The Hands by Stephen Orr Page B

okay?’
    He shrugged, slowly. ‘Let’s just worry about the little fella’s leg.’
    Trevor stared at his son’s closed eyes.
    â€˜Where were you headed?’
    But he couldn’t answer.
    Trevor stood at the hospital window, third floor, high dependency, watching 3 am Port Augusta struggle through another night. An ambulance pulled into Emergency. Their ambulance, most probably, tasked with someone else’s disaster, driving from one nightmare-avoided (or realised) to the next, as if it were delivering bread.
    He went into Harry’s room—small, stripped back, full of plugs and buttons and gas vents; monitors singing above the hum of the air-conditioning. He sat beside him, took his hand and studied his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wondered if his hand would hold a whip again, or pluck lavender from its stem; if he’d ever jump back on his trail bike (and now he studied his trussed-up leg) or run around a paddock.
    No, he told himself. He’ll come good. Two days, a week, a month, a year; small bones had a way of fixing themselves; skin, of healing, hiding its history of trauma.
    A nurse entered.
    â€˜When’s the doctor due?’ he asked.
    â€˜He’s still downstairs,’ she replied. ‘I think they’re busy in Emergency.’
    â€˜No one’s told me anything about my wife.’
    â€˜The doctor will know. He’s the one you’ve got to talk to.’
    She checked Harry’s pain relief—dripping one clear, cold millilitre per minute—and adjusted a red knob. ‘He looks comfortable,’ she said, but he didn’t respond. He stood and walked across the hallway into Aiden’s room. There were two beds. Another young man was listening to music through headphones. He sat beside his sleeping son, his eyes padded with gauze, bandaged, the paint still visible on his cheeks and neck. The young man slipped off his headphones, looked at him and said, ‘He woke up for a while.’
    â€˜How long ago?’
    â€˜Half an hour, perhaps. Said he’d been in an accident. Nothin’ too bad?’
    â€˜No, I don’t think so.’
    â€˜Told me he got some paint in his eyes.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜That’ll come good, if that’s the worst of it.’
    He just wanted to say, Shut the fuck up, and perhaps the young man sensed this. He slipped the headphones back over his ears.
    Trevor reached out and felt the bandage, soft and tight around his son’s skull. That’ll come good, he thought. The eyes too, he guessed, could handle their fair share: acid, diesel, metal splinters from grinders, Harry poking him with a stick, a face full of drench.
    Anyway, they had to come good. Aiden himself had explained that he wanted, needed, to be a farmer. His eyes and hands would be his livelihood. There was no alternative, no other way to get around the problem.
    â€˜Aiden, you awake?’ he asked. He heard the response in his son’s breath, saw it in his jaw, opening and closing.
    â€˜Can I take this stuff off now?’
    â€˜No, wait for the doctor.’
    â€˜I can see light … and the bandage.’
    â€˜That’s good, but you’re gonna have to wait. Is there any other pain?’
    â€˜No … my arse and backbone’s sore, but I can move.’ He wriggled his hips to show him. ‘How’s Shit-for-brains?’
    â€˜He’s banged up his leg, but he’s okay.’
    â€˜Is it broken?’
    â€˜Several places.’ And he saw the door, crushed on Harry’s leg. ‘There were some gashes but they’ve fixed ’em.’ He could see crushed metal hanging from the car and fragments of Harry’s pants blowing in the breeze.
    â€˜And what about Mum?’
    â€˜Still trying to find out.’
    There was a long pause. The prospect of bruises or a broken collar bone, concussion, or maybe,