Free The Scent of Apples by Jacquie McRae

metres up in the air and has a canopy of bright red flowers.
    â€˜Look Nan, the tÅ«Ä« are out eating the nectar already.’
    I don’t expect her to answer me, but I talk to her like she might. There’s a part of me that still clings to hope; that ignores the facts. Like the fact that she hasn’t recognised or spoken to me or anyone else for three weeks. I tell myself that miracles do happen. I know that if I don’t believe in miracles, then no one will send me one.
    â€˜How’re you feeling today, Nan?’ Silence. Her pale grey eyes stare blankly at me. I have to turn away so she doesn’t see the tears in my eyes. I concentrate instead on propping pillows up behind her back. I’m careful of her thin skin, not wanting to bruise her as I rearrange her body to accommodate the breakfast tray. I brush a strand of her hair back from her face.
    â€˜Eat up, Nan, and I’ll come back after my breakfast. OK?’ Again, nothing, but I’m happy when she starts spooning her porridge into her mouth.
    I’m not hungry, but I know that I won’t get away with skipping breakfast. I walk as slowly as I can back to the kitchen, slide into my seat at the table and pick up my spoon. I stir the porridge around and around in my plate and glance up and see Mum watching me. I put a spoonful in my mouth.
    Dad has his newspaper folded into four beside his elbow.
    â€˜It’s nice to see you out in the orchard again, Libby.’
    I nod my head at him, but carry on spooning more of the cold porridge into my mouth.
    He stands up and tucks the newspaper under his arm.
    I quickly swallow my mouthful.
    â€˜I was thinking, maybe I could give you a hand in your office today. Help you catch up with some filing or something?’
    Dad glances at Mum, but I’m too slow to catch her look.
    â€˜Thanks, Libby, but I’ve got heaps of phone calls to make and some paperwork I need to concentrate on. You could give Toby a hand in the barn. I know he’s feeling the pressure since …’ he stops himself from finishing his sentence.
    â€˜You can say it, Dad. It’s not like I haven’t noticed.’ I take my plate to the sink without asking to leave the table. I don’t want them to see the tears that spring into my eyes. ‘Actually, I’ve got some things I need to catch up on too.’ I don’t look at either of them as I escape to my room.
    The whole day stretches before me. I spend it working out a plan. When it’s dark outside and I’m sure everyone is asleep, I slide a shoebox from under my bed. It contains things that I’ve collected throughout the day. Rubber gloves, masking tape and rubber bands.
    I sit on the edge of my bed and pull the gloves onto my hands. I slip two of the rubber bands over the fingers of the gloves and down to my wrists. They are too loose, so I double them over. I wind the masking tape over the rubber bands and halfway up my elbows before I run out of tape.
    I climb into bed and clench my bound prisoners between my thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can. The tears manage to escape though, and soak my pillow. I wonder if there is any other person in the world that has to tie their hands up so they won’t pull their hair out. I doubt it.
    When I wake in the morning, I feel throbbing in my hands. It takes my brain a few seconds to remember why. I flick on the lamp beside me and try to rip off the tape. I have to bite the tape so I can get a piece to unravel. I pull at the rubber bands until they break and free my hands from the gloves. My hands are a bluey colour, and I rub them hard for several minutes before I feel any sensation in them. I have an indent like a bracelet running around both my wrists where the band has cut in. I massage the groove, but the red marks remain.
    Great, Libby, you didn’t pull out your hair but you nearly lost your hands.
    I sneak past my parents’ bedroom door. I’ve