The Scent of Apples by Jacquie McRae Read Free Book Online Page B

can’t get out quick enough. ‘See ya,’ I say as they jostle to get out the doorway at the same time. Mum glares at me but then follows them out. I know she’ll stand on the porch, a smile fixed on her face, as she waves them off down the driveway.
    The front door slams shut.
    â€˜What on earth’s gotten into you? I don’t know what you said to those girls, but you obviously offended them!’ Mum’s red face makes it look like she’s about to blow a valve.
    I turn my back to piss her off more. ‘I don’t know how, unless being sick is offensive.’
    â€˜Young lady, if being sick is making you rude, you’d better get well quick!’
    â€˜I’m going to bed.’ I rush out of the kitchen before I get another lecture on how to behave.
    I walk down the hallway and poke my head around Nan’s door. She looks peaceful as her head rests on a pillow. Long strands of her white hair cascade around her face. She doesn’t stir as I sneak in and tuck her frail arm under the blanket. I turn the oil heater up a notch and tip-toe out.
    *
    My body feels like it can’t go another minute without rest, but when I lie down and try to sleep there seems to be a malfunction in my brain. I stare at the ceiling. Thoughts of Mum, Dad and Nan race through my mind like clouds on a stormy day. Just when I think I might be sorting something out, the thought is whisked away and another one comes barging in.
    Tonight, the air is humid and makes me more restless. I flip from one side of my mattress to the other. If I can just find a cool spot, I’m sure I’ll sleep. As my eyelids start to droop, the wind decides to get aggressive. Something taps on my window. I throw my covers off. I press my face against the pane of glass and stare out into the blackness. I can’t see what’s making the noise, but it stops. Then as I crawl back into bed it starts up again. I give up any hope of sleep.
    I slide my fingers down my hair. It’s soothing, like I’m petting a cat. I start at the roots and work my fingers slowly down to the tip. One little strand doesn’t seem quite right. The more times I slide my fingers down, the more obvious it becomes. It’s coarser than the rest. I separate it from the other strands and twist it around my finger. I yank and it comes out.
    I study the white bobbly bit which clings to one end of the hair, before squashing it between my thumb and forefinger. My other hand glides along the strand, taking note of all the twists and turns. I close my eyes and drape the hair over my lips and then run it along my tongue. I can still feel the kinks, but as it softens a gentle feeling washes over me. Like lying on the edge of the ocean as the waves lap the shore. Pushing you first one way and then coaxing you back.
    *
    Warmth on my face wakes me up. Early morning sunshine spills over my bed. That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. I stretch my arms out and push myself up. As I do, strands of hair get caught in my fingers, and I see more on my pillow. I remember pulling one bit of hair out. Maybe that loosened the others.
    I raise my hand to my head, where it feels sore. A small bit of scalp appears to have no hair. Parting my hair, and looking in the mirror, I see a tiny bald patch. How weird that I don’t remember doing it. I brush my hair over the spot and tie my hair in a pony tail.
    I rub the spent hair between my palms so it forms a ball. I remember a game we used to play at school. Someone said that if you pulled out an eyelash, blew on it and made a wish, your wish would come true. I dump the hair into my rubbish bin and wonder how many wishes I get for that amount of hair.
    I’m glad to see that Mum’s bedroom door is closed as I creep past it and sneak down the stairs to Nan’s room. Her curtains are still drawn, and in the darkness I pull back her blankets and climb in bed beside her.
    â€˜It’s