The Way You Are
T HE ward was an unflinching shade of hospital green, the washed out, chalky color that Leon had only ever seen in movies. Hospitals, in his admittedly limited experience, were supposed to be a crumbly yellow or a stark, modern white, and this one was both, at least on the outside. Walking in from the glare of the spring sun, he wondered if the paint scheme was an attempt to bring the color of the park outside into the hospital, but the dullness of stereotypical surgical-gown green was so different from the vibrant green of grass and leaves that he quickly decided against it. Stereotypical. Leon suppressed a shudder at the word. It came loaded with meanings and preconceptions, some good, but mostly not. This was, after all, a “stereotypical” regional city.
Two hours from Sydney by train, Newcastle stretched along the southern bank of the Hunter River, following its curves all the way to the Tasman Sea, where Leon, like most of the residents, took to the glorious sandy beaches and surf spots that were nearly as famous as the city’s coal exports and subtropical weather. Here, shops were just starting to stay open after five and on Sundays, Chinese takeout bore no relation to China other than the occasional limp bean sprout and premade hoisin sauce, and everyone who didn’t work in the hospital or the coal industry eventually left to find a job and a better life somewhere else.
Those who stayed behind either owned the place or were absolute derros {1} . Leon was honest enough to admit that judgment was probably unfair, especially given Krissy’s parents’ successful B and B in the eastern end of town, but after going out that first Saturday night to the Great Northern Hotel and hearing the drunken jeers of bogans {2} driving around the deserted streets in battered utes {3} of muck brown or faded blue, he too now repeated the mantra that had been passed down from student to new student over the years at the university: “When you go out at night, don’t make eye contact with the locals {4} .”
The University of Newcastle, of course, was a haven for those fleeing even smaller-minded country towns, those who found the whole notion of city living just that little bit terrifying, or those who couldn’t afford—or didn’t get into—the big city campuses of Sydney or Melbourne. Leon had found university life freeing, a mass of thoughtful people willing to live and let live, or even celebrate diversity. It was at university he first felt comfortable enough to come out, at university where he first kissed a guy, and at university where he met Krissy, the first person who accepted him for exactly who he was. Or Kristina, if she was meeting a boy on a serious date.
Then the rumors had begun circulating.
“He’s where?”
“Hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Last I heard, seven broken bones, internal injuries, and a coma.”
“I thought he was going to give blood?”
“Well, that sounds like a big night out gone wrong.”
“Oh my God, are youse talking about Kim Kardashian? Have youse seen the photos?”
“What? We’re talking about Rook.”
“Rook was invited to Kim Kardashian’s party? Oh my God, that is like, so—”
“No, Rook was gay bashed.”
“Rook’s gay?”
“No way! I dated that bastard! You’re saying he drove stick the entire time?”
“Wait—is he like, famous or something?”
“No he’s a physio student hoping to transfer into med.”
“And he’s straight.”
And, some days later, when the stories had swirled around campus long enough to be published in Opus , the student newspaper, and everyone else had moved on to debating Schrödinger’s bunnies {5} , Leon finally became aware of what had happened.
And that was what brought him to room 14B in the puke-green wing of the John Hunter Hospital, named after not one but three John Hunters, one of whom had nothing to do with medicine whatsoever, but had been instrumental in breaking news of the newly
T HE ward was an unflinching shade of hospital green, the washed out, chalky color that Leon had only ever seen in movies. Hospitals, in his admittedly limited experience, were supposed to be a crumbly yellow or a stark, modern white, and this one was both, at least on the outside. Walking in from the glare of the spring sun, he wondered if the paint scheme was an attempt to bring the color of the park outside into the hospital, but the dullness of stereotypical surgical-gown green was so different from the vibrant green of grass and leaves that he quickly decided against it. Stereotypical. Leon suppressed a shudder at the word. It came loaded with meanings and preconceptions, some good, but mostly not. This was, after all, a “stereotypical” regional city.
Two hours from Sydney by train, Newcastle stretched along the southern bank of the Hunter River, following its curves all the way to the Tasman Sea, where Leon, like most of the residents, took to the glorious sandy beaches and surf spots that were nearly as famous as the city’s coal exports and subtropical weather. Here, shops were just starting to stay open after five and on Sundays, Chinese takeout bore no relation to China other than the occasional limp bean sprout and premade hoisin sauce, and everyone who didn’t work in the hospital or the coal industry eventually left to find a job and a better life somewhere else.
Those who stayed behind either owned the place or were absolute derros {1} . Leon was honest enough to admit that judgment was probably unfair, especially given Krissy’s parents’ successful B and B in the eastern end of town, but after going out that first Saturday night to the Great Northern Hotel and hearing the drunken jeers of bogans {2} driving around the deserted streets in battered utes {3} of muck brown or faded blue, he too now repeated the mantra that had been passed down from student to new student over the years at the university: “When you go out at night, don’t make eye contact with the locals {4} .”
The University of Newcastle, of course, was a haven for those fleeing even smaller-minded country towns, those who found the whole notion of city living just that little bit terrifying, or those who couldn’t afford—or didn’t get into—the big city campuses of Sydney or Melbourne. Leon had found university life freeing, a mass of thoughtful people willing to live and let live, or even celebrate diversity. It was at university he first felt comfortable enough to come out, at university where he first kissed a guy, and at university where he met Krissy, the first person who accepted him for exactly who he was. Or Kristina, if she was meeting a boy on a serious date.
Then the rumors had begun circulating.
“He’s where?”
“Hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Last I heard, seven broken bones, internal injuries, and a coma.”
“I thought he was going to give blood?”
“Well, that sounds like a big night out gone wrong.”
“Oh my God, are youse talking about Kim Kardashian? Have youse seen the photos?”
“What? We’re talking about Rook.”
“Rook was invited to Kim Kardashian’s party? Oh my God, that is like, so—”
“No, Rook was gay bashed.”
“Rook’s gay?”
“No way! I dated that bastard! You’re saying he drove stick the entire time?”
“Wait—is he like, famous or something?”
“No he’s a physio student hoping to transfer into med.”
“And he’s straight.”
And, some days later, when the stories had swirled around campus long enough to be published in Opus , the student newspaper, and everyone else had moved on to debating Schrödinger’s bunnies {5} , Leon finally became aware of what had happened.
And that was what brought him to room 14B in the puke-green wing of the John Hunter Hospital, named after not one but three John Hunters, one of whom had nothing to do with medicine whatsoever, but had been instrumental in breaking news of the newly
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