An Astronaut's Life

by Sonja Dechian

  ‘I’m sure it helped. But this problem, or whatever with her brain, do they know if she’ll always be this way?’

  ‘I don’t know. The doctor seems to think it might help if I visit. From what I saw, she thinks we’re still together.’

  ‘But she has family to take care of her. You don’t want to get too caught up. Perhaps we should leave it at that?’

  The architect hadn’t forgotten to listen to the radio. At three o’clock he’d been on the freeway. He’d thought of his wife and the special radio voice she used to answer questions about influenza or meningococcal disease and he decided to pull the car over and take a walk. He’d used the toilets at a service station and had not washed his hands, a major factor in the spread of pathogenic microbial agents. He’d thought of Leisel, her hold on his hand.

  That night he promised his wife he’d think it over, but he’d already made up his mind.

  Over the following weeks, the architect returned to the hospital three or four times. He guided Leisel on increasingly long walks around the ward. As she grew stronger they were allowed outside to sit on a bench in the hospital grounds. She was still tired, but began to open up about her illness and the life she remembered from before. She talked about her younger brother and her mother and their visits, and one afternoon she slipped her hand into his and leant against his shoulder.

  ‘One day we should go away together,’ she said. ‘To a beach, or a resort somewhere. Do you think?’

  ‘Of course.’ The architect didn’t want to discourage her.

  ‘You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?’

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘How?’

  He searched for the right tone of reassurance. ‘I once sat next to a crazy man on the bus and he was shouting and dribbling. I’ve never seen you dribble.’

  Leisel laughed. ‘You should sleep over sometime. Then you would.’

  ‘I don’t think your doctors would approve.’

  ‘I wish you could stay. I hate it here. I hate these crazy people.’

  He put his arm around her. ‘You’ll be out soon, I know you will.’

  Leisel sighed and leant close. She reached up and kissed him. He parted his lips and let her tongue touch his.

  The doctor explained about delusions. ‘Sometimes you can trick the brain out of a delusion by forcing two beliefs into conflict. In cases where the brain is physically scarred, say by an accident or infection, the damage to a person’s way of thinking may be permanent. The delusion becomes the person’s way of life.’

  ‘But what if I don’t play along? What if I tell her I’m breaking up with her, or if I never come back?’

  ‘It’s likely she’ll block it out, not hear you. Or, if you don’t visit, she might believe you’re coming tomorrow or that you were here yesterday. We all hold on to certain delusions, things we don’t examine because they’re difficult. Leisel’s not so different from anyone else.’

  The architect could only do his best to help, visiting more often, encouraging Leisel to keep up with her homework and write letters to her school friends, which he took but never posted. She seemed frustrated with her lack of progress and freedom, as he presumed a teenager should be. He worried he wasn’t doing enough. They were in her room. Leisel had showed him the horse she’d painted in her sessions that morning. Leisel hated the classes in anger management and relaxation, but she didn’t mind the painting. They had a choice of four ceramic animals: kitten, dog, dolphin or horse.

  The horses were twenty-five centimetres high and stood on their hind legs. Her latest had a yellow flower around its left eye and a trail of branches circled its body.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ the architect said, tracing his finger over its black eyeball. ‘You’ve done a good job with this one.’

  ‘It’s stupid.’ Leisel screwed up her face and slumped onto her bed. ‘It’s so boring in here.’

  ‘It won’t be much longer.’

  ‘Be careful.’ She reached for her horse. ‘The paint’s wet.’

  The architect withdrew his hand and studied the smear of black on his fingertip. Leisel sighed at the damage he’d inflicted. She started to cry.

  He wiped the finger on his jeans and then he took Leisel in his arms.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She sobbed against his shoulder. He held her tighter because he knew she wasn’t really crying about the horse. She sank her fingers into his hair and kissed his neck and cheeks. He kissed her in return. He didn’t want her to cry. He cupped her breasts through her T-shirt. The architect took off her jeans and then her underwear. She didn’t cry anymore.

  He wondered if Leisel would notice the differences in him. He flattered himself that maybe this would be the thing to break her delusion, maybe it would happen right as he entered her, unfamiliar and no longer the teenage boy she expected. He was aroused and guilty at the sight of her almost naked, but with her closed eyes and prodding fingers, he could tell Leisel was happy.

  The architect parted her legs and pushed into her slowly. He was gentle, as if it was her first time, because he was unsure whether she believed it was.

  ‘What are we supposed to do with that?’

  The architect had come home with one of the horses. It was painted with fine black and red stripes.

  ‘It was a gift,’ he said.

  His wife took the ceramic horse and inspected the paintwork.

  ‘Leisel always wanted to be an artist,’ he said.

  ‘So did she become one?’

  The architect didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about Leisel’s adult life. His wife considered the gift then placed it in the bedroom cupboard.

  ‘Do you have to see her so often?’

  His wife was still in her work clothes; she sat on the bed, pulling off her stockings as she spoke.

  ‘It’s not that much, it’s barely once a week. And what can I do anyway? She thinks I’m her boyfriend.’

  ‘I know. And I think you’re my husband. Though I’m starting to wonder which of us is more deluded.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m just trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘By her. By Leisel.’

  The architect’s wife unzipped her skirt and let if fall. She unbuttoned her blouse and took off her bra. When she stood right in front of him, so close her nipples touched his chest, the architect ran his hands over her waist out of habit. She rested her palms against his stomach and squeezed. He knew it was meant as a truce but he sensed a criticism in the gesture—he’d always been so much thinner before.

  She unzipped his pants and tried to tug them down, but the architect reached a hand to stop her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

  Things started to change with Leisel. They stopped taking walks around the grounds and instead closed the door to her room and spent long afternoons exploring one another’s bodies like teenagers.

  After, she would lie against his chest and talk about their future.


  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she told him. It was late one afternoon.

  ‘Me too.’

  Leisel fell quiet.

  The doctor had explained how the medication would calm her and over time begin to regulate the chemicals in her brain. A side-effect was that Leisel put on weight; her face grew rounder, filling out the lines around her eyes. The architect watched for these changes, the curve of her belly and the difference in the shape of her breasts. She still spent a lot of time in silence, but it didn’t take her away so often.

  ‘When I’m out of here, maybe we can live somewhere together,’ she said.

  He looked along her naked back and at her limbs strewn across him. ‘Of course we can. Where would you like to live?’ he said.

  ‘In an apartment. One of the ones where you have to press a button at the entrance so someone can buzz you in.’

  ‘I think we can find one of those.’

  ‘And when you’re an architect you’ll build us our house.’

  ‘If that’s what you’d like.’

  Leisel ran her hand into the hair on his chest and traced a path downward. He held his stomach in, although it made no difference to the way she saw him.

  ‘You really can’t tell, can you?’ he said.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘You haven’t noticed anything different?’

  Leisel lifted herself onto her elbow.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘My hair. For a start, it’s thinning.’

  Leisel shrugged. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I know you can’t see it, but I’m a thirty-six-year-old man.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘And I am an architect. Have been for a while now, and I’m not really that good at it, if you want to know the truth.’

  Leisel reached over and touched his nipple. The architect took her hand to stop her.

  ‘I have a wife. I’m married. We’ve been trying to have a baby. It’s been maybe a year now, but I guess something’s wrong.’

  Leisel pulled her hand away and rolled onto her back. She ran her hands along her stomach.

  ‘I think I’d like to have children. But I haven’t decided how many.’

  The architect looked at the square tiles on the ceiling.

  ‘Why don’t we just wait and see?’ he said.

  Leisel nodded.

  ‘Come here, you.’ He pulled her to him.

  There was no way to hide the increasing frequency of his visits to the hospital. Instead, the architect gave his wife brief but essentially accurate reports on Leisel’s progress: she’s stable, she’s improving, she’s having a tough day. His wife responded with practiced concern but never asked for detail.

  ‘Do you have to be this way?’ he said one day, in an effort to provoke confrontation.

  ‘What do you mean? This is me being sympathetic.’

  ‘You’re being patronising.’

  ‘I’m not sure why it bothers you.’

  She was sorting through a box of old papers, searching for something she’d written, case notes from when she was at school.

  ‘Leisel’s someone who matters to me and she’s going through a tough time.’

  ‘So I suppose I can expect to meet her soon, since she matters to you, and I’m your wife?’ She waited. ‘I can tell you’re in love with her.’

  ‘Please. She’s a child.’

  ‘She’s a thirty-four-year-old woman.’

  ‘Yes, who thinks she’s a child.’

  ‘And you’re, what, her high-school boyfriend?

  ‘I’m her friend.’

  ‘I’m not blind.’

  She turned to him.

  ‘You’re fucking her, aren’t you?’

  ‘For God’s sake. She’s sick. She needs someone and I’m trying to help.’

  ‘She needs you?’ His wife dumped a stack of papers back into the box. ‘So selfless,’ she said.

  The architect was already leaving the room.

  ‘I really don’t know which of you I feel more sorry for,’ she said after him.

  He still enjoyed the ritual of arriving at the hospital. It was a part of the secrecy and anticipation of it all. The architect would spell her name at the reception desk and they’d buzz him right in. She’d be dressed and waiting with some story she’d been saving—something funny one of the patients had done, or a joke the nurse had told her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist said. ‘You’ll have to wait today.’

  It was a Thursday afternoon. He’d left work the same time as always.

  ‘Is there some problem?’

  He began to spell Leisel’s name, but the receptionist pointed to the waiting room and lifted the phone.

  The architect flicked through a newspaper. He wanted what was best for Leisel—maybe there was news? What if her delusion had lifted—could that happen? He tried to imagine the adult woman who might greet him. Would she remember what had passed between them?

  The receptionist gestured.

  ‘Sorry for the wait,’ she said. ‘Leisel had a difficult night. I wasn’t sure she was having visitors, but you have the all-clear.’

  She was sitting on her bed, dressed and ready. The architect was relieved at the recognition in her eyes.

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ she said.

  ‘You can tell me anything.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking how things aren’t the same.’

  He sat beside her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m really sorry. We’ve had a lot of fun. We’ll always be friends,’ she said.

  He reached a hand to comfort her.

  ‘Don’t worry. Relationships have their ups and downs. We’ll work through this,’ he said.

  ‘No, you don’t get it. I think I need to be independent now. I need to start thinking about university, my future.’

  He rubbed her shoulder. ‘I don’t mind if you want more independence. We’ll come up with a plan,’ he said.

  Leisel drew back. ‘I think we both need this,’ she said.

  ‘But you’re not well. You can’t make these decisions.’

  She looked away from him and to the window. ‘I’m sorry, I think you should go.’

  The worn cotton of Leisel’s T-shirt clung to her thin shoulders and chest. He followed the freckles that ran across her arms until the trail disappeared under her sleeves.

  ‘But I love you,’ he said.

  Leisel opened the drawer beside her bed. ‘I made you this one,’ she said.

  She lifted a horse with both hands. There were clouds painted across the body and head, but the left side was all blue sky, broken in the centre by one soaring bird. He thought of his wife, what she would say when she saw it: the adolescent motif.

  ‘Please go now,’ Leisel said.

  So the architect took the horse and went. His heels clipped
against the hospital’s floors, his echoes swallowed by all the long hallways that stretched behind.

  At the exit he paused to find a bin, then he changed his mind. He’d keep it. He laid the horse on the passenger seat and started out along the highway. He was not prepared to think of his wife: the resentment he’d earned, the distrust.

  But he called her anyway.

  ‘The key for your brother’s house, it’s still in the spot?’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  His wife’s brother had a holiday house about an hour away; the architect and his wife had visited three or four times. The brother and his family mostly went there at winter, and mostly on weekends.

  ‘They said go up anytime, remember?’

  ‘She’s with you now, isn’t she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Leisel? Of course not. She’s in hospital. You know she’s unwell.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘The key, is it there?’

  He sensed a change as her anger became resignation, and so he softened. He thought maybe he would invite her. She’d skip the radio show to drive up.

  ‘You’re not taking her to my brother’s house,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not taking anyone.’

  ‘Do you swear?’

  ‘No. I’m not swearing. I’m not swearing anything.’

  ‘So she’s there now?’

  ‘She’s in the fucking hospital.’

  ‘She’s with you, isn’t she?

  ‘Yeah, she’s with me, right here in my fucking pocket. I broke her out of the hospital. What is wrong with you? I’m going to the house.’

  He hung up.

  The key was where it was meant to be. It was dark inside and the lights weren’t working because, he remembered, you had to flick the master switch in the fuse box to the side of the house. He did it, but the rooms were still dim. He’d never been there alone before.