We Are Both Mammals

by G. Wulfing

  Carefully, remembering to keep breathing and to move deliberately, I leaned forward and stood up slowly. Toro-a-Ba seemed astonishingly heavy, but I reminded myself that it had been months since I last carried any weight besides my own. I stepped forward cautiously, and managed to carry us both slowly around the room and back to my bed. At one point I stopped and carefully looked over my shoulder, and saw Toro-a-Ba standing in the backpack, his head and shoulders protruding from it, his hands gripping the top of it where it touched my back, apparently riding me with ease.

  My body would tolerate no more than that one circuit of the bedroom, and I was surprised by the amount of concentration that was required; but it was clear to me and everyone else in the room that this idea would work. In the future, Toro-a-Ba would not have to exhaust himself in trying to keep up with me. If he could tolerate it, I might even be able to run whilst carrying him. He would be able to curl up inside the backpack and sleep, or stand up and get my attention by tapping my shoulder or speaking into my ear. Whilst standing, he would be able to see in all directions, and he would be safe from any hazard that I was able to evade. And the hose, that constant worry that dangled between us, was tucked up safely out of the way.

  The physiotherapist asked us what we thought. Toro-a-Ba pronounced it ‘a truly excellent idea’ and said that he was very thankful to her for thinking of it. I said similarly.

  The physiotherapist told us that we could borrow any or all of the backpacks for as long as we wanted, and she recommended that we experiment to find what kind of design we liked best. Eventually we could get one made to our own specifications.

  It may not seem like a life-changing thing, to own and use a backpack. Sometimes, it is the small, mundane things that make the biggest difference to our happiness.

  –––––––

  One day Surgeons Fong and Suva-a informed me and Toro-a-Ba that our healing was now at a stage whereat we could safely leave the clinic and make a home elsewhere. Our wounds were fully healed, my body was recuperating steadily, the specialists had collected all the data that they wanted for now; there was no longer any real need for us to remain here at the clinic.

  I received the news with mixed feelings. I had not been looking forward to leaving the clinic, primarily because I knew that when that happened I would not be going ‘home’; I would be embarking on a new life, one that I had not – initially, at least – chosen and one which I was not especially eager to begin. There was nothing outside the clinic for me, just as there was nothing inside it for me. I was going to have to start my life again, and it would perforce be nothing like anything that I might have chosen for myself.

  Toro-a-Ba, on the other hand, seemed glad. Of course he was: he had a family to see. A village to return to, though he would have me in tow.

  His happiness made my sadness complete. I had nothing to return to. All that I cared about had been crushed under a laser-imaging machine. There was nothing, out there, beyond these walls, that I cared about.

  At least while I was in here I had something to do: I could focus on getting better, and learning about what had been done to me. Out there … what would I do? What was the point of me, now? The surgeons had performed their experiment, and it was a success; what further purpose could I serve?

  “We will want to keep monitoring you, of course,” Fong had said, in her matter-of-fact way, “which is why we’re glad that you’re choosing to live near the clinic. Every week we want to take scans and samples so that we can see how your bodies are adjusting. But we can send someone out to you for that; the government will subsidise us to do that.”

  I had nodded silently.

  Was that my purpose, now? To keep living so that the surgeons and specialists could keep studying me?

  Perhaps it was as good a purpose as any, I thought dolefully. Perhaps it was as good a purpose as I could hope for.

  Toro-a-Ba said that he wanted to see his family in their village before we did anything else. I had no objection to this, so he contacted his family and made the arrangements.

  When, eventually, the thought occurred to me, I asked him why none of his family had visited him in the clinic. He replied that I had not been ready for visitors; and that he had known that I had no family of my own, and he did not want to distress me by introducing me to his world when I was struggling to cope with the fact that mine had just been shattered.

  In all those months when he was bedridden with me, he had never once complained or wished for company. He could have died, during the surgery or after, and yet he never asked for his loved ones to be near him, purely because such a thing would have distressed me.

  Before we left the clinic, a few significant matters had to be resolved. The house we would move into after returning from visiting Toro-a-Ba’s family had to be purchased, and arrangements had to be made for us to move into it on our return. Furniture had to be procured, and my possessions moved from my old apartment to the new house. I could not do any lifting of heavy boxes, of course, but someone still needed to pack up my effects; so Toro-a-Ba asked me if I wanted to return to my apartment to pack things.

  I hesitated for a long time over this question, and Toro-a-Ba did not press for an answer. At last I decided that I would: I wanted to see my apartment for the last time, to confront the fact that I was leaving my old life behind.

  Before anything else, however, we had to select our new dwelling.

  We could now travel by vehicle, and Toro-a-Ba booked a taxi for us, using his smartphone, specifically requesting a driver who had experience with passengers who have disabilities. He explained that this was not because he or I were unable to function, but because he felt we would be stared at less by such a person; and, since this would be our first trip into the world beyond the clinic, he felt that would be best for us.

  The houses that Toro-a-Ba had suggested were as beautiful on the inside as they were outside. The government had given us almost free rein: we could pick whatever house we wanted, and ask for whatever alterations or furniture we wanted, and all would be bought for us.

  Toro-a-Ba and I inspected four houses before we found the one that we both liked best. We are both rather practically inclined, wanting a restful house rather than an extravagant one, and we both wanted space, quiet and privacy, with a garden; so the decision was rather easy and unanimous. The house – our house – is in a quiet, upper-class part of Kivi-a, near to Suva-a’s clinic, and has large windows, lots of wood panelling and wooden floors, no stairs, plenty of space, a sizable garden with numerous trees, and what the real estate agent called ‘marvellous indoor/outdoor flow’.

  Because it may be possible to save Toro-a-Ba if I die, providing he can be transported to a hospital quickly enough, before we left the clinic Surgeons Suva-a and Fong procured a medical alert that he can activate if something happens to me: tethered to me as he is, if I collapse he will be unable to move from my side to summon help. The device is a small, waterproof, shockproof, bullet-shaped metal cylinder on a thin, strong, elastic cord around Toro-a-Ba’s neck. All he has to do is squeeze it in the right way, and an emergency global-positioning signal will be sent to computers at Surgeon Suva-a’s clinic and at the nearest ambulance station. The signal will inform them of our whereabouts while a tiny red light blinks at the end of the cylinder to show that it is activated and transmitting. The surgeons urged Toro-a-Ba to remember to lock the tiny lever that would cut off the flow of fluids between us, so that Toro-a-Ba will not bleed out with me if I am bleeding, nor be poisoned with me if I am poisoned. There is little point in my doing the same, however: if Toro-a-Ba is dying, I will be dying also.

  I tried not to think about how much this device – small and discreet though it is, half-hidden in the fur of the thurga’s neck – made Toro-a-Ba seem even more like a dog trotting alongside me.

  Visiting my old apartment to pack up my possessions was even more gut-wrenching than I had thought it would be. Toro-a-Ba and I took the elevator, where normally I would have
used the stairs; and when I unlocked the door and opened it – oh, those familiar movements! – and stepped into my living room, I almost burst into tears. Though my landlady had aired the apartment out and had cleaned out the food so that nothing could perish, the place still felt unlived-in; and here I was, walking back into it after all these months that felt like half a lifetime, a different person. It was like walking into the mausoleum of my life.

  Toro-a-Ba trotted along beside me, keeping pace with me as I wandered like a ghost through my few rooms. It was a struggle to start putting anything into boxes. At length I began, and Toro-a-Ba helped by wrapping fragile things in clothes and textiles and packing them carefully into boxes. It was strange to see him handling my clothes for me, and again the freakish feeling that I had brought home my new wife caused the skin of my back to chill.

  Out of necessity, we worked side by side. As we always would, from this day on.

  I did not have a great many possessions, preferring to keep my life simple – hah! A luxury I would never have again, thanks to a cursed laser-imaging machine! – and it took only a day to pack them all. I left the boxes where they sat, rather than risk injury by lifting them, and they and the furniture would all have to be moved by the removal crew in two days’ time.

  When we had checked that all was packed, I stood near the door, keys in hand, and gazed at the living room. A lump was rising in my throat. When I left here, I would be saying goodbye forever to the person I had been.

  “Daniel.”

  I glanced down at Toro-a-Ba.

  “I am not here.” Toro-a-Ba turned away from me, to our right, lay down on the floor beside and a little behind me, closed his small dark eyes, folded his soft ears back against his head, and covered his face with his little furry hands. He was being absent, invisible, as much as he could be. He was leaving me alone, as much as he ever could, to say goodbye to my apartment by myself.

  Appreciative of the gesture, I looked around my apartment, my eyes filling with tears. This moment was the nearest thing to solitude that I would ever again experience. And in the same moment, I was saying goodbye to all the solitude I had ever had.

  I stood still and closed my eyes. I tried to forget little Toro-a-Ba lying on the floor near me, and to feel alone. I wept, and I could feel my body shaking with quiet sobs, and I am sure the hose must have trembled slightly and Toro-a-Ba must have felt it, but he did nothing, said nothing, and I stood there and wept for I know not how long.

  At last, I wiped my tears, breathed deeply, and silently said my last goodbye.

  Then I turned to Toro-a-Ba, who was lying still, exactly as I had last seen him. I crouched, and knocked softly with my knuckles on the wooden floor beside him. He lifted his hands from his face and looked up at me.

  “Let’s go,” was all I said, not meeting his gaze, knowing that my face was red and tear-streaked. He said not a word, but followed me as I closed the door behind us, locked it for the last time, and headed for the elevator.

  In the elevator, I wanted to thank him for trying to give me a moment of solitude. All I could manage was a gruff, “Thanks,” while regarding the opposite wall.

  “Peace be upon you, Daniel,” he said softly in reply, after a moment’s hesitation; which seems to be what thurga-a say when they need to say something but do not know what it should be.

  –––––––

  All this happened two years ago.

  It feels so long ago; and yet, in many ways, it still feels like yesterday. Only yesterday, and if I could just rewind the time by twenty-four hours or even twelve, perhaps I could stop myself from going to work at the laboratories that day.

  I still cannot remember the accident. I cannot even remember those moments that led me to this life; the moments when everything changed.

  My hair, half of which fell out a month after we left the clinic, in reaction to the shock of the whole ordeal, has at last regrown. Toro-a-Ba’s shaven fur regrew rapidly, of course, and one cannot tell that there was ever a shaved patch on him.

  The scars, and the small tubes in my abdomen, still ache and twinge occasionally.

  I have learned to ignore the stares directed at me as I walk down the street with my living life-support system trotting alongside me like a pet dog.

  I have forgotten what it feels like to be normal; to blend in with the crowd, no one knowing my orphaned past, nor the intimate details of my life.

  A nurse, or sometimes one of the surgeons, comes to visit us once a week, leaving me, at least, with the curious and depressing feeling that I have some lifelong ailment that requires perpetual monitoring from medical specialists.

  On some days I feel almost hopeful; hopeful that my life is still worth living and that I can still find purpose and happiness; on other days, I am sunk in gloom, and it is a struggle to hide this from Toro-a-Ba. In fact, if I am at all honest with myself, I know that I can hide very little from him.

  To his credit, he rarely asks how I am.

  I still step on him, bump into him or trip over him occasionally, to my chagrin; and of course he instantly forgives me, every time, even if I have hurt his sensitive snout or trodden on his tail. If I stumble against him and fall, he is always more concerned for me than for himself. If he steps on my foot or bumps into my leg, he is apologetic, despite the fact that such little collisions from a creature so much smaller than myself are scarcely likely to cause me pain or even discomfort.

  I cannot fathom his patience, and that somehow makes me a little afraid.

  I must admit that our house is beautiful. We have kept furniture to a minimum, and spaced it so that we need not worry overmuch about bumping into it or snagging our hose on it. Toro-a-Ba and I have chosen simple, classically elegant furniture, in earthy, calming, natural colours and textures. To my relief, Toro-a-Ba is a naturally clean and tidy person, like me. We can manage most of the housework and gardening ourselves, and whatever we cannot do we hire others to do, and send the government the bill. The trade-off for this is that we are occasionally summoned – at the government’s expense – to attend medical symposiums or other events where we may be studied and interviewed. Frequently, at these events, we meet the surgeons who operated on us, including Suva-a and Fong.

  We have had two backpacks – one of which is a spare – made to our specifications, with internal pockets placed so that they will not annoy Toro-a-Ba. Thurga-a naturally like to sleep in nests, so Toro-a-Ba is perfectly happy to be carried in a backpack for what usually amounts to a few hours per day. He has put a woollen blanket inside the backpack and he often sleeps there while I do my share of the housework. He has even learnt to sleep while I am jogging, which I have at last become able to do again – even while carrying the now-familiar weight of approximately six kilograms of thurga – if I am cautious and do not strain. When we are out, I generally wear a belt bag so that I can access my possessions without having to remove the backpack and disturb Toro-a-Ba. The extra slumber is good for him, since his body is working harder than usual to assist mine. Alternatively, he uses his smartphone or tablet, reads, or listens to music using headphones. It is entirely common for us to be sitting side by side, reading, watching different films, or listening to different music, typically with a cushion resting on its edge between us. I use the cushion as an armrest, but I suspect the cushion ends up there, in that position, because it acts as a psychological barrier between us: we can pretend to ourselves that we have some privacy because there is a small ‘wall’ separating us.

  The simple fact that Toro-a-Ba is always on my right and I on his left causes some peculiar situations and habits for us; for example, because the kitchen sink in our house is on the left of the draining board, I invariably wash the dishes while Toro-a-Ba dries them. Switching roles would be possible, but physically awkward and potentially uncomfortable for both of us.

  As the nerves in our sides have regrown, snagging the hose or tugging on it becomes more painful. Although it is synthetic, it is part of us, and I f
or one am as protective of it and anxious about it as I would be of any body part.

  When it comes to moving together, we have had to become very attuned to each other’s body language, always alert to the tiny signals that indicate the decision to stand up, to start walking, to sit in a particular position or on a particular seat, to speed up, to slow down, to stop, to turn left or right, to enter or exit or reverse … Every movement has become deliberate and careful. We are constantly watching each other out of the corners of our eyes. We have had to learn the perfect distance to keep from each other: near enough to be able to move quickly with the other, but not so close that we bump into each other. We have also become very aware of our physical surroundings. Anything, however trivial, that could foul the hose or cause one of us to be pulled away from the other is a hazard. If either of us is startled and steps back or starts to flee, he risks jerking the hose or colliding with the other person. I have learned to grip the hose with one hand when Toro-a-Ba makes a large leap, such as when he jumps up onto something high, in order to control the movement of the hose so that it does not tug on my side.