The Enumerations

by Máire Fisher

  ‘He’s not very good with those,’ Juliet says. ‘Psycho-bitch seems to be the best he can come up with.’

  Not like Maddie.

  Hearing her describe her brother – showing how deeply she understands him – fills Noah with wonder.

  There was a time, not long ago, when he would have shrunk back into the wall if Maddie had told people like Kyle Blake to get lost. Now though, looking at the faces of the students surrounding them, seeing flashes of recognition as Maddie’s words hit home, Noah realises how many lives Kyle has made a misery.

  But not Noah’s, not any more.

  He’s going to phone his sister this evening. Tell her she’s a star. In the meantime, though …

  Noah waits to use the computer in the Rec Room, logs on, sees his YouTube user name flash up on the screen. NoahArkman.

  What are you doing? You’ve been told, no contact with Kyle Blake.

  But this isn’t contact with him, or his parents.

  This is Noah, talking to his sister, adding to the long stream of comments.

  NoahArkman

  Thanks, Mads. You’re the best. See you Sunday.

  Noah (Maddie’s brother – Greenhills Clinic)

  149.

  Day 48 / 10:39

  ‘So, like I was saying, my sister called last night.’

  ‘What?’

  It’s Saturday morning and Juliet’s there, putting the kettle on.

  ‘Yeah. I was surprised, too.’ Her tone is mildly sarcastic, but she grins at Noah.

  ‘Sorry.’ He’s learning, slowly, that it’s worth paying full attention from the moment she starts talking, otherwise he lands up lost and confused, wandering in Julietland. One of these days he’s going to tell her what it’s like being on the receiving end of her constant stream of information.

  ‘Yep, Noah. Lily called with some interesting news.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you tell Ms Turner?’

  She laughs. ‘Why should I tell her when I have you to talk to, Noah? So ready to listen, so full of good advice.’

  ‘That’s me,’ he says. ‘Pearls of wisdom.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘My God, Noah. A joke. Maybe that’s something you should share with Ellen?’

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘Lily? She phoned?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Juliet looks down. ‘It was quite something, actually.’

  Juliet, silver-tongued Juliet, goes quiet.

  ‘And then?’ He moans about Juliet talking non-stop, but seeing her like this is worrying. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Ms Turner?’

  ‘I will,’ she says. ‘I think I will, but I need to tell you first, Noah. Get my head around it all.’

  One of the most frustrating things about being here is your chatty little friend, Noah.

  The Dark is trying to squeeze its way in, but he’s listening to Juliet, trying to figure out why her face is happy and sad and almost tearful at the same time.

  She swipes at her fringe and looks at him, her smile looking like she’s hauled it up from the depths and stuck it on her face. ‘Bart’s left.’

  Juliet’s father. Bart Ryan. Noah’s father is his boss.

  ‘Yep. Finally packed his bags and gone. Not too sure how it’s going to work out, but one thing I can tell you, Noah,’ her voice is fierce, ‘I’m so glad he won’t be there when I get home. I won’t have to feel him looking at me as if I’m never going to be quite good enough. So, that’s the one thing. But there’s more.’

  The anger’s gone, replaced by confusion. ‘Really don’t know what to make of this one. Lily says Mom drove her to school this morning.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So? So? Shit, Noah. My mom hasn’t driven for almost two years. Not since she got pulled over and nearly lost her licence. If it hadn’t been for Dad, she would have. But, “Never get behind the wheel again.” That’s what he said to her. “I don’t work my arse off so that you can prang my car. Do you know how much it cost me?” We were in the car once when she hit this huge tree, almost head on, but he wasn’t worried about Mom, or me, or even Lily. No, all he was worried about was his precious Lexus.’

  Noah has no idea what to say.

  ‘Well, not even that stopped Mom drinking. She tries, you know, Noah. Sometimes she gets all the booze in the house into the kitchen and then she pours it all down the sink. Only he says, “Why bother? The only thing that does is make the place smell like a distillery. And then you go straight out and buy some more. Do me a favour, Monica. Just drink the bloody stuff, instead of wasting it. You’re cheaper that way.”’

  Noah passes Juliet a cup of tea in her mug (the one she leaves here now) and she smiles, properly this time.

  ‘Thanks, Noah. So anyway, the thing is, my mom never drives. I do. I take her car and drive places – like the supermarket to buy us food, or taking Lily to extra maths.’

  ‘But you don’t—’

  ‘Well obviously I don’t, Noah. How can I have my licence when I’m only fifteen? But someone has to do it. Most of the time Mom doesn’t know if we’re there or not. And Dad? He never asks how come there’s food in the pantry when he’s forbidden Mom to use a car.’ Juliet pauses for breath. ‘Only, yesterday, she did. And Lily said she was fine. She didn’t smell, she had a shower, her hair was clean. She told Lily she’s going to stop. “I mean it, Lil.” That’s what she said.’

  Juliet takes a sip of tea and looks up at him, her eyes full of tears. ‘I want to believe it, Noah. I really do. Maybe now she’ll come visit me. And bring Lily.’

  150.

  ‘Just close your eyes and listen,’ Ms Turner says. It’s time to relax, calm down, think – feel, even. This time to music, the theme from Schindler’s List.

  Juliet’s eyes half-close and she looks around the group. Sadie’s face is vacant, as if the music has washed everything out of her. The new arrival, Willa, is sitting very straight, eyes closed, hands loose in his lap. Their lap, Juliet reminds herself. Noah’s trying hard to keep his eyes closed, but he’s clearly not comfortable, his shoulders are high and tense.

  The music is gentle, very gentle. Eventually, Juliet’s eyes close.

  When the music stops she comes to and looks around the circle. They all look dazed, even Noah, as if by switching off the sound, Ms Turner has woken them from a deep, dream-filled sleep.

  Juliet feels something warm and wet land on her knee. A tear? She hasn’t cried in years. How can a piece of music have the power to make her cry? It’s not as if she’s opened up more than she has before, not like she’s stopped trotting out the same lines she’s been feeding to people like Ms Turner for years.

  But something has changed. Something is shifting. Whatever it is, though, Juliet isn’t sure if she’s ready to examine it all that closely.

  151.

  Week 8: Day 50 / 08:54

  Juliet is walking next to him and, as usual, she’s talking. Would she ever try to hold her words in, contain their power, so that they make her stronger? Noah can’t imagine her doing that. Everything about her is light and quick and momentary, as thoughts land she says them aloud, flicking from idea to idea, filling empty spaces. Even on a day as hot as this, Juliet hasn’t stopped talking, moving, gesticulating.

  He doesn’t mind it all that much. She’s fast and funny, and besides, when she’s around, he doesn’t have to worry about the words inside his head, or the ones he struggles to say. She’s useful that way.

  ‘One of the things I miss about home is my cat,’ Juliet’s saying now. ‘You’d love her, Noah.’

  Spit and Spot flash through Noah’s mind and he’s filled with a sudden longing to be home, to see his dogs running to meet him, tails wagging like crazy.

  ‘Smudge,’ Juliet’s saying now. ‘Her name is Smudge. Dumb, I know, but Lily chose it.’ Her voice softens as she mentions her sister. ‘She’s got a mark on her nose. Smudge, I mean, not Lily. A little grey smudge. Otherwise she’s black. A sleek, black, beautiful cat called Smudge. I would have called her Midnight. But I like
her name now, can’t imagine calling her anything else. What about you, Noah? Do you have pets? What are their names?’

  He doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t mind. He’s there to listen as she goes on (and on). He knows what she’s doing; the more she talks, the less she has to think.

  They’re at his room now, and he pushes the handle (down-up-down-up-down). The door swings open.

  ‘Bye, Noah, see you at—’

  But he’s not listening. He’s standing in the doorway, stock still.

  ‘What is it, Noah? What’s the matter?’

  He moves into his room and looks around slowly. He turns carefully, checking everything as he moves.

  Juliet’s looking around, too. ‘Noah,’ she says. ‘Why are you so freaked out?’

  He can’t answer her, can’t pay her any attention. He’s still moving in a slow circle, but his eyes are darting all over his room.

  He stops.

  He’s facing the small table where he keeps his kettle, mugs, biscuits.

  ‘Noah? What’s wrong?’

  He moves to the table, picks up a mug – his indigo one – and holds it for a moment. Then he carefully closes the gap between it and the navy and royal blue ones on either side. He puts the indigo mug at the end of the row. Very carefully, as if it might fall and break if he does not exercise extreme care.

  ‘Noah?’ Juliet’s really worried now.

  Do you see? Things fall apart if you give away too much, and now—

  He can’t listen. All he can do is stare at the shelf.

  ‘My mug,’ he finally manages to say. ‘Someone moved my mug.’

  152.

  Someone has been inside Noah’s room. They’ve touched things. His mugs – ‘Definitely, no doubt about it’ – Noah says again and again, when Juliet asks him if he’s sure.

  He is adamant. ‘This one is my Sunday mug. It’s always at the end.’

  Juliet can’t say (she’d really like to, but she can’t, never would), So what, Noah? Does it really matter? Because it does, it matters a lot, and she knows that now.

  She thinks of the easy mess and clutter in her room: jeans slung over a chair, her book lying open on her bed, trainers at an odd angle near the door. It drives Noah mad, he can never come into her room and sit there with her. The one time he did, his fingers twitched and his feet tapped and Juliet could almost see the number five dancing around his head, making his eyes bug, turning his mouth into a straight line that wouldn’t let any words out.

  What must it be like to live a day in Noah’s skin?

  And now he’s jittery again. He can’t sit still, keeps getting up and turning slowly, even though he’s checked his room four times since he last spoke. Juliet feels a slow heat rising. Anger, different to the sort that fills her whenever she thinks about her father. Juliet’s not angry about someone, she’s angry for someone. She’s angry because someone has messed with her friend.

  Kind, gentle Noah, who doesn’t have it in him to hurt anyone.

  153.

  Gabriel is eleven years old, lying in a hospital bed in a ward filled with people in pain. He hears them moaning and wailing and swearing and calling, Nurse, nurse. There are people dressed in white with stethoscopes around their necks hurrying from bed to bed. Gabriel knows what a stethoscope is because, before he was admitted to the children’s home, the doctor checked him out, Looking for complications, Gabriel heard him saying, from the smoke inhalation, and then he was pressing a small cold metallic circle onto Gabriel’s chest and saying, Breathe deeply, son. Big deep breaths.

  That’s what Gabriel is telling himself to do now as he lies on the hard bed, staring at the pockmarked ceiling. Take deep breaths, Gabriel, he whispers. But he can’t because it hurts so badly when he does. He cries out, a sharp high sound that makes the doctor standing at the bed next to him turn quickly and say, Nearly finished. I’ll be with you soon.

  Gabriel can’t even nod his head. If he moves, pain slices through him with a hot knife, cutting him into pieces.

  Bloody hell, that’s the night warden, when Gabriel cries out, when he can’t keep the pain inside him any more. Bloody hell, Felix. Let’s have a look at you. Touching Gabriel’s forehead, saying, Shit, and then running, yelling for help, yelling for an ambulance, Get a move on, come on, come on, come on. The dormitory light snapping on and Gabriel moving his head, squeezing his eyes shut, And one, two, three, lift, and Gabriel’s on a gurney, being wheeled through the double doors of the children’s home, into the waiting ambulance, lights flashing, sirens screaming. That’s what Gabriel remembers, sirens screaming louder than his pain.

  He’s doing his best to hold the pain in, to be a Little Man, but he can’t. It’s escaping in bursts. Tears are running down his face, a steady stream that he can’t stop, and now the doctor’s here and he’s leaning over Gabriel’s bed, lifting his T-shirt, touching him, gently, but not gently enough, because when he reaches Gabriel’s belly and presses lightly, Gabriel shrieks.

  Appendix, the doctor says. We’ll be lucky if it hasn’t burst. Who let it get this bad? Gabriel can’t talk, and even if he could, he wouldn’t say anything about going to sick bay and how the matron told him there was nothing wrong with him.

  Gabriel hears them talking around him, above him and they’re fading in and out, talking about surgery and speed and the sooner the better. His eyelids flutter, he tries to keep the doctor with the gentle hands and the stethoscope in focus, but nothing stays clear, nothing feels real. The room begins to circle, slowly, slowly, then faster and faster and Gabriel is whirling with it. His bed is a spinning top.

  The colours of the ward melt into a shimmering blur, and there, at the edge of the blur, are Mum and Dad. He’s hugging her, holding the tight swell of her belly. Harry is in there and Gabriel smiles because he knows she’s safe. Mum is safe too, and she’s saying, There you are Gaby-Baby. We’ve been looking for you for so long. She’s holding out her hand and Gabriel feels the bed beneath him still, the shimmering blur steadies and becomes pure light. Mum is holding out her hand and Gabriel’s getting out of bed, one leg, two legs over the side. Dad is laughing and Mum is too.

  There they are, waiting for him, and all Gabriel has to do is walk over to them. He moves his feet, but pain cuts him in two.

  Easy now, easy.

  Gabriel doesn’t recognise the voice. He opens his eyes and sees a masked face hanging over him.

  He’s coming to, Doctor, the voice says, and a man in a coat appears next to Gabriel’s bed.

  Gabriel closes his eyes. A phone rings, a machine bleeps, a voice calls. Too many noises, and beneath it all the pull of pain. All keeping him awake, keeping him from going back to where Dad and Mum are waiting for him.

  154.

  Day 50 / 08:58

  He has to tell Ms Turner about his mugs, how it felt to see them out of order.

  Out of order. The worst phrase Noah can think of. Once Juliet leaves and he’s alone in his room, he stands there, tapping, not caring that the door’s open and anyone passing can see him. He has to gather all his strength, draw on his 5s as fast as possible.

  Then there’s the violation. His space at home, it’s his, no one ever enters without asking. Not Maddie, not his mother, not even his father. The few times he’s come to Noah’s door, he’s always made sure to knock.

  The indigo mug means he wasn’t mistaken about his desk organiser. Someone has invaded his space, and not once, but twice. And now he has a witness: Juliet.

  Maybe more than twice, Noah. Have you thought about that?

  He’ll have to do another check, and another, to make sure that’s not true. He’s going to be late for Ms Turner, but that can’t be helped. He has to inspect every corner, look under his bed, inside his cupboard. He wastes minute after minute. Tries to calm down, sits at his desk and looks around again.

  He’s trying to call on his senses, follow Ms Turner’s advice. Move from 5 to 4 and down to 1, but he can’t. Everything around him is a possible area
of attack and he can’t narrow his focus and pull himself back into the Here and Now.

  What if they’d stood at his wall, laughing at his charts, his Family Tree? Even if they didn’t move anything else (and he’s still not sure they haven’t), they’ve stood in his space, looked where they shouldn’t. He will have to check at least 4 more times to make sure he hasn’t missed another cruel trick. He looks at his desk. The organiser is in the correct place, they haven’t messed with that again. His desk drawers—

  His journal! What if they’ve been inside his mind, too, reading about things he can’t even tell Ms Turner? He slides open the top drawer – slowly, carefully – and his heartbeat slows a fraction. It’s still there, in its correct place, and as far as he can tell it hasn’t been moved.

  But who’s to say it hasn’t been? If they could get in and move your mugs—

  There’s a terrible banging in his head and it’s getting worse.

  He reaches into his drawer and takes out his journal.

  What’s that for? What are you doing?

  Noah pushes against the Dark as hard as he can, he starts counting his way down the corridor, 1 2 3 4 5, and he doesn’t care who hears him. Not Simon on his way to the bathroom, nor Morné or Sadie standing in the doorway of Morné’s room. Not even Mr Bill, who passes him on the stairs. ‘Everything all right, Noah? Off to see Ms Turner?’

  He nods, walks faster, keeps counting.

  He’s going to Ms Turner and he’s taking his journal with him.

  09:22

  ‘The thing is,’ he says, after he’s told her about the organiser and mug, ‘I have to tell you everything, but I can’t. But if I don’t, I won’t know how—’

  What are you doing, Noah?

  His hand is in his pocket, fingering his pebbles. His journal is on his knees.