The Universe versus Alex Woods

by Extence, Gavin

  For me, it was the enterprise that was the main point of the enterprise. It was the satisfaction of engineering such excellent specimens.

  After a few months of me running the factory, Mr Peterson had already had more than enough of my very detailed, very technical progress reports. I think there were at least two occasions when I literally bored him to sleep – once when trying to explain the equation that describes how far the lamps should be kept from the plants, and once when espousing my hypothesis concerning why the plants utilized different wavelengths of light in the vegetative and flowering stages, which was to do with the path of the Sun and the scattering of light in the atmosphere.

  Anyway, I like to think that all this scientific precision paid off in the end. I managed to oversee three abundant harvests, the quality of which Mr Peterson pronounced ‘more than adequate’.

  So that, in a nutshell, was my life for sixteen months. As you can see, there were moments of stillness amidst the general gallop – periods of respite, when I was reading aloud or tending to the plants and my mind was so absorbed that time and everything else just kind of melted into the background. But this did not stop the clock from ticking. Mr Peterson may have experienced time as a ‘slow, peaceful drift’, but for me, it was a swiftly accelerating blur. And it didn’t take long for it to overtake us.

  I suppose it was some time around the beginning of October, shortly after I’d passed my driving test, that Mr Peterson’s speech problems really started to become noticeable, though by then I’m sure they must have been developing for a while. It began with a slight slurring and slowing – similar to the way someone speaks when moderately intoxicated. Except, of course, Mr Peterson was not intoxicated (or not that intoxicated). He was conscious of all the little tremors that were creeping in: the difficulty in articulating certain sounds, the way that words would ‘catch’ in his throat, the problem he sometimes had with modulating the volume of his voice. These things started as little more than annoyances, but they continued to build and add up. Soon he was complaining that his voice no longer felt like ‘his own’. It rebelled and wouldn’t obey him as it should. There was no slowing of his thoughts – he could still articulate himself perfectly well in the privacy of his own head – but speaking was an increasingly laborious process.

  So he adapted. More and more, he chose to communicate in writing rather than speech. I think it was a strategy born of frustration rather than self-consciousness or practicality. Writing wasn’t necessarily any quicker, but it felt to him a much more reliable and satisfying means of self-expression. His writing hand never faltered the way his voice did; it seemed much truer to his intent. Nevertheless, the switch from speech to writing presented its own problems. His hands may have worked just fine, but there were still his eyes to contend with. For Mr Peterson, tracking his unfurling script across and down the page was also a very time-consuming affair. He soon declared it intolerable and started to write ‘blind’ – that is, without attempting to look at what he was writing. He had a pen and an un-ruled notepad that he carried with him at all times, and he tended to keep whatever he had to say short and to the point.

  Is it legible? he wrote early on, when his blind-writing was still in its infancy.

  ‘Yes, it’s perfectly legible,’ I assured him. ‘You won’t be winning any calligraphy contests, but for day-to-day communication purposes, it’s fine.’

  It beats the hell out of trying to talk, Mr Peterson wrote.

  But the speech problems were, in the grand scheme of things, little more than an inconvenience. As long as we allowed some extra time, we could still have a strange but perfectly adequate conversation. If he’d actually lost the ability to communicate, it would have been a very different matter. But we both knew that it wasn’t going to get to that stage.

  It was clear by February 2011 that his restricted mobility was going to be the decisive factor for him. By this time, even using his walker, simple tasks such as boiling the kettle or going to the bathroom had become a significant trial. And one evening in early March, he conceded the inevitable. He wouldn’t be able to go on living independently for very much longer; and for him, this prospect marked the cut-off point. Going into permanent, professional care had never been an option.

  I think it’s time, he wrote.

  So that was it. I was amazed at how calm and committed I felt. But then, I’d been preparing myself for this moment for a very long time. I knew that now, more than ever, I had to be strong and unfaltering. It was a final act of friendship. That was the thought I had to cling to.

  I phoned Switzerland and made an appointment for four weeks’ time, which we’d agreed would give us long enough to prepare. Mr Peterson only had to speak on the phone briefly, to confirm that these were indeed his wishes.

  And in the space of that one phone call, everything was set in motion.

  And neither of us expected any trouble. We didn’t envisage for one minute that we’d have any problems getting away. How could we? With the exception of one or two minor details – like what the hell I was going to tell my mother – we’d planned everything out meticulously. The medical records were up to date. The car had been serviced, and was now taxed and insured in my name. The date for our departure was set. We thought we’d just slip away, quietly and unnoticed. That’s what should have happened. That’s what would have happened, were it not for the fall. It was this one initial mishap that set all the dominoes tumbling. Without that, I’m sure things would have worked out very differently.

  ESCAPE

  It was Krystyn who found him – ten o’clock on an April morning, a mere forty-eight hours before we were due to leave. He later wrote that he had no idea what had happened, but it was probably something all too simple: a mistimed step, an unseen obstacle, a dizzy spell or momentary loss of concentration. He’d tried to break his fall with his left arm, which had pretty much crumpled beneath his body weight, slowing only fractionally the impact of his head against the kitchen floor.

  One attempt was enough to tell him that he couldn’t tolerate any pressure on his left wrist, and he couldn’t support enough of his body weight on his right arm to roll himself onto his back or side. He had no choice but to stay exactly as he was, with his left cheek pressed against the cold tiled floor, one arm bent awkwardly beneath him, and his hair matted with congealing blood.

  When Krystyn arrived, she did what any sane person would have done. She called an ambulance. Mr Peterson’s attempt to dissuade her was over before it began. The lines that he’d been rehearsing on the floor – that he was okay and just needed helping back to his feet, or something to that effect – came out as a series of muted groans and wheezes. This did little to counter Krystyn’s initial assessment of the situation, which was conveyed in a single Lithuanian word, repeated ten or twenty times. Mr Peterson thought he could guess what the word was.

  X-rays revealed a clean fracture in his left little finger, which had to be bandaged and splinted to his ring finger. He also required a dozen stitches for his head-wound. But apart from this, the doctors said, he’d had a lucky escape. Had he been in otherwise good health, he might have been sent home that same day. But as things stood, this was clearly out of the question. In normal terms, the injuries were minimal, but for Mr Peterson, they were rather more debilitating. He’d reached the point where he couldn’t make do with a single crutch; he needed both hands for balance and support. But the bigger problem, of course, was the timing.

  They want to keep me in for at least 2 days, Mr Peterson wrote when I made it into the hospital that evening after school.

  ‘That’s going to be cutting things a little fine,’ I pointed out, as if this wasn’t already implicit in the underlining. ‘Is there any way they might consider letting you out a little earlier?’

  They say it’s too risky, Mr Peterson wrote. They think I might have concussion because I feel giddy and can’t keep their damn hospital food down.

  ‘You might have concussion,’ I conced
ed.

  I don’t have concussion. This is how I feel all the time. It’s just a pretext.

  I read this and frowned. ‘Why would it be a pretext?’

  2 days? For concussion? That doesn’t stack up. They’re keeping me here because they can’t send me home. That’s obvious. Look at me!

  I looked at him.

  I can’t put any weight on my left wrist. I can’t even grip because of this goddamn splint. How am I going to walk out of here in the next 2 days? I’m trapped.

  My mind was darting ahead. ‘I’ll phone Switzerland first thing tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain the situation and I’ll get them to defer the appointment. It’s not too late, right? When they discharge you, you’ll still be well enough to travel.’

  Mr Peterson took some time to fashion his half-page response.

  Alex, they’re not going to discharge me. Can’t you see? No sane doctor’s going to say it’s OK for me to go back home. They’re going to keep me here until I’ve lost what little mobility I’ve got left and then they’re going to hand me over to the social workers. I’m going straight from here into a hospice. The only other way they’ll let me leave is in a body bag. You must be able to see that!

  I could see that. No matter how good his support network, Mr Peterson couldn’t go on living alone. No doctor under the sun was going to pronounce him well enough to be released into his own custody. We’d left things as late as we possibly could.

  ‘It’s now or never, isn’t it?’ I asked.

  Yes. It’s now or never. I can’t miss my appointment.

  ‘I can have the car loaded and ready to go by tomorrow night,’ I said.

  Mr Peterson had a small coughing fit. That’s the easy part. Have you figured out what you’re going to tell your mom?

  ‘I’m still thinking about it,’ I admitted.

  Think quick! You have to tell her something. You can’t just disappear for a week.

  ‘I know.’

  If she can handle the truth, tell her the truth. If she can’t, tell her I want to see the Alps before I die or something like that. Anything you can get her to believe. There’ll be time for proper explanations later.

  I held my head and breathed deeply for a few moments.

  ‘My mother’s too unpredictable,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if she can be trusted with the truth. But . . . well, I don’t see how I can lie to her either. I’m lousy at lying at the best of times. I can’t see any safe option. Every course I can imagine seems to have an equal likelihood of ending in catastrophe.’

  Alex, I’m sorry – I can’t help you with this. You have to figure it out for yourself. My gut says you should tell her the truth, but it has to be your call. The important thing is you have to tell her something.

  I nodded.

  That just leaves the problem of how we’re going to get me out of here.

  ‘We’ll need a wheelchair, I suppose.’

  They keep those fold-down ones on the ward somewhere. You’ll have to find out where and borrow one. Say that you’re taking me to the bathroom. I don’t think any nurse is going to object to being relieved of that duty.

  ‘The bathroom’s this side of the reception desk,’ I pointed out. ‘That story’s only going to get us so far.’

  Getting the wheelchair’s the main point. After that we just need to pick our moment.

  I frowned and thought about this for a while. ‘You know, I’m fairly sure reception’s staffed round the clock. And it’s definitely staffed during visiting hours. I don’t think there’s going to be any moment when we can just wheel you out unnoticed.’

  Maybe not. But there are times when we’re much less likely to be detained. If we can get past reception unseen, so much the better. If we can’t, we’ll have to try subterfuge. If that fails, our best bet is speed.

  ‘Speed?’ I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘You want me to wheel you as fast as I can towards the lifts and hope for the best?’

  Yes, if necessary.

  ‘What kind of back-up plan is that?’

  It’s a back-up back-up plan.

  ‘What about negotiation?’ I asked. ‘We explain to whoever’s on reception that staying in the hospital is against your wishes and we’re therefore discharging you a few days early. I know it’s contrary to medical advice, but can anyone actually stop us?’

  You’re 17 and my brain’s turning to mulch, Mr Peterson scrawled. No one’s going to think twice about stopping us. Trust me. Our wishes mean squat.

  I grimaced and rubbed my temples.

  It’s a last resort, Mr Peterson wrote, but if we have to run, we have to run. Be prepared for that.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  Use my disabled badge and park as close to the front entrance as possible. As soon as we’re in the car we’re home free.

  ‘Okay.’

  Now go home and rest. Go to school as normal tomorrow, then come back here in the evening and we’ll finalize the details. In the meantime, you think about the best time to move me and I’ll do the same. And take a good look around on your way out. Check out reception and figure out where they keep the wheelchairs.

  ‘Okay.’

  Mr Peterson scribbled a hasty note, then tore the last five or six pages out of his notebook and handed them to me.

  Throw these in the trash can on your way out, his final sentence read.

  The cannabis factory had been dismantled three weeks earlier, just after the final harvest. I had one and a half hand-sized pouches of dried and cured bud waiting in the glove box of Mr Peterson’s car and forty-eight cans of Diet Coke loaded in the boot. I’d topped up the screenwash and inflated all the tyres to thirty-one PSI. There was a full tank of petrol and a carrier bag on the back seat filled with over thirty hours of classical music, everything from Bach to Beethoven to Bartók. The suitcases were packed and every item on the checklist had been ticked off. It was eight o’clock on a Thursday evening and I was all set to leave.

  I’d told my mother that I was going to the hospital for evening visiting hours and that Mr Peterson was to be discharged at eight o’clock the following morning. I’d be back late and leaving early so that I could pick him up before school; in all likelihood, she wouldn’t see much of me for the next twenty-four hours. She asked if there was anything she could do to help – if I wanted her to phone school to explain the circumstances and say that I might be a little late the next day. She was so supportive I felt physically sick. But I knew I had to stick to the plan. There was no turning back now.

  The letter I’d written her had taken a very long time – much longer than anything else I’d ever written. It went through about fifteen drafts, most of which never made it past the first half-page and ended up crumpled on Mr Peterson’s living-room floor. When I’d eventually finished, I divided the final word count by the total time of composition and concluded that this was likely the most labour-intensive letter that anyone anywhere had ever written. And now I had to deliver it.

  Ten minutes after I’d left Mr Peterson’s driveway, I parked the car on Glastonbury High Street and crept down the darkened alleyway that led to my mother’s shop. This, of course, was the only place I could leave her a letter. If I left it in my room, she might find it too soon. By leaving it on the front counter at the shop, I knew exactly when she’d read it: sometime between eight forty and eight fifty the following morning. And she wouldn’t have to read it alone. Ellie would be there. Since there was a high probability of hysteria, I thought that this was an important consideration.

  The light was on in the window above the shop. I could see a bright, sharply defined line bisecting the glass where the curtains hadn’t quite been pulled to. Ellie was in, but that was as I’d expected. As long as I was quiet, it made little difference.

  I’d already decided that the front door was unsafe. It was loaded with two sets of heavy wind chimes, which made enough of a racket to be heard through the closed door of the stockroom. It was less certain that they could be heard fr
om upstairs, but I thought there was no sense in risking it. I tiptoed round to the back of the shop, then paused for reconnaissance just before I reached the small scrap of yard that was overlooked by the flat’s kitchen window. A stealthy glance revealed that the blinds were up, but the kitchen light was out. My dark-adapted eyes could make out a faint, sallow glow, but I concluded that this must be the overspill from the light in the hallway. I knew that the security light was going to come on the moment I stepped into the yard, and that it would be highly visible through the window above, but since it was hard to imagine even Ellie sitting in the kitchen with the lights out, I had to assume that she was safely elsewhere. The yard light would be on for only a minute, and I’d have to be desperately unlucky if she came into the kitchen and spotted it in that time.

  Six silent paces took me to the lower back door. I paused only long enough for my eyes to adjust to the sudden glare that was now illuminating the yard, then slipped my key into the lock. The door creaked open and clicked shut, sending a small judder up my arm. It was the kind of stiff, heavy door that couldn’t be closed silently, but I thought I’d kept the noise to a minimum. I reasoned that in the muted gloom of the empty shop it probably sounded louder than it was, and unless you were listening out for it, or happened to be passing the top of the stairs at that very moment, it was the kind of dull, background noise that would pass unnoticed. Nonetheless, I was in no mood to hang about.

  I took my torch from one pocket and the letter from the other and proceeded swiftly through to the front counter. I’d left the letter in an unsealed envelope in case I wanted to make any last-minute modifications before I placed it next to the cash register. But now, casting my eyes over it one last time, I concluded that there was nothing I could change or add. There’d be a time for full explanations, but this was not it. I slipped the letter back into the envelope and was just about to seal it.

  The lights came on behind me.

  I jumped a foot in the air, then spun to find Ellie standing in the doorway. She was holding in her raised right hand a high-heeled boot, which she’d later explain was the best weapon she could find at such short notice. When the security light had come on, and then when she’d heard the door go, she’d had very little time to react. It transpired that smoking by tea light at the kitchen table was one of the ways Ellie liked to ‘unwind’ in the evenings. But my incursion had put paid to that. She was once more fully wound.