Being Here (24 page)

‘This patient,' says the doctor, ‘has suffered a stroke. There are two types of stroke. They are?'

Nearly everyone raises a hand. The question, apparently, is easy.

‘Yes, Dr Patton.'

‘Ischaemic and haemorrhagic, sir.'

‘Correct. And the difference?'

He chooses someone else.

‘Sir. An ischaemic stroke develops when a blood clot blocks a blood vessel in the brain. A haemorrhagic stroke develops when an artery in the brain leaks or bursts, causing bleeding inside the brain or near the surface of the brain.'

‘Very good.'

I'm not sure it is very good, but I cannot say anything.

‘And how can we tell the difference between them? Yes, Dr Singh.'

‘A
CT
scan, possibly followed by an
MRI
, sir.'

‘Excellent. Mrs …' He examines his own clipboard. ‘… Cartwright has suffered an ischaemic stroke, the lesser of two evils. What treatment would be appropriate once her condition is diagnosed?'

This group is knowledgeable. Once again, nearly all hands are raised. But one figure detaches from the others, moves to the blinds. No one pays attention. I see him dimly, across the room.

‘A tissue plasminogen activator, sir. Common aspirin can also be used with a t-
PA
. Or aspirin combined with some other antiplatelet medication.'

‘Aspirin and t-
PA
together, doctor?'

There is something in his tone that strikes caution in the group. It's as if they are wary of being tripped up. No one replies.

‘The use of aspirin within twenty-four hours of t-
PA
can be very dangerous for a patient,' says the pockmarked doctor. There is triumph in his voice. He has produced a trump card. The group of white coats sags a little. ‘Anyway, time passes. Let's move on.'

He leaves my room without acknowledging me. The group files past my bed. A few of them smile. I would smile back, but one side of my mouth droops uselessly. The door closes. Somewhere a clock ticks.

I let the absence of voices wash over me. It is a luxurious bath. Nothing out there is as vivid as the contents of my mind. I retreat into it.

The images are jumbled. They flood over me in a waterfall. My mother's death when I was thirty-nine, still living at home, the orchards wilted and baking and dying in the sun. I found her kneeling at the side of her bed. Her face was radiant with joy, as if the man on the cross had stepped down and personally ushered her into light. I cried for three days, wandering through an empty house. Pastor Bauer, grey now and lined, argued to the town council that I would make a perfect librarian. The library itself, surrounded by books, endless days of inhaling the dust of covers, inhaling stories. The journeys I took between countless pages, though never again did I journey as I did with Adam. Millions of words. Millions of beautiful words. Friends gained and friends lost. A plan, hatched one summer with a new woman at the library, to visit Italy and England. I so desperately wanted to get back to the London in my head. It never happened, though the reason is gone forever. I try, but I cannot remember. And men. Yes, one or two men showed interest in me. One even proposed. And I thought – I remember thinking – should I accept? Is it better to accept second best than spend a lifetime alone?

I never regretted turning him down. And that realisation answers my question.

So many thoughts. So many memories.

And now it has all come to this.

The shadows gather in the room. There is a movement to my right. It might be a breeze finding its way through the slats of the blind. I turn my head. This takes time and energy.

There is a cabinet against the wall and next to it a chair. Narrow bands of sunlight leak through the blind and coat everything in stripes. Something else. On the chair. A pair of legs. They do not swing because they touch the floor. But … maybe it is the way the light filters. Maybe it gives the illusion of movement, of small legs swinging, swinging. Above the legs, a figure lost in shadows. I remember the group. I remember how one member detached himself. My heart flutters in my chest. It feels frail, a caged bird weakening with every struggling beat of its wings against bars.

‘Hello?' I say. ‘Who's there?'

My voice rings clear and true. There is no crack or tremor. There is no age. The sound is sharp with youth.

And that's when I know.

‘Adam,' I say.

The legs stop their movement, the dark shape rises from the chair. He turns the bar that hangs beside the blind and sunlight floods the room. I smell apples. He moves towards my bed, sits on the edge, takes my hand.

‘Adam,' I say.

His hair is snow white, though it still curls. His face is a nest of wrinkles, jowls loose and drooping, skin parchment dry. But his eyes. His eyes are the same. Liquid with life and love. He smiles and squeezes my hand.

‘Hello, Leah.'

‘You've come back to me.'

I am ashamed of my words even as they leave my lips. They mock me. I have waited and waited. I have rehearsed a thousand times what I might say should he walk through a door, or appear within a crowd, or materialise one lonely night, sitting on a chair beside a chest of drawers, legs swinging. And now. Now the words desert.

‘Yes,' he says. He grins as if he reads my thoughts. ‘I've come back. Though, if you remember, I never really went away. Did I Leah?'

He taps my head, then runs his hand down my cheek. I feel the warmth of his blood.

‘Adam,' I say. ‘I am so glad to see you. I am so glad to see you.'

He smiles once more.

‘They say good things come to those who wait,' I say.

‘They do not lie,' says Adam.

A silence stretches.

‘Tell me a story, Leah. One last time. Tell me a story.'

Now
I
smile, for I know how this will end.

Our eyes lock. I search for words, but I do not pick them out like gems sifted from pebbles, as once I would. This story will be brief. I am ready for the end.

‘Once upon a time,' I say, ‘there was a girl and a boy. They fell in love. But a shadow darkened them. A shadow of ignorance. Of intolerance. And though they fought it, it was too strong, for they were very young and their power was very small. Even when they were wrenched apart, however, they knew their love would survive. Somehow. Somewhere.'

My voice rises and it fills the room. Adam's touch makes my hand tingle. And as my voice strengthens, the light fades, as if the one is tapping energy from the other.

‘They knew they would find a place where they could be with each other forever. And in that place there would be the people of the past, but now they would be transformed. A woman who understood, finally, that love is in the flesh and in the spirit, that it is infinite and cannot be diminished when others take a part. A man who no longer had to live in nightmares of mud and blood and the death of hope. They would all be together and a dog would rest on their verandah, flick flies away with a lazy tail and dream his dreams. That is the end of my story. And its beginning.'

Somewhere a clock slows. Adam smiles and puts his hand against my cheek once more.

‘I have seen that place,' he says.

I grip his other hand tighter.

‘Show me?' I say.

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