Forecast by Janette Turner Hospital Page A

Nelson, because Paul is a stalker.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Wish me luck. And thanks for always being so nice to me.’
    â€˜Wait,’ Nelson said.
    â€˜Can’t wait. This is my chance to disappear.’ She nodded toward the photocopying room. ‘You might want to knock on that door in ten minutes or so. Just in case …’
    She vanished behind the elevator doors.
    Things got a little wild after that.
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    There is no question that being a mere public relations associate for a former client is a step down from award-winning software designer, but Nelson is grateful. One small step back from the abyss is the way he sees it. He cannot actually remember what happened after a certain point at the ExecuTech celebration, though when he finally reached home,driven by someone in uniform in a car equipped with flashing lights – he does not know if this was days or weeks later – the suit and shirt and tie and even the underpants he had worn to the party were waiting in a neatly boxed UPS parcel.
    Every day he stares at the clothes in the parcel – he has never put them away; he has never even taken them from the box – and he does not regret his lack of recall.
    He is not sure where the in-between was – a hospital? a clinic? – but he does remember (at least, he thinks he remembers) the visits from Paul, which seemed to be constant, though of course he does not trust himself on this matter.
    â€˜We’ve been pushing you too hard,’ Paul says and says and says, every time Nelson wakes up. (But perhaps Nelson simply replays this scene compulsively? Perhaps it only happened once? He has the mindset of a mathematician and a composer of algorhythms; data recovery is his thing; he is a sceptic by instinct; on image manipulation, he is the acclaimed wizard; he trusts nothing.) ‘Jeez, man,’ Paul says. ‘I had no idea.’
    â€˜We don’t want to lose you,’ Paul keeps saying. ‘Hell, man, you’re brilliant, you’re off the charts, but you’re too intense. We only just stopped you, you know. You got any idea what that sort of publicity would have done?’
    Nelson squints, concentrating, trying not to recall.
    â€˜You would have put us under, that’s what. You would have put us under even faster than you booted us up. Jesus, Nelson, have you any idea? And we only just stopped you, only just.’
    Nelson raises his eyebrows. Only just stopped me from what? his eyebrows ask.
    â€˜We stopped you from jumping off the balcony, twentieth floor, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you don’t remember, because I won’t believe bullshit like that.’
    Nelson does not believe he would ever do that. ‘No,’ he says, or tries to say. ‘I would never do that.’
    â€˜You believed you could fly.’ Paul flings his arms in the air and waves them like wings. He mimics a falsetto voice: ‘ I can fly! I can fly!’
    â€˜You’re lying.’ Nelson has a fleeting image of the glass surface of a photocopying machine but he cannot hang onto it. It swoops out of his line of sight. There is something he cannot recall. ‘I would never do that.’
    â€˜Jesus, Nelson, spare me the crap. There’s no way you don’t know what you did. Why the hell else would you be in here and doped to the gills? I can’t even understand what you’re saying.’
    Nelson speaks slowly and carefully. He tries to admit that he can be a bit obsessive, maybe tunnel-focused, when he is working on something but not … His tongue feels clumsy to him, like a very old horse that has broken free of the reins but no longer remembers how to gallop. He concentrates on forming each word. ‘I would never do that. Never. I don’t believe you.’
    â€˜I have no idea what you’re trying to say, Nelson, but believe me, you would’ve been a splat on the sidewalk by