Apples Never Fall

“I just finished a run.”

“Good for you. Did you stretch first?”

She knew her sister’s hamstrings as well as her own. Her family’s bodies were the first ones she’d practiced on when she was studying. She felt a sense of ownership of all their problems: Amy’s hamstrings, her dad’s knees, Logan’s shoulder, Troy’s calf issues, her mother’s knotted-up lower back.

“I sure did,” said Amy.

“Liar.” She started walking toward the café with the phone to her ear. She was aware of an irrational but fierce sense of competitiveness because Amy had been for a run and Brooke had done no exercise this weekend thanks to the migraine. It made no sense. Brooke was younger and fitter than Amy. Yet as soon as she knew her sister was out for a run Brooke felt a wild desire to be running too: faster, longer.

“How are you?” asked Amy. Brooke heard a seagull’s squawk. She’d been running on the beach. Damn her. So typical. Brooke was in a suburban car park worrying about cash flow, and Amy was running on a beach, probably about to eat eggs Benedict for breakfast.

“I’m fine,” said Brooke. “Well, not great. I had a migraine on the weekend.”

A woman walked out of the café carrying a cardboard tray of coffees. She lifted the tray in clumsy greeting, and Brooke waved back. Right hip pain. Brooke monitored her gait, which was unfortunately perfect. The patients who were diligent with their exercises got better and didn’t need her anymore.

“I’m sorry,” said Amy. “Did Grant look after you?”

“He was away. Camping. The Blue Mountains. With some old friends from—just some old friends.” She made herself stop. Apparently the trick for a good lie was not to give too much unnecessary detail.

“Oh no! You should have called. I could have brought you soup! My local Chinese takeaway does the best chicken-and-sweet-corn soup you’ve ever tasted!”

“It’s fine. I was fine. Anyway, what’s up?” Brooke put her key in the glass door. The sight of her logo on the door gave her a complicated sensation of pleasure and pride and fear. It was two stick figures of a woman and a man holding the name Delaney’s Physiotherapy above their heads like a banner. Logan’s girlfriend, Indira, who was a graphic designer, had created it for her, and Brooke loved it. She imagined someone scraping her logo off the door, optimistically replacing it with a brand-new logo for their own dream business.

“Sorry,” said Amy. “I won’t take long. Got any patients today?”

“Yes,” said Brooke shortly. She would never admit her fears for the clinic to Amy. That wasn’t the way their relationship worked. She always needed her big sister to see that this was how a grown-up lived her life, and Amy was always gratifyingly impressed, although there was a certain detachment to her admiration, as if Brooke’s perfectly normal choices (get a degree, get married, buy a house) were just not possible for her.

“Oh, well, that’s great, good for you. Listen, so I only just heard about—”

Brooke cut her off.

“About Harry’s comeback plans? Yes, I only just heard about it too. I assume Mum and Dad know, although I’m surprised I haven’t heard from them. I don’t think he’ll have the mobility—”

“No, I’m not talking about Harry. I’m talking about the girl.”

Brooke paused. What girl? Some other ex-student?

“I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about it,” said Amy. She was speaking in that irritating singsong voice that meant she might be about to cry or yell or have some kind of meltdown. “Have you met her yet? I don’t know, I just feel quite weird about it, don’t you? The whole situation is just so … random, don’t you think?”

As Brooke listened to her sister she switched on the lights. There was a reception counter and empty desk ready and waiting for the office manager she couldn’t yet afford to hire. The walls were painted an encouraging, calming Sea Breeze. She’d spent hours trying to decide between Sea Breeze and Deep Ocean Blue as if the right wall color would affect patient outcomes. She’d mounted full-length mirrors so patients could check their form as they did their exercises, although this meant she had to keep seeing her own reflection. It didn’t matter when patients were there. It was just when she was alone that she hated seeing her own face. The new rented equipment sat there ready and waiting and costing her money: one exercise bike, three medicine balls, hand weights, and stretchy bands. Framed posters of athletes celebrating hard-won triumphs: on their knees, foreheads to the ground, kissing gold medals. There was only one picture of a tennis player and that was the only picture where the athlete wasn’t celebrating. It was a black-and-white shot of Martina Navratilova stretching for a backhand at Wimbledon, her face contorted, mullet hair flying around her headband. It would have looked strange if Brooke didn’t have a tennis player, like she was making a point, and her parents would have noticed when they came to see the clinic.

“Good old Martina,” said her dad fondly when he saw the picture, as if he and Martina went way back.

“And what if the boyfriend turns up at their house?” said Amy. “And things get out of hand?”

“I’ve lost you,” said Brooke. Her mind had wandered. She seemed to have missed a vital part of the conversation.

“What if he has a weapon?”

“What if who has a weapon?”

“The abusive boyfriend!”

She said, “Amy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

There was silence. Brooke sat down at the reception desk and powered up her computer.

“Really?” said Amy. “You don’t know? I thought for sure you’d know.”