Old Magic(30)
‘You?’ Ian replies. ‘You’re our seventh son. Our lucky seventh.’
Jarrod
Dad’s revelation shocks me. This is the moment I start to believe in the curse. Actually it’s quite an enlightening moment in many ways. I have a clear picture of the struggle my parents endured in the years before I was born. The pain of it goes straight through my chest, like a dagger to my heart. How much pressure can one family take before it collapses? I feel a sudden swelling of pride for both of them. They’re strong. Stronger than I could ever be.
So now I have to look at things differently. The vision of my world has radically changed. My family is cursed. Whether I want to admit it or not, the evidence is there. What family these days has six births and six deaths and continues to try for more? It’s as if I had to be born – so the curse can live. Have my parents been manipulated by some force greater than life itself?
What am I thinking? Can I hear myself? Cursed, as in jinxed? Cursed, as in ancient sorcerers wielding magic from centuries past? I don’t believe in this stuff. It’s not possible. It’s pure fantasy! There has to be an explanation for everything. I live by this rule.
What is happening to me?
I try to pull myself together and put reason to this sudden madness. I’m just distraught, that’s all. I’m in shock from Casey’s accident. My little brother could yet die, or be brain-damaged for the rest of his life. On top of this I just found out I had other brothers – six of them, all dead before I was even born. I wonder where they are all buried. It’s a thought that hits me unprepared. My eyes fill with moisture.
Kate is staring at me, wondering I guess what I’m thinking. It’s a wonder she’s not in my head right now, trying to figure me out. In some ways I wish she was, then maybe she could tell me what’s going on in there. I have to sit down, get a grip. My head drops into my hands, it feels good there, not so heavy.
A warm gentle hand touches my shoulder and I look up. It’s Kate. ‘Are you OK?’
I nod, not trusting words. Something might come out that sounds like an admission, and I’m not ready to hear my doubts verbalised. It will make it all too real.
The doctor appears. I only notice when Dad’s crutches strike the tiled floor with a hurried sort of tap. All of us stand and form a half-circle around her, eager for news of Casey. Her name is Dr Reed, and she was on duty when Casey came in. ‘He’s a strong young man,’ she begins, letting us know right away he’s OK. ‘We’ve had to drain a lot of water from his lungs, but fortunately the rivers and creeks up here are pretty clean. They bottle it you know. So I don’t expect problems with infection. All the same, I want to keep him in overnight just to be sure.’
Even though we all have them, Mum is first with her questions. ‘Do you know if there’s any …?’ but she can’t finish. Brain damage.
Dr Reed’s smile is reassuring. ‘There’s no permanent damage, Mrs Thornton. He was apparently resuscitated within a safe margin of only minutes. He’s a very lucky boy. It could have been a lot worse.’
We sigh collectively, and there’s plenty of tears, this time with intense relief.
‘Would you like to see him?’ Dr Reed asks with a kind of chuckle, like she’s cracked a personal joke. ‘He’s keeping our nurses on their toes. He’s wide awake, hungry, and full of energy, which is amazing considering the ordeal he’s just been through.’
We all laugh at this. Not because it’s particularly funny, it just helps release a potent amount of stored tension. Casey is small but incredibly active. He can eat like a starved pig. It would be nothing for him to go all day without food, too busy racing and tearing around, only to find when he finally does stop, all the food in the house isn’t enough to satisfy him.
Jillian turns to Mum with a warm embrace, then Dad and me. Kate stands back quietly, her eyes dewy and understanding. I’m glad for her silence, right now nothing makes sense in my head except the relief sweeping through me at Casey’s good news. She knows, and I know, that soon we will talk. About the curse. Yet, I’m not looking forward to it. Maybe, just maybe, she might be right.
They leave and we go to see Casey. He’s sitting up on a clinical-looking hospital bed in a room on his own. No wonder he’s giving the nurses a hard time, he hates being alone. He looks in pretty good shape, considering. He’s eating vanilla ice cream and when he sees us, he chucks the spoon down and starts grinning his head off.
Mum and Dad start crying again, and when they finally finish smothering him with hugs and kisses, I get my turn. I hug him and hold him tight. It’s the strangest experience. Not that hugging Casey is strange. Growing up I always helped Mum look after him. I’d push his pram, rock his cradle, pick him up when he fell, and sometimes I’d just sit and watch him sleep, like I couldn’t believe so much energy could look so peaceful. It always made Mum happy when I did this, like nothing could possibly happen as long as someone was watching him. And when he was older, I kept an eye out for him at school. But this feeling I’ve got churning inside right now is something more than just the usual protective older brother stuff. Reluctantly I pull back, and to cover my erratic emotions I smile and mess his hair.