cylinder and asks for a urine sample but tells you not to lock the toilet door in case you pass out again. You manage to provide her with half a canister of liquid gold without pissing on your fingers, and gratefully make your way back to bed where you flop, exhausted.
You remember the kids again and ask Wendy what’s happening with them. She says she couldn’t get on to either of them but has left messages at their schools. You know Wendy wouldn’t lie to you but it seems odd that she didn’t get to speak to one of them at least. Oddly odd. Oddity. Oddingtonoplometry.
A huge horrible wave of pain wakes you but you feel—oddly—rested. How long have you been here? How many days have passed like this?
Wendy tells you the accident happened five hours ago. Five hours. How can that be? It seems like five months. You’ve lived through so much, survived so much. You’re the discombobulated robot on that old sci-fi show—this does not compute, this does not compute.
The doctor says you can go home and you feel like you’ve jumped from episode three to episode thirty-six. Wendy starts to protest but you stop her because you know if you go home you won’t die. People get better at home. People die in hospitals.
A silent orderly wheels you out to the car park but does not stay to help Wendy fold your errant left leg into the car. After three painful attempts, you shoo her off and lower yourself onto the passenger seat. You swing your right leg into the car then use it to lever yourself upwards towards the roof. Writhing maniacally, you manage to bump and drag your aching left leg inside before you collapse back into the seat. You sit there groaning in pain but nonetheless proud of your achievement. You pull the lever at the side of the seat to slide it further back. Unfortunately, it’s the wrong lever; the seat-back drops away and you plummet backwards, finding yourself staring at a roof again.
Wendy tries not to laugh. You are upset and angry but simultaneously aware of your responsibility not to take things too seriously given your miraculous escape from death. You lie there for a while, looking at the broken switch on the roof light before you say, ‘Well at least things can’t get much worse than this.’ You will often recall this statement in the year to come and reflect upon your cluelessness.
Wendy drives you home from hospital. You feel like you’re on drugs. Not the massive doses of painkillers that are coursing through your body but recreational drugs that turn the sky an impossibly vivid blue. Cars wind down the highway ahead of you like a glittering string of jewels. Wendy, driving next to you, smells beautiful, is beauty.
The world is so splendidly splendid you want to gather it in your arms and gobble it all up. You smile. Wendy smiles at your smile. You cannot begin to explain the deep peace you are experiencing so you just blink at her like a sleepy lizard, like a lizard-God. Godlike.
The car crunches into your gravel driveway and you wake. You look up at your little wooden house settled in its untamed garden and feel enormously grateful for the enoughness of your life: a partner you still want, children in good health with all their fingers and toes, two cars, three bedrooms, taps with running water.
You just turn on the tap and the water comes! And electricity! And appliances!
How many people get to live like this? You live in the top—what?—ten per cent? of the world’s privileged. How fucking lucky is that? How lucky are you!
Dizzy with gratitude, you almost topple backwards so Wendy takes your arm and leads you up the front steps. Egg leaps at you joyfully and you want to hug him but you poke him away from your bad leg with your crutches. The house feels cool and smells uniquely O’Dell—a barely discernible but distinct combination of wet dog, apple-scented washing powder, dirty socks and freshly cut grass.
You stagger down the hall and haul your enormous aching leg into bed. As Wendy fusses in distant rooms, you become aware of other areas of pain, a symphony of minor and major chords playing through your body. You are mega-alert, alive to every note and nuance, things terrible and splendid. And now you are aware of something. You are aware that something is coming.
You