Peeling the Onion by Wendy Orr

explanation, starts swearing under her breath in Dutch.
    But Dad's obviously gone into this one too. When we tell him he says, his voice bitter, 'The law looks at it that a $165 fine is a reasonable price for a careless mistake. It's the victim's bad luck if she pays a higher price—the law is interested in his intent, not Anna's luck.'
    'Even if I'd died?'
    'Apparently. I gather that in that case there would have been a coroner's inquest—but unless he could be charged with culpable driving it'd still be the same—failing to give way and a $165 fine.'
    Coroner's not a word you usually associate with yourself. It makes me shudder; Mum too—'It doesn't bear thinking about.'
    'That's why I don't care what happens to him,' says Dad, hugging me carefully, 'as long as you're okay.'
    Maybe the worst thing is that it's all over for him. Trevor Jones has handed over his $165, and it's all done. (Does he ever get a funny feeling when he drives down that road— 'I wrecked somebody's life here once'?) It's just for me that it keeps on going. I'm the one trapped in jail.
    At least I don't have to go to court—but at the moment it doesn't make me any happier.
    Carefully down the three steps and out to the carport. Not really a carport, the car doesn't live here; just bikes, a pingpong table, collection of balls—and my punching bag. The floor-to-ceiling bag I got last Christmas.
    I ache to use it. I stroke the smooth leather, letting it shiver gently on its blue elastic cords, poor confused punching bag, waiting for the punch.
    So what do I do with my rage, now that I can't hit anything? Now that I can't do anything?
    I must be in a mood to torture myself. After visiting my punching bag I put on the video of our Christmas karate demonstration.
    It's like watching another person. The me on the screen jumps, kicks, spins and punches, her body balanced and precise. Her body knows what it's doing.
    And it hits me, like one of the screen-me punches, that's what different. It's not that I limp, or that my neck's stiff. It's that my body doesn't know how to move any more. Nothing's natural. Walking's not bad—if it's in a straight line and everything's perfect. Add a challenge like stepping down from a kerb or getting through a doorway—and I need to talk it through like learning a complicated new kata: 'Okay, turn now, brace yourself . . . a bit more to the left.' Thud! 'Damn!' I can't even roll over in bed without waking up to tell myself how.
    Then there's losing contact with my knees, if I stand up for some unreasonable time—like more than thirty seconds. Usually I can tell when they're starting to go and sit down fast. If it happens when I'm walking I can sometimes find them by stamping.
    Crazy. Must be psychological—maybe I'm just a hypochondriac—that's why I've never told Osman.
    The shaking hands are harder to hide. 'How long were you unconscious?'—rummaging through his notes for the answer. ( I was sleeping — didn't set a stop watch.) 'An appointment with a neurologist might be a good idea. You may have sustained more damage than was obvious initially.'
    But the neurologist is busy for the next six weeks. I'll be better by then. Stop the shaking, get co-ordinated; cancel the appointment.
    I'm getting better at plastic wrapping. My collar is barely damp after its next shower.
    If I don't teach phys ed I could get a job in a sandwich shop. Chief wrapper.
    Costa wants Jenny to meet his family some time over the school holidays. Actually Jenny's not sure that 'wants' is the right word—Costa's mum has told him that he has to invite Jenny for lunch.
    'I don't think she's going to like me.'
    'Everybody likes you! Anyway, relax; you're not marrying the guy.'
    Jenny groans, hides her face in a pillow on the floor; I'm sprawled on her bed, the first time I've been to her place since the accident.
    'You are planning to marry him?'
    'I don't know—I don't care about getting