said, dabbing at my eyes and cheeks, and smiling like she meant it.
It means so much. If I’m to find out what’s happened to me, I have to be able to speak. I have to understand how long I have been here, and what has happened since the accident. Maybe what happened before the accident. Or even
during
it. Can I even trust my memory of that?
The woman who says she’s my wife keeps coming to see me, and keeps being a stranger. Alice and Lexi keep
not
coming to see me. Maybe because of something I did wrong? I keep feeling that I’ve done something wrong, but I just don’t
know
.
And I’m not going to find out by blinking.
The more I can do, the more I realize I
need
to do. Opening my eyes was the first thing, but that got old quickly. Then sticking out my tongue took precedence. Now closing my mouth to help to form words has become critical too, and the touching of teeth leaves me euphoric.
I don’t even feel embarrassed by my tears; that’s how happy I am.
Leslie was unimpressed by my joy, of course.
‘Big babby,’ he snorted, then tossed a bean bag at my heart.
Patrick rode down Park Place with his head full. It had been a red-letter day.
He had recognized sadness in his fellow students – actually
understood
something about people instead of feeling only disinterest and confusion. It was a strange progression – tinged with unease by the memory of his father – but he could not shake the feeling that it had been a special moment.
He also felt that although they still didn’t know the cause of death, they must be getting closer, simply by a process of elimination. The brain tumour was looking more and more likely, and the prospect of being right was always good. More than that, he had been allowed to make the difficult first incisions in the throat, which meant Dr Spicer must think he was the most capable of the group – better than Scott. The idea of winning the prize for the best dissection student was an attractive one.
Then Rob had touched him and he hadn’t panicked, even though his shoulder had crawled from the contact. And he’d ascertained that there was no more vomit in the cadaver’s mouth. Patrick wasn’t sure why he’d done that, but he’d felt compelled to check.
Finally – unexpectedly – he had made Meg laugh. That had surprised him and, more than that, it had given him another interesting feeling that he took a while to identify as pleasure.
He was too excited by it all to go home. He cycled round the city aimlessly for hours as the shops and offices dimmed, before turning into the castle grounds and racing along the dark paths between dormant roses, until all he could think about was the burning in his lungs and limbs. Then he leaned his bike against an oak and sat on the grass beside it. Once his breathing had slowed, he rested his back against the trunk and enjoyed cooling down.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sway of branches and the rustle of small animals all around him. In the darkness, and with the smell of grass and earth in the air, he almost expected the polite cough of a sheep. Quickly he fell asleep, cross-legged, with his head tilted backwards and his hands upturned in his lap, as if seeking enlightenment from the rising moon.
He woke shivering, just before the grey malt dawn, to find a young man in a white tracksuit sitting facing him in an almost identical position, but with a long screwdriver in his upturned hands.
‘I could have killed you while you slept,’ he said, not unpleasantly.
Patrick stood slowly and got on his bike and rode away. When he looked back, the young man was nothing but a pale blob facing the empty trunk.
Back at the house, he’d missed a party. Someone was passed out behind the front door and Patrick took five minutes to force his way in, and another two to ascertain that the girl on the floor was not dead.
The hallway was strewn with plastic cups and empty bottles, and halfway up the stairs there was a bowl of popcorn
It means so much. If I’m to find out what’s happened to me, I have to be able to speak. I have to understand how long I have been here, and what has happened since the accident. Maybe what happened before the accident. Or even
during
it. Can I even trust my memory of that?
The woman who says she’s my wife keeps coming to see me, and keeps being a stranger. Alice and Lexi keep
not
coming to see me. Maybe because of something I did wrong? I keep feeling that I’ve done something wrong, but I just don’t
know
.
And I’m not going to find out by blinking.
The more I can do, the more I realize I
need
to do. Opening my eyes was the first thing, but that got old quickly. Then sticking out my tongue took precedence. Now closing my mouth to help to form words has become critical too, and the touching of teeth leaves me euphoric.
I don’t even feel embarrassed by my tears; that’s how happy I am.
Leslie was unimpressed by my joy, of course.
‘Big babby,’ he snorted, then tossed a bean bag at my heart.
Patrick rode down Park Place with his head full. It had been a red-letter day.
He had recognized sadness in his fellow students – actually
understood
something about people instead of feeling only disinterest and confusion. It was a strange progression – tinged with unease by the memory of his father – but he could not shake the feeling that it had been a special moment.
He also felt that although they still didn’t know the cause of death, they must be getting closer, simply by a process of elimination. The brain tumour was looking more and more likely, and the prospect of being right was always good. More than that, he had been allowed to make the difficult first incisions in the throat, which meant Dr Spicer must think he was the most capable of the group – better than Scott. The idea of winning the prize for the best dissection student was an attractive one.
Then Rob had touched him and he hadn’t panicked, even though his shoulder had crawled from the contact. And he’d ascertained that there was no more vomit in the cadaver’s mouth. Patrick wasn’t sure why he’d done that, but he’d felt compelled to check.
Finally – unexpectedly – he had made Meg laugh. That had surprised him and, more than that, it had given him another interesting feeling that he took a while to identify as pleasure.
He was too excited by it all to go home. He cycled round the city aimlessly for hours as the shops and offices dimmed, before turning into the castle grounds and racing along the dark paths between dormant roses, until all he could think about was the burning in his lungs and limbs. Then he leaned his bike against an oak and sat on the grass beside it. Once his breathing had slowed, he rested his back against the trunk and enjoyed cooling down.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sway of branches and the rustle of small animals all around him. In the darkness, and with the smell of grass and earth in the air, he almost expected the polite cough of a sheep. Quickly he fell asleep, cross-legged, with his head tilted backwards and his hands upturned in his lap, as if seeking enlightenment from the rising moon.
He woke shivering, just before the grey malt dawn, to find a young man in a white tracksuit sitting facing him in an almost identical position, but with a long screwdriver in his upturned hands.
‘I could have killed you while you slept,’ he said, not unpleasantly.
Patrick stood slowly and got on his bike and rode away. When he looked back, the young man was nothing but a pale blob facing the empty trunk.
Back at the house, he’d missed a party. Someone was passed out behind the front door and Patrick took five minutes to force his way in, and another two to ascertain that the girl on the floor was not dead.
The hallway was strewn with plastic cups and empty bottles, and halfway up the stairs there was a bowl of popcorn
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