A to Z of You and Me

by James Hannah

  He chokes suddenly, unable to continue.

  I look at him. Sympathy.

  “I promise I was trying to do the right thing, but…well, it’s just words, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “I wanted to say, there’s a lot of things I should have said and done, you know? And a lot of things I shouldn’t have said and done. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. Too much time. You know that. I bet you’ve been through that, haven’t you? I know you have.”

  I have.

  “You find suddenly you’ve done all these terrible things for…for no reason, almost. Things that didn’t seem terrible at the time, you know? And not for a long time. But you find that, you know, your whole world’s changed because of them. Lots of people’s worlds. You’ve made your mark, whether you like it or not.”

  I look up at him now, and he seems small. It’s like I’m looking at him from a long way away. The little man. A little man in a chair, next to me, here, a little man in a bed.

  “So here I am, you know? Here we are.”

  “Mmm.” I frown and attempt to swallow. Get halfway and unswallow.

  I can’t—

  “I don’t know why I’m here, man, if I’m honest,” he says, looking over at me almost shyly. “All those years, you know, of imagining what it would be like to meet up again, say what I’ve got to say. I knew it’d never be the same as I’d thought. I had loads of things to say. Sitting there. Thinking it all up. It’s gone, you know? It’s not important, is it? Words don’t change anything. Don’t change what’s happened.”

  “No.”

  “You know, man, if I could I would—in an instant I’d go back and change everything. I wouldn’t have let you stay at that party. I wouldn’t have let you leave that party. I wouldn’t have fucking got in that car. I wouldn’t have done any of it, man. It was all my fault, man.”

  No, no. Too raw. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to have this out now. Have it out later if we’ve got to have it out at all. Have it out later. But he’s focused on me, intent on going through this. He’s going to sit there and make me go through this moment by moment.

  “No,” I say.

  “It was. I was right there; I should have stopped it. I know I should.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You’re a dying man, yeah? Let’s not fuck about with this. You’re dying. And that’s my fault too, isn’t it? I never told you, did I? When you were fucking yourself up in the clubs every night, I never said anything. But that’s because I didn’t know, man. I didn’t know how bad things were with you. But I should have known. I should never have stood by and watched, and I’m so, so sorry.”

  He’s fixing me with a desperate stare.

  “And if there was anything, anything, I could do to make it all better, I would do it, straightaway, you know what I mean?”

  The piercing glare in his eyes flickers and is finally diluted, and a tear swells in his right eye, breaks over the lid and flees down the side of his nose. He drops back now, back into the seat. Exhausted with the effort of it all.

  I close my eyes again.

  It’s me. The outline of me, could have been a chalk mark, scrawled on the floor of our apartment. Our shared apartment. I’m looking up, amazed at the bicycle wheel hanging crappily from the light fitting. Amazed at seeing a vision. A vision of glow sticks and smoke.

  Amazed enough to propel me to your front door, declare myself amazed.

  Your face, not amazed. Not amused.

  Your voice, alarmed. Trip to the ER for me.

  Backseat of the car for me, looking up at you.

  You and Mal, uneasy alliance.

  All for me.

  All because of me.

  I am a passenger.

  You, there in the hospital bed, me cradling your hand.

  Me, here in the hospital bed. Because of me.

  It’s because of me. All of it.

  I look over at Mal. He’s not looking.

  I need to get him to look at me.

  “Mal.” He looks up.

  His face is gray and drawn. The trace remains of the fallen tear.

  I hold out my hand. He edges toward. Takes it. Takes my hand by the outside. His palm to my knuckles. Wraps it gently into a fist.

  “You’re all right,” I say.

  He exhales and sniffs graphically. He doesn’t try to snatch back the blame. In truth, I think it lies between us. But…no use for truth.

  A large stream of snot begins to dangle from his nose.

  “Ah, shit, man. Sorry,” he says, clapping his hand to his face and wiping with his cuff.

  I smile. It actually makes me smile. I can feel it spread across my face.

  “Sorry.” He laughs.

  I breathe.

  It is good. This feels…it feels good.

  It was the right thing to do. All things fall into place.

  A broad, happy smile fills his face, right to the eyes.

  And the relief, the relief in him. I didn’t expect that.

  And they were right; of course they were right. Sheila. Kelvin. Laura, even. About…about what?

  To see him so broken… He looks—forgiven. And that’s not right.

  “Sorry, man,” I say.

  He looks back up at me. “Don’t be soft.”

  And oh, the relief of it: in him and now in me… I can physically feel it here in my body. I’m lifted with it, the weight of it gone. That’s what they told me would happen. A weightlessness, it’s true. This is definitely a thing. Definitely a real feeling.

  It’s you I want now. It’s you I want to forgive me.

  I cough. My body coughs without me. I have to wait to let it pass.

  I look beyond him, gaze over at the window. Painful light.

  One fluttering relief: the heart, there. Your heart in the tree.

  Close my eyes.

  So, so glad this is all over.

  Seems so easy, it’s embarrassing. I can feel from my heart up through my back, through the pain, through my limbs to the fingertips an overwhelming surge of love and goodwill.

  Drifting, I can feel the time slide around me.

  The coffee machine works up again and ceases, and Mal, close by, remains. The sense of a hand in my hand remains.

  And I don’t know if it’s there, and I don’t know if it’s you, crossing our hands to make a bird. A fluttering bird. Up against the sky, fluttering in the blue. Mingling in the wind. No more blur.

  The relaxation, I can feel it, creeping up my spine and into the base of my cranium, up through and around the thick bone of my skull, around to the deepest recesses of my brow. But in the depths of my deep frown, I can feel the resistance. I’m trapped in the room. We’re still in the beige, dry, air-conditioned room.

  Overwhelmed by the surge. I can feel my face crumpling, but no tears come. Tight throat.

  “Oh, man, are you all right?” says Mal’s voice, close.

  I open my eyes, and he’s there. Still there.

  And I’m still here. I look at him, and…are there tears?

  No, still.

  “I know, man,” he says. “I know.”

  “Just—”

  “I know.”

  “River Severn.”

  Silence—save the endlessly exhaling air conditioning.

  “You what, fella?” His voice, dry in the silence.

  I open my eyes wide. Look at him. Look at him hard. Does he remember? Does he remember everything I remember?

  His gray face holds still, rough and unshaven, shapeless hair encroaching on every side.

  “Hephzibah?” I say.

  His addled eyes grow clear, sharp. I’m reading him, reading. Willing him to remember what he said to me.

  “Hep-hep-hoor
ay?” I say, urging, urging him to recall.

  The clearness freezes in his eyes. A memory registers. He must remember. Wheelbarrow me up to Hephzibah’s Rock…a couple of spins around, hammer-style…fling me down into the Severn…

  “You got me?” I say.

  “Ah, no, man.” He’s looking at me. Scanning.

  “You said.”

  Still scanning. He’s afraid.

  “Don’t ask me, man.”

  “Please. Mal.”

  “It’s not fair to ask anyone that.”

  It isn’t. It isn’t fair.

  I sigh deeply—deeper than I can—and cough. Crumble into what coughing I can manage.

  My clamoring thoughts sink, defeated, to the back of my head. All I want now, all I need, is to be with you. I close my eyes and dump my head back into my pillow.

  Listen to the silence.

  “Come on, fella,” says Mal’s voice, renewed with brightness. “I can make you comfortable anyway. Is…is this the same blanket? Is this Mia’s blanket?” Slight waver in his voice. “It’s no good folded up by your feet, is it?”

  I sense him lean across me to gather it up.

  “Here you go, man. Let’s get you settled, yeah?”

  Subtle shift of cool air.

  “Shall we take this off?” I open my eyes and lift my head and allow him to prise the oxygen mask from my face. He hangs it carefully on the top of the canister beside me. Cool, dry air on my nose and mouth, the clammy shape of the mask subsiding.

  “Close your eyes, man, yeah?” he whispers. “Close your eyes.”

  I look at him: fix my gaze onto his eyes. Another tear drops from his eye as he leans over me. I feel it land on my cheek.

  He looks at me, and I look at him. I can see it in his eyes. I can see what he’s asking me.

  “Close your eyes.”

  I close my eyes now; close them.

  The sight of his face, the twisting branches of the tree in the daylight, cropped by the window beyond, all remain, fading on my vision.

  Luminous eyelids darken now.

  His hand now cupped on the back of my cranium, holding my head in his palm.

  Palm of calm.

  Faint familiar scent—vetiver. Still detectable, after all these years.

  You.

  Soft wool on my face. Alpaca and merino. So thick and heavy, pushed, pushed by Mal, tight, tight. Tight enough. Just right.

  Consistent stitches.

  Strong sense of you.

  Dry that tear.

  My hand now reanimated. He’s holding it. Gently, gently. Warm hand cradling mine, mine I’d forgotten. Mine so cool.

  “That’s better, yeah?”

  Stronger now, the scent.

  Pushed, tighter.

  Strong sense of you.

  That’s it, that’s what I can do: deep inhalation.

  Draw deep.

  Sleep down deep with you.

  Reading Group Guide

  1. Why do you think Ivo chose to address his stories directly to Mia, referring to her as “You”?

  2. How did your perception of Ivo change throughout the book? As the picture of his lifestyle, choices, and friendships came into focus, did you grow to like or dislike him more?

  3. What do you think appeals to Mia about Ivo?

  4. What could Ivo have done to salvage his relationship with Mia? Would it have changed anything, or would the outcome of the book still have been the same?

  5. Mia and Mal are arguably the two most important people in Ivo’s life, but between them, they have a complicated relationship. Why do you believe their interactions are so difficult?

  6. Who is to blame for Mia’s death?

  7. What do you think happens to Mal after we leave him?

  8. The A to Z of You and Me jumps back and forth in time through Ivo’s life. In your opinion, did that help to paint a fuller picture of him, or did you wish the book had followed a more linear structure?

  9. How does Ivo’s humor and attitude change as the book progresses? Does the seriousness of his situation reflect back in the body parts and stories he chooses?

  10. To what extent do you blame Ivo for the situation he is in?

  11. Was there a story in the A to Z game that resonated more strongly with you than others? If so, why was it particularly affecting?

  12. Ivo’s death doesn’t come as a surprise, as the novel revolves around his stay in hospice. How did your general expectation of the ending affect your experience of the book?

  13. If you had to pick a letter of the alphabet and tell a story of your life, what would it be?

  14. In your last days on earth, what would you choose to remember?

  15. “Love ends at death. Does it?” Discuss what you think and how Ivo, Mia, or other characters throughout the book support your opinion.

  A Conversation with the Author

  What was your inspiration for writing The A to Z of You and Me?

  Its structure is really a series of answers to a series of questions. I began with the tiniest thought, that it was interesting that a great deal of mathematics is contained simply within one’s fingers. Ten fingers point the way to a decimal system and a whole way of thinking. You have digits and points. Beyond that, drinks can be measured in fingers, horses can be measured in hands, and so on.

  It was a natural development to wonder how interesting it might be to have a whole anatomical dictionary made up of such anecdotes, which might then combine into a coherent story of someone’s life. The shape of the life would necessarily be dictated by the stories.

  Questions arose that I needed to answer:

  • Why would my character be dividing himself up like this? It’s a game. He’s creating little biographies for each part.

  • Why would he be playing this game? He’s trying to calm his fretful mind.

  • Why would he be trying to calm his fretful mind? He’s dying.

  • Why is he dying?

  “Why,” I asked a doctor friend of mine, “is he dying?”

  “Well, if he’s lucid enough to tell tales right up to the end, and is not too sedated or confused, it sounds like he might have a kidney problem. Often, you get quite young people with kidney failure because they haven’t managed their diabetes well.”

  So, I had my character. He has Type 1 diabetes, which is not his fault, at an age when all he wants to do is go out with his friends and have a good time. He finds managing his condition almost impossible, as his friends are not capable of providing the support he needs.

  This basic structure of the story emerged from an entirely mechanical process. I like that any other author would answer these basic questions differently and end up with another book altogether.

  There comes a time, however, when one needs to release the original concept to allow the idea to support itself. When I began to improvise around the body part ideas, I found that other, freer, more spontaneous ideas began to flood the book, gave it heart and warmth, and indeed began to force the main plot to account for itself. That’s where Sheila, Amber, and Old Faithful come in.

  Although Ivo’s situation isn’t ordinary, his emotions and yearnings are universal. How do you hope your readers relate, and what questions should they ask themselves?

  Certainly, Ivo isn’t blameless in his choices, but who among us has not acted in a self-destructive way and simply gotten away with it? Tonight, I’m going to eat that whole tub of ice cream, drink that whole bottle of whiskey, blow all my savings in a casino, buy that expensive gadget I can’t afford. The most excessive of us might be branded as lovable rogues. If you’ve ever tried to maintain a diet through January, you’ll have some idea of how hard Ivo’s diet “for life” might be, especially without the support of the people around him.

  Personally, I think Ivo is a
good guy. He’s kind and thoughtful, but unfortunate and misguided. His aspirations are certainly to better himself.

  So I guess I’m hoping readers will look at Ivo’s situation and question precisely how much he is in control of it, and how likely it was he would have been able to meet his aspirations with the resources at his disposal.

  What research did you do to add depth to Ivo’s sickness and his experience in hospice?

  Given that Ivo’s “narrative condition,” if you will, had been diagnosed by a doctor from the very beginning, I needed to shore that up with research about how he would be feeling. I kept checking with a renal consultant about what would be happening to Ivo physically—the assault on his dignity, his state of mind, what the doctors around him would be thinking, and so on.

  I have a couple of friends who are managing diabetes, and they were good enough to show me their everyday routine, what was involved in injecting insulin and whatnot. I cannot convince them that the book is not some incredibly unsubtle and doomy hint to them to stay on a healthy track.

  Much of the stuff that happens with Sheila and Amber and Old Faithful came from my observations of life and death in St. Catherine’s Hospice in Preston, UK—a place of many heightened emotions, including love and laughter.

  If you had to pick a letter in the A to Z game and tell a story about that body part, what tale would you tell?

  I already did. It’s in the book.

  As a debut author, what was the most surprising discovery you found on your journey to becoming published?

  The most surprising thing was that I was able to interest previously uninterested friends simply by telling them the concept of the book (“a character reveals the story of his misspent youth by recounting little tales about each part of his body”) before I’d even written a word of it. I was accustomed to friends switching off if I started talking about writing, so it was surprising that they were still engaged when I’d finished talking. All I had to do was preserve and nurture that little spark of interest while I wrote it.

  What does your writing space look like?

  The A to Z of You and Me had a real hodgepodge of writing spaces, though almost all of them were beds. My bed in Shropshire. A friend’s futon in Walthamstow, London. A cheap hotel room in Stevenage. I would stay over with my brother in Northampton each week and would write in a child-size bed with a Power Rangers cover and Bratz curtains while my nephew and niece camped out in the garden.