by Angela Meyer
‘No!’ she cries. ‘Don’t let them take him away.’
‘Mavis, calm ye’self; we will work it out.’
Her crying becomes louder, uncontrollable. Crombie’s ears rise, though he remains where he is. Tess, standing by another patient’s bed, gives a woof. Mavis jumps. She trembles. The attendant opens the door and leaves the room.
‘Mavis, Mavis,’ I say, ‘please try to stop crying. It won’t be of any help.’
‘Just look at him,’ she says. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘How?’ I ask.
‘It’s always my fault. I have …’ she raises her shaking hands in front of our faces ‘… don’t let me touch you!’
‘This is not your fault.’
‘I only fell asleep for a moment,’ she says. ‘I was so exhausted.’
‘I know.’
The attendant comes back with another attendant and a nurse in tow. They don’t move towards the dog but straight over to us.
‘Yes, it’s my fault,’ says Mavis, unresisting, reaching her arms out to be grasped by the two women. ‘But please help him,’ she says to them, before turning back to me. ‘Please help him,’ she repeats to the room. When they leave, the other patients’ eyes remain on me.
‘Is the dog all right?’ asks an older woman whom I’ve never heard speak before.
‘I …’ I’m so worried he may not be. And now it is on my shoulders. ‘I can only guess what the problem is.’
‘Will you fix it?’ another asks.
I walk back over to Crombie and stroke his fur. ‘I’ll do my best.’
As we move into the breakfast hall I ask for permission to speak to the cook. The young attendant forbids it, her reasoning being that it will look like I have been given special treatment.
‘Well, can you ask the cook for some rice or potatoes?’ I try. ‘Not for me, for the dog.’
The attendant gives me a strange look, and shakes her head, then goes to stand by the door.
I sit back down at the table and all eyes look expectantly at me. I fight the burn in my throat.
‘Right,’ I say to the group. ‘I think that the dog may have swallowed a cooked bone from our chicken last night.’ A few faces look determinedly down at their plates. ‘Please – you weren’t to know, if it was you. But cooked bones can splinter. Try to remember it from now on.’ There are a few nods. ‘It sounds strange, but if we feed Crombie more solid foods – potato is good – then we can cushion the bone fragments, in a way, make them easier to pass.’
‘What about our porridge?’ asks a tall sallow woman. Some of the others hug their bowls to their chests. I smile at her and nod, but at the same time our eyes flick towards the attendant. How would we get a bowl of porridge out of the dining area?
The woman next to the sallow one – buck-toothed Abigail – says, ‘Ooh!’ and indicates the pocket beneath her skirt, grinning. Soon afterwards, we arrange through whispers the swapping of bowls – so we still all have one in front of us, while the remnants of porridge in most of them are deposited into Abigail’s pocket, which she reties under her dress at the end of the meal. We are all smiling lightly – there is a sense of camaraderie – though we smell darkly of fear and sweat. These women are my peers, my neighbours, possible friends. We have met misfortune.
As with my own poor mother. Who never recovered after I was born. That is what my father told me in his letter. And they did stay in Edinburgh for the doctors, he writes. This time around, he thought I’d be well there, young and resilient and unencumbered. He expressed much regret.
I have made many mistakes in my life. I do not know how to make up for them.
As we exit the dining hall, the young attendant grabs the skulking Abigail firmly by the arm. ‘You cannot save food for later. You must eat your fill at mealtimes.’
Abigail is shocked. We walk on, pretending not to notice. Again, that burning throat. You try and you try and nothing works.
Back in the ward Crombie lies in the same position, breathing heavily. There is an older, friendlier attendant at the door now, one who doesn’t speak much and who more often overlooks our outbursts. We sit on the cold floor in a circle around the dog.
Abigail with her now empty wet pocket sits next to me, shaking her head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I rub her arm.
And then, from the corner of the room a skeleton-thin mute called Vanessa enters the circle. At my eye level are her exposed ankles, narrow as wrists, with stockings bunched. She bends and sits right by Crombie, with audible cracks in her limbs. She reaches into her bodice, at the top where her breasts should be, and pulls out a slice of bread. She holds it by Crombie’s nose, and he tentatively gives it a sniff and a lick before taking it in his jaws. From the other side of her bodice she pulls another slice.
I know the dogs are due to go outside soon. The bread should help the shards of bone pass through.
‘Thank you, Vanessa. Thank you.’
I’m finally out of bed. But lulled by the painkillers that have helped me, I snooze in this uncomfortable white wooden chair in the wild garden of the property, notebooks tucked in an inner-jacket pocket, trying not to look like I am waiting. He has probably already gone by me, seen me drooling. No matter; he doesn’t have to like me. No one ever need like me again. I’d like to think that Leonora would have, though, that healer of animals.
I can’t tell what time or even what temperature it is. My body gives false readings; my skin presents itself to the world as cadaverous already, impenetrable. What am I doing out here? Faye could drive along that high road and see me as a speck in the distance – I feel certain she’d recognise me, even from there. Or Bethea could be poking around, trying to turn on William. ‘Turn on’, ha-ha, I wonder if the robot services women as well. It’s probably been a while for her.
No, I’m sure she’s not. No doubt she’ll take the nephew out for drives or walks or whatever, which will give me some time to work out how to get William on and talking, so I can extract Leonora’s story and then burn, burn, burn myself into the ground.
I feel like the only person I would tell my thoughts to now would be Faye. Ha.
That’s a silly thought.
The front door squeaks open behind me. I’m too nervous to look.
‘S’cuse me, Mr … Jeff, um, me aunt wants to know if you’re up for some tea.’
I turn my head slowly. Bird legs in black jeans, swept-across fringe, small pink mouth. Oh dear God. He’s coming towards me.
‘Jeff?’
I am on the verge of explosive tears, or maybe about to vomit. I clear my throat. And again.
‘Yes please,’ I manage.
‘Righto.’ He bird-hops inside, leaving the door open.
I don’t deserve this. Or I am mad already and have imagined it. A wee Scottish Eric, an image of the one who gave me life, this troubled life, but the depth of beauty that is life. My cheeks are wet now. I must dry them. I said I don’t care if he doesn’t like me and that’s true, but I also don’t want him to be so disgusted that he keeps away, well away from me. No – he should. Oh, but when you’ve seen. I am so weak. So terrible. How much of life we spend trying to hide our utter desperation for a glimpse, a small touch, a taste, of that which we find exquisite.
It’s Bethea coming out with the tea tray, spoons jingling in cups. He’s close behind. She sits the tray on the little white table that only just accommodates it, and pours, humming. He stands with arms akimbo, then lifts one hand to push his thick hair back, but it falls immediately again over his forehead.
‘What’s wrong with ye, then?’ he asks me.
‘Bleddyn,’ Bethea says firmly.
Yes, what would she have told him? And how would she have explained my presence? She gives me a conspiratorial grimace.
I clear my throat again. The shock of his beauty remains. ‘Just, ah … spot of TB.’
Bethea raises her eyebrows.
‘It’s made a real comeback, you know,’ I add.
&nbs
p; ‘Consumption, eh? Not the best place for you then, is it?’ he says, and then crinkles his eyes up exaggeratedly in a grin. ‘Should be down in Spain, mate.’ His attempt at saying ‘mate’ with my accent is amusing. I give him a half-smile, realising I probably look like a squashed toad.
Hopefully he doesn’t know too much about the symptoms, or can’t pick the symptoms of my own disease, my rot. Hopefully he won’t realise I am dying.
Bethea will have a lot on her hands when that happens. I wonder if she can still play dumb, though, express shock and say that I had told her I was being treated? That I was in recovery? Wouldn’t be very believable. Or maybe all this time she actually hasn’t known I am dying. No, I’m sure we share this secret knowledge. I mean, look at how I’m falling apart.
Both Bleddyn and Bethea sit down on the other white chairs, and we peer down to grass and trees and rocky outcrops and ocean, to the two buzzards crying and circling. Bleddyn slurps when he sips his tea. Bleddyn – little wolf. I am so glad for the blanket across my lap. I will have to carry it around with me everywhere I go.
And then, unexpectedly, they return. Worse than they’ve ever been before.
The woman with the short hair says words I do not understand, like ‘Vegemite’ and ‘jumper’, though when I am inside the vision I am him and I understand the words, and I know that I both want to be here with her and I don’t. I am regretting the third beer (pronounced ‘bee-yah’) because I’ve bloated uncontrollably like a woman on her period. Faye bends over to pull another beer out of the Esky (she’s one ahead) and I stare openly at her arse.
Esky. Esky. It dances around in my head all morning when I wake and stare at the white walls. I’ve missed breakfast.
He stood up then and cupped his hands beneath her cheeks.
I woke and was surprised not to see that swollen organ between my legs.
The vision was accompanied with such sadness, too. And something else. Something like when I was supposed to meet my schoolhouse friend Abby but I was hawk-spotting with Mr Anderson and I plain forgot. And then I saw her by the low stone wall. That feeling in my gut when I saw her face. It was a feeling like that.
Someone’s face, a familiar face, is above me now.
‘Esky,’ I say.
‘You’re not making any sense.’
I go back under with him, into the water. A boy is swimming nearby, and he reaches out his pale white hand and touches the boy’s shoulder. The boy turns his wet head, looks alarmed, looks toward the shore.
I wrestle myself into the now. I don’t want to know.
‘Jeff!’ I call. I know his name and he knows I know. I begin to shake. ‘Jeff. Jeff.’
It is Edward, talking now to a nurse. She says I’ve been talking to myself, moaning. He glances at me. ‘Leonora, you’re awake.’
My words are caught. Jeff got my tongue.
‘He knows what he has done to me,’ I say.
‘Who?’ But then Edward frowns. Perhaps he fears I will say his brother’s name. ‘Leonora, I’m afraid we have to move you.’
‘Is the dog well?’
‘They are both all right. You are not. And you are causing a disturbance.’ He looks genuinely distressed, his chin dimpling as he gazes down at me over his collar. ‘We need to isolate you – and then we can get to the bottom of this.’
‘It’s not because of my mother,’ I say. My body still shivers, vibrates. I try to remember to accept that this is a mental condition, that I need to be cured – but it is too palpable. Jeff: existing, somewhere in some other time.
It is Jeff who is holding on to me. Not the other way around. Perhaps because he could not tell Faye all about himself, or the older woman he sits with now.
Yes, I see you, Jeff. I see it all. I see that you need to finally show your insides. But I don’t need that. I need to be out of here. I need the grass. I need to live. Don’t take me with you into that bloodless otherworld. Please, cut me off.
I’ve been rooting around in the box William came in, looking for another source of power. I take frequent breaks, sitting, frustrated, on the dusty carpet. I shuffle over to the robot and run my hand through his hair and down his neck. Wait – there is a bump, small, at his hairline. I push down on it and voila, a flap of neck springs open at the back, containing the solar panel. I knew he’d have to have one. It is the cheapest and most abundant source of power, though some corporations engaged in the ongoing resource wars would still have you believe that we need to push aside the populations (and remaining wildlife) of nations in order to get at their coal.
The company I’d worked for had been embroiled in this. On one arm they still invested in old energy sources and stymied renewables, while on the other they developed and pushed ‘adaptive’ technologies, like weather shields for buildings, temperature-control clothing, genetically modified food and drinks, and so on. The biotech and neurotech arms were only partly about finding ways to improve quality of life – they were also about finding novelty forms of entertainment and creating the kind of tech that would be highly sought after (bringing in huge amounts of revenue). Like my friend the magical little tab. It was my job to market the tech-tainments that made it past testing. And it was simple. The tab would have been simple, too: Now here’s a way to adapt to climate change and war – just sit back, relax, get out of your head. Mind your heid. It’s not the fault of scientists and designers like Henry, it’s just their job; it’s just the way it is. If they don’t create these techs then some other clever person will.
Okay, so now I need to get William into the sun, and not draw too much attention to what I’m doing.
‘Cor, what’s he?’ The lad is at the door to my room.
‘Oh, hello, Bleddyn. It’s just an andserv.’
‘We never had one like that at school.’
‘It’s a banned model.’ I give him a conspiratorial wink, then feel stupid for it. ‘Actually, I wonder if you could help me.’
‘Yeh.’
‘Just gotta get him into the sun, for some juice.’
Bleddyn nods, his arms akimbo again and his hip bones sticking against the lip of his jeans. His shirt, tucked – some collared, floral polyester number from a bygone era. The kid has a bold style. He moves over to me and bends to put his lean hands under William’s shoulders. Bleddyn’s hair flips off his forehead, catching my face. I inhale, subtly. He tests the weight, seems to decide it isn’t too bad, and then pulls him up to his chest. ‘He’s pretty light!’
‘So you can take them with you when you travel, I guess.’
‘Feels strange. ’Cos it looks so human.’ He peers down at the sleep-mask of William. Two pretty things side by side. This is why we live, I think. And then: how can I even deserve such a sight? And with Leonora all fucked up, seeing my sights, too.
I’ll die soon, Leonora. I’ll leave you alone.
Though I have actually been feeling good today. What if the doctors are wrong? Or liars? What if they wanted me to just spend all that money on drugs and operations? What if it was just some infection, and it’s going away? Fat chance … And I should die. I need to.
Bleddyn looks up at me. ‘C’mon, then.’ He smiles. The smile is a dart.
I creakily stand and follow him. He switches to carrying William behind him, one arm hooked back over the torso. Bleddyn’s joints are flexible. William’s lower body thuds gently on each carpeted step. Bleddyn goes slowly.
‘Where is your aunt?’ I ask.
‘Dunno,’ he says.
He pulls William through the kitchen and out the back door; across the path made of large rocks (some a bit wobbly) through the weedy garden, scaring off a rabbit; and to a grass patch he’s just mowed, from which there is a dip and, in the distance, the sea. The briny wind pushes Bleddyn’s hair into his eyes and he shakes his head to clear it. Then he sits William down, crosses William’s legs, and pushes his head down so the neck is exposed. William looks as though he is sulking, picking at stalks of grass.
Bleddyn
flops onto the ground next to William, stretching full out so I can see every rib through his shirt. His eyes are closed so I can have a good long look and hold the image in my mind. I’ve done this for as long as I can remember. I was born with some inbuilt knowledge of ephemerality. I drink in images like whisky. It actually helps. I have many pictures of Eric, frozen in time. Faye, too.
It’s hard to have this kind of personality, though. A voice inside that prods you and says: This is a moment. Remember it. Because as soon as you realise it’s a moment, you depart yourself. You are on the outside or in the future looking back on the moment and the image, instead of being fully present in it. My future is so short that I am merely storing this particular image for tonight or tomorrow, not years from now.
Bleddyn opens his eyes.
‘What?’ He sits up on his elbows. ‘What’s that?’ I say innocently, peering out over the garden at the salt spray, and at one of the buzzards rising on the current.
‘How long till he works?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Get some sun, then. You look like you need it.’
I obey, sitting down next to him. Not too close. I lie on my side. The grass prickles, but it’s not like it is in Australia – not pungent, not full of stinging bull ants and crushed eucalyptus leaves. Even the bees here are softer – large and fluffy, like toys. Though I haven’t seen a bee in Australia since I was a child. I do think about the ticks, but I don’t care anymore. Let them burrow.
Soft, yellow eyelid light, rising sweet grass, soft, quiet. So quiet here now.
I have that sick-stomach urge to weep again, a weight pushing down on my lungs, and a hot throat. I don’t expect you to feel for me. I don’t even know who ‘you’ is anymore; I’ve vowed to destroy this (and yet I’m still addressing you, as though I want you to be here with me); I don’t know what the fuck I am doing on the grass; I want to roll back over (is he looking at me?) and touch his cheek, or his stomach, concaved below the ribs with his arms under his head like that, chewing a piece of grass and projecting an image of what he wants to be, as young men do – not a single fucking worry. My lust (love? So close to the idea of transience – have I always fallen quickly?) is always tinged with envy, ever the beta-male, fighting for a position, to be fit, to not seem desperate, to not seem earnest, to be functional, to be successful, to not be weak, to not be suicidal, to not be me.