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Ailsa posted 7.33 a.m.:
Thank you to everyone who supported the Ballydoon Ladies Auxiliary bake sale. And to Dr Harry who helped us at the Shed for our fireys. All funds have been deposited into the Ballydoon fire brigade account.
I took the turn-off for Turner’s Creek Road in Ryan’s ute past the national park, watching a small hairy caterpillar make its way cross the dash.
This way was longer than via the highway, and it was gravel, but I wanted more time to think before I got home to Amanda and everyone else.
Sam had texted Ryan last night and I’d woken up to a message from him that he was too drunk to drive and had offered the ute to me to get home when I was ready.
Not that I felt ready at all. Thinking about the photo the newspaper had shared of my back, red, corrugated and blistered, brought back memories about the day my compression bandages had been removed in hospital.
Thinking about the bandages made me think about caterpillars and their cocoons.
I hadn’t thought about this memory in years. I used to read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ to Charlotte when she was very little. The day my bandages had come off, she’d askedcocoon?I’d just said yes.You butterfly?she’d asked, eyes wide.
I’d choked up, unable to answer her.
Later, I’d admitted to my counsellor my greatest fear was coming out of my metaphorical cocoon—therapy, the medical trials, everything—only to find I wasn’t a shiny, new thing like a butterfly. She’d told me we all have that power, but the hardest part was staying focussed and being tenacious, despite how hard it felt to transform. Change didn’t happen because we let it. We had to work at it. I’d left that counselling session wondering if I had the persistence to face the horror of losing my dad and my family being smashed apart.
And, more to the point, who did I want to be after the horror?
Taking off my dress in front of Harry last night had felt like I was finally shedding my cocoon.
And I’d failed.
A panic attack. Two years since the last one, and then, last night:boom!
I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Good lord, my family. What must they be thinking today about the photos and the fight? Most of all, what was Harry thinking?
Last night on Sam’s couch had been rough. She’d kept up a steady supply of tissues and ice-cream while I’d let out all of the ugly tears after I listened to Harry’s voice message.
I’d basically accused Harry of being like that condescending researcher and that dickhead of a medical student. I’d spiralled last night, and then the panic swept in with dizziness, sweat, hot flushes and nausea.
I must have been a part of his studies when he was a med student. Our ages and the date of the bushfire meant we had to have crossed paths at university. I didn’t even know why it even mattered if Harry didn’t remember from uni.
I’d hated being a guinea pig for the medical trials, even if the trials had been a chance to reconstruct my skin tissue. The physios and occupational therapists were great with my recovery, helping me to train my muscles again and get my strength back to get out in the field with the fire brigade and help with mustering and shearing. Maybe even race cars again.
But there were always more procedures with more follow-up visits so racing and the fire brigade were always on hold. Farm work was patchy at best. I never raced again. Until the night I met Harry.
My counsellor had been fantastic as a part of my recovery team. The woman I was today was due to her excellent help.
Yesterday had felt like I’d let myself down. Panic had won over everything I’d worked so hard to rebuild.
“You didn’t bloody fail,” I muttered, slapping the steering wheel.
Ugh. It was so hard not to think in terms of failure. The truth was having a panic attack two years since the last one simply justwas.
Trauma was sneaky. Lately, I was stressed, sleep-deprived and run-down: perfect conditions for anxiety and panic to take hold.
And yet, I kept thinking:you chickened out, you let panic win, you failed …
The ute’s radio crackled to life. “To all Ballydoon crew members. Bruce here. Just got a heads up from local police that there’s a missing person last seen by a visitor leaving the national park entrance at the western end of Turner’s Creek Road. It’s Liam Cain: male, late twenties, in jeans and a dark blue sweater. Liam is intellectually impaired and may be disoriented. He’s been missing for at least twenty minutes, maybe more. Get the word out. Wait, stand-by. Something else is coming through.”
The line went to static for several beats.
Holy shit, not Liam.
I glanced at my rear-view mirror. A thin trail of smoke wafted up from the bush. Dread pooled in my stomach.
