CHAPTER 25
He always felt sick after operations, with a taste of burnt plastic in his mouth from the anaesthetic and a sore throat from the breathing tube they used. Turning his head slightly, he noticed he was on a drip. It seemed to take him longer to recover from each operation, and the period of depression afterwards seemed to get longer too, though he always tried hard not to let it show.
'What a brave boy!’ everyone said. 'Always smiling; never lets it get him down.’ He was, they agreed, an example to them all.
When people asked Keith's mother how she managed to keep going, looking after him, she said that if Keith could be so happy, with all that he had to go through, then surely she could cope too. If he had been the depressive type, she would probably have gone to pieces, she said. But there: some people had a naturally happy personality and whatever troubles they had, life just didn't get on top of them.
Knowing that his mother could only cope with him because he seemed to be coping for her too was a heavy responsibility. He could see how hard she worked and how tired she often became. He was lightweight but awkward to lift because his body was twisted and rigid and didn't yield and because it caused him pain to be handled clumsily. Several of the operations had been for the sake of his carriers, to make his stiff limbs bend so it was easier for them to take him to the toilet or so that his wheelchair required fewer adaptations to accommodate his oddly shaped body.
Keith was angry about that, though he tried .not to be. There seemed something wrong with a world that decided to redesign a human being to fit a bathroom or a wheelchair, or even another person's convenience. Always, he was told it was for his benefit. He had gone along with it, smiling, ever smiling, but now he could feel the anger he had suppressed over the years beginning to rouse itself, like a sleeping lion.
He tried to reach the bedside locker to pick up his Bible but couldn't manage it. He needed something to distract his mind. Lately, he had been reading the book of Daniel over and over again. He liked all the prophets: Elijah and Elisha, Ezekiel, Judith, Jonah, Isaiah and Jeremiah - probably Isaiah most of all, with his brilliant portraits of the archetypal human being, the suffering servant whom everyone rejected and overlooked but who, in silent love, shouldered everyone's troubles without them realizing and took on himself all the consequences of their compromises and hypocrisies and refusals to listen.
But just recently he felt he had most in common with Daniel, who had survived not only being thrown into the blazing furnace and the lions’ den - not uncommon punishments in those days for the dangerous offence of speaking truths no one wanted to hear - but who had also stood up for a woman who was wrongly accused, and used his gift for interpreting dreams and supernatural phenomena with meticulous truthfulness, even to the extent of telling the king that God was warning him to change from greed to humility.
A night in a pit full of hungry lions was only one incident in the life of this particular suffering-servant man of courage that Keith so much wanted to be and, God knows, was trying to be.
But now he needed Daniel with him, Daniel who understood lions, for there was this lion within him and however hard he struggled with it, like Jacob wrestling with the angel all night, the lion was getting stronger all the time and one day soon, Keith felt, it was going to get out. Then, with a ferocious roar, the lion - whose name was Rage - would throw itself on all the good, loving, anxious people who surrounded him and whose whole lives revolved around doing what was good for him and it would devour them.
Daniel had known the lions didn't want to eat him, because lions too were creatures of God. But lions that had been tormented, used for sport and trained to be vicious with criminals of all sorts and had been starved for days and nights, could be driven to override their divine command not to harm the innocent and could perceive any creature as food. That they didn't turn on each other was only because - as Daniel knew - each animal had a strong sense of who it was, and the King of the Jungle does not comply with even another lion's demand to become its food supply.
Daniel had known, more strongly than the lions, who he was, and his faith in himself as a man, made in the image and likeness of God, had convinced those hungry beasts of prey not to regard him as food.
And Keith only had to ask now and Daniel would come and give him a hand to remember who he was - the brave and loving child of a caring and well-meaning family - and not let the beast Rage attack their frail hopes and their fond delusions, leaving them hurt and confused and unable to cope.
His only prayer nowadays was that he would die before the lion caught up with him and destroyed all their lives.
He must have slept, because he opened his eyes to find his mother leaning over him, bearing a large bunch of flowers and a handful of envelopes.
'How are you, my darling? Does the leg hurt?’
'It's not bad. How are you, Mum?’
'Oh, bless you, my love, always thinking of others. I'm all right; you're the one we've all been worrying about. Look, all your schoolfriends have written and sent you cards.’
'That's nice.’ She would have been to the school, Keith thought, and asked his class tutor to give the class time to sign and scribble messages on the pile of cards she had brought in for them. Each envelope bore his name in a different handwriting. He could tell without opening them which of his classmates had addressed which one.
The messages would be unvarying: 'We miss you'; 'Get well soon'. But they were used to missing him by now and when he got back to school his wheelchair place would be taken by an ordinary desk and chair, which would have to be moved. There had been no point in keeping vacant a prime position - near the door, with an easy view of the board - for a boy who was hardly ever there.
By the time he came back, he would have missed so much work that he would hardly be part of the class, at any rate. The teacher would come and lean over him, explaining in whispers what he would need to read, while the class was set some work. And he would try to concentrate on reading up on the subject, while the teacher was leading the class in a noisy discussion, with everyone waving their hands and shouting out answers to questions, and he could take no part in the debate because he hadn't yet found out about what they were debating.
'Want me to prop you up so you can open them?’ Keith's mother offered.
'No, thanks.’ If he moved, he would be sick. Seeing her face drop, he said, 'I can look at them later on. I'd rather talk to you now.’
It wasn't too hard to make her smile. How could he refuse her anything, when she was so transparently eager to do things for him and so easily transformed from sadness to contentment?
She sat on the edge of his bed now, ready to chat. He wished he felt more alert, less nauseous.
'How's everyone at home?’ he said.
'Oh, fine. Andrew's out with his girlfriend again.’ She laughed.
‘Jessica?’
'Yes. They live in each other's pockets now. It's so sweet. We mustn't tease him, though. He's very solemn about it.’ Keith tried to move his neck, which had cricked. 'Are you uncomfy, love?’
'No. Go on. Is he seeing her often, then?’
'Every evening after school. He doesn't come home any more; he goes straight to her place.’
Keith must somehow have missed this. After school, he either had physio or was put to bed to rest at home. He hadn't heard Andrew around the house recently, it was true, but then he rarely did. His mother didn't let anyone make a noise during Keith's rest times.
'Don't her parents mind Andrew being there every day?’ he asked.
'Parent. Her mother died last year. Her father's usually out at work. She cooks the tea for him when he comes home. Andrew's been helping her.’
'Helping her cook?’
'And with the housework apparently. Her father got talking to Grandad in the newsagent's last week; they were both in there early one morning when Andrew brought back his bag from the paper round.’
'He's been doing a lot,’ said Keith. And coming in to see me, h
e thought, and remembering to stop off and buy me the crisps I like. His little brother was growing into a responsible and capable man. He would need to be, to support his parents through their bereavement. Keith didn't envy him that responsibility. But maybe Andrew had more courage than Keith. Keith hadn't even been able to speak up for himself about this operation, for fear of unpopularity.
He breathed deeply to counteract the nausea but that set off a fit of coughing. His mother was immediately anxious, reaching for the bell to summon a nurse.
'I'm all right,’ he said, wheezing.
'Is your chest bad, Keith?’
'It's only the anaesthetic. It's always like that,’ he reassured her.
'It was never that bad before.’ She was hunched up, her hands gripped together between her knees, white across the knuckles. She had been like this all his life, listening to every breath, watching every move. He wondered if she would relax once he had gone, if in some ways she would find it a relief not to have to worry about him. Or perhaps the worry had become a habit and even a security and she would look for other things to be terrified of once there was no longer any risk of his death.
'Mum,’ he said, 'there's something I want to say to you.’
'Of course, sweetie-pie. What is it? Do you want some more Lucozade brought in?’
'No. No, thanks.’
'Oh look,’ she said, 'here's Grandad.’
‘Just before he comes,’ said Keith urgently. 'Please, listen to me.’
'I'm listening. What is it?’
He had to be quick. It had to be said, and it had to be said by him because she would only accept it from him; whenever the family doctor had suggested it, over the years, she wouldn't listen to any hint of it. And it had to be now or else he would lose his nerve. There was no time for tact.
'Mum,’ he said earnestly, fixing his eyes on hers, 'this operation is my last one. There won’t be any more.’
Too late, he realized the interpretation she would put on it - not that he had made a decision for himself, but that he had some premonition he would die before the next stage of surgery could be arranged.
Tears filled her eyes and overflowed. Grandad, arriving with sweets and comics, shot a concerned glance from her face to Keith's.
'Something wrong?’
'No, no!’ she said, springing up and giving him a brief hug, then pushing him away from her in Keith's direction. 'Everything's fine. Doesn't he look well after his operation, Grandad?’
Keith had tried his best to hold it in. But now, turning his head, he was sick all over the bedclothes.
Genius Page 25