Peeling the Onion Read Online Free PDF

morning her bed is gone—and so is Mrs McPherson. I didn't even know her name till she died.
    Shouldn't I be just a little bit shocked . . . sad . . . something? It'd be cold enough not to feel anything, but what I feel is worse—a superstitious feeling, as if death really is a Grim Reaper, out hunting to fill his quota for the night. What I feel is relief that he found the right person.
    Plus a bit of frustration. Now I'll never find out about the woman with haunches like a working bullock.
    Mum's found someone to work in the nursery. A friend's son who's just quit uni after two years of business studies; said it wasn't what he wanted out of life and came home to sort out what was.
    Dad's not impressed. He wonders what had to be sorted out and why. And if Mum thinks that two years of business studies would actually make any difference to running a nursery, she'd better think again.
    'Luke's okay,' says Mum. 'He's keen to work, and he's interested in plants.'
    Dad snorts. 'You'd better check what kind.'
    Dad's been so cranky since I've been here! It's not like him—Mr Conservative Accountant, maybe, but usually pretty tolerant underneath.
    Valentine's Day. Hayden comes in after school and hands me a card. Not too mushy, just 'To my Valentine' with a picture of red roses—and inside, 'Love, Hayden.' Love. He stares out the window while I read it. He looks like a little boy when he's embarrassed. If I could reach I'd hug him.
    'Thanks,' I say instead. 'It's nice.'
    'When you get out of here . . when you're a bit better . . . do you want to go out?'
    That'd be great.' Now kiss me, go on! No; no such luck. But he mustn't think I'm completely hideous if he wants to go out.
    'There's a present too,' and out of his school bag—better than red roses—comes my trophy. A replacement, he explains; the Association has sent it up, via the club, via Hayden.
    'The one you had was smashed,' he says. 'That must be how you wrecked your thumb.'
    It stands proudly on my bedside table, gold among the flowers.
    'I'd hate to see the guy that lost,' says the tea man.
    I'm going home. In a wheelchair, with a neck brace, plaster, sling and occupational therapist Julie and only for a visit—but if I pass today, tomorrow I'll be home for good.
    February air is hotter than I'd remembered; in the air-conditioned hospital I cover myself with blankets to stop the shivering, and the nurses wear cardigans. A smell of dust and roses wafts across the carpark; the world is bright and large, as if I've taken sunglasses off. (Was I wearing my sunnies? It was a hot, clear day, a little after four . . . Guess I'll need new ones.)
    Julie drives slowly, with exaggerated care over the railway track and speed bumps, but I'm too excited to mind a bit more pain. A white car coming up on our left makes me hold my breath, but I'm not as nervous as I was afraid I might be. My dad's favourite saying: 'Nothing so frightening as fear itself.' But I'm okay. Six months and I'll be eighteen, with a licence and independence. One accident isn't going to change my life.
    Dad's waiting in the driveway, looking a bit anxious and tired. I'd never realised he had so much grey in his hair—the worries of looking after other people's money. It can't be about me, can it, this grey hair and crankiness?
    He helps the OT lift the wheelchair out.
    No, I say, let me walk.
    Dad looks doubtful; Julie says please, she's responsible for my safety—and the path, rock slabs overgrown with thyme, is rough and narrow. I have to give in—'But I won't use it inside!'
    Dad pushes me to the door, doing his best to avoid the bumps, yanking a piece of lavender out of the spokes and over the back fence as if it's to blame for everything from car accidents to world recession.
    The heavy scent fills the air. Julie breathes in deeply, gazing out over the rockery and knot garden, down to the wattles shielding the river on the far side of the fence, 'It's a beautiful place.' I