The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (69 page)

“Yes, he was. He uses another name now.”

I was incredulous. “He was ninety years old when he died of pneumonia. I know. I read the paper.” I pulled the young man closer, looking him over.

“I took him before he died. I won’t bore you with the details.”

My mind was truly reeling now. I’d read all of Le Fevre’s works. Powerful novels of profound conflicts of spirit. He’d even written one about Julius II, the Pope who was one of the renaissance’s primary artistic supporters. A flawless work. And I’d been lying there all that time right beside him.

The young man was not older than nineteen, average in stature and
pleasant in appearance, but not the colourful character I’d known of before. If this man had the mind of Simon Le Fevre, with another lifetime, he could create such great works! The doctor reflected my amazed delight.

“Simon, meet Allison Neary Craig.”

He held my hands. I was enthralled. “I don’t believe this.” I shook my bald head.

“Well, it’s my pleasure. I am a fan of yours. Your articles for
Art and Antiquities
are state of the art. You inspired me to write
The Pope
. I doubt if you recall, but I sent you a letter just before it came out.”

“It
is
you. You’re alive.”

“I am, because of Kenneth’s work. Look.” He began showing me barely visible seams at his wrists, another at one shoulder. I marveled at the precision.

“Do you have much pain now?”

Simon put his hand to his cheek. “The immune-suppression drugs give me headaches, other side effects, and I feel creaky sometimes, but it’s nothing compared to old age. Besides, it keeps getting better.”

“Well, that’s encouraging. I hope you’re still writing.”

“I am. I use a pseudonym, though. The ghost of Simon Le Fevre wouldn’t work. Now, I am Jean Luc Forchaud.”

“You just published a novel . . .
Eagle’s Nest
! I have it at home.” I stared at the boy who was once ninety. Who was now ninety-three. How I wanted what he had. To be beautiful, young and have the energy to write all day or night. A future.

“I don’t know if you’ll decide to have Kenneth do your work, but if you do, I’d like for us to keep in touch. I still admire
your
work.”

“I’ve made my decision. I want this, Dr Chernofsky. I want your work . . . and your company.” I grinned like a girl at the two men. “To be young again.”

“To forever . . .” The doctor proposed a mock toast.

I was removed from the hospital clandestinely, leaving the appearance that I left on my own. The next day, my body was found in a motel room, my head ravaged by the blast of a shotgun that was found in my hands. The dead woman, whose head my brain would soon inhabit, gave her brains to make the event authentic. My suicide note was short and sweet.

Three weeks later, the swelling of the medulla oblongata went down and my coma lifted. I awoke to darkness and the sound of the doctor’s voice. The first thing he did for me was read my obituaries, the newspaper articles about me, and the accolades from lay people to scholars. Then he explained the damaged optic nerves, and the temporary condition of my larynx. All
within his abilities to mend, he said. I would just have to be patient.

I have been as I am for nearly two months. The doctor told me in his last visit, yesterday, that an arm was due in from Germany, the tissue match assured. I know having one arm will allow me to scratch my nose, feel my hair, get some sense of my world through touch. But I was warned that the nerves take months to regenerate. Every step required my endurance. My grace.

His footsteps. I know them as well as my new heartbeat.

“Your arm has arrived. It is beautiful. All that I was told. Greta will prep you, and we’ll do the surgery in a few minutes.”

I long to tell him I’m frightened – that the pain will be unbearable – that it won’t work, that I will still be unable to touch the world. I try to make a sound that will convey that, but it comes out a whimper. He strokes my head, lovingly.

“It will be all right. And while I am operating on the arm, I will do the last of the repairs on the optic nerves. We may get eyes very soon.”

He reassures me, as if he knows how I struggle to be stoical. But I am terrified. The doctor tells me what I want to hear, but I don’t dare allow myself to be fooled.

As they wheel me into the operating room, I can smell the antiseptic atmosphere, the metal and tile. It’s cooler and is devoid of human scents. I hear feet covered in booties shooshing over the tile floor. Voices dulled by the bunting of face masks. The clinking and tiny thudding of instruments being transferred onto metal trays. And my mind wanders to the last time Kenneth spoke to me of personal things. It had just been two days ago.

Before I drift into drugged oblivion, I imagine him over me.

“Allison, I was thinking this morning at breakfast what it will be like when you’re whole, and we can wake up together.” He stroked my hair. “I can’t help my fantasies. I remember the old woman I met in the hospital, but she was a shell. And I fell in love with the woman who was trapped in that diseased body. Now you’re about to become an enchantingly beautiful woman, with the soul of an artist and one of the greatest minds of this century. I wonder if you think of it, too. What a powerful couple we could be.”

I moved my head against his hand, hoping the gesture spoke the thrill hundreds of words might otherwise communicate. He touched my lips with his fingertips, then his lips. I kissed him with a strange mouth. He tasted of marzipan and lemon water.

“I’m so frustrated not to hear your voice, the words I want so much to hear. It won’t be long before the reconstruction can be done. And then . . . then we can share our dreams together.

“I still don’t know if you knew . . . that when I came to your hospital room, I had planned the moment for years. I’d seen you on news magazine shows and in that short film documentary by Ronald Knapp. I read everything you’ve ever written, and everything written about you. I knew your life. I knew you. I had only to meet you to love you. Even as a hairless old woman, your spirit shone through.

“If you could see the face you wear now, the gentle beauty of it, you would know I didn’t choose a shell for you that would be garishly gorgeous or supremely pretty. But that I wanted a face that reflected the intelligent beauty I fell in love with.

“If I’m wrong and presumptuous, and there wasn’t a spark of something between us for you, I want you to believe that this wasn’t just a selfish act on my part. As with Simon, I wanted genius to live on. I was fortunate that Simon also wanted to be a friend. And I will be even more fortunate if you will consider me for . . . a mate.”

Yes. Yes, I shouted in my mind. Of course I would. To have been found by someone so absolutely right for me when I was about to lose everything.

I’d lived alone for so many years, unhappy with the mediocrity of men, their interests so carnal and banal. On occasion I suffered their company, longing for one to become what I dreamed. They disappointed me often through no fault of their own. Some I pitied. But Kenneth was all I imagined a mate could be. Caring, but not doting. Attentive, yet independent. Sexy, yet not base. Handsome, and brilliant. Talented, but not compulsively so. And ultimately, he adored my
mind
.

Yes, I’d be his mate.

The pain precedes any other sense awareness. My shoulders feel like jack hammers have splintered them to shreds. I moan and I feel the cool touch of my favourite nurse.

“Miss Craig. I’m going to start a drip of morphine for you. Just enough to dull the pain, but not put you out. Doctor needs you cogent.”

I murmur assent.

“I’ve been staring at your new hands. I’ve always wanted long nail beds and large moons. And your arms are really exquisite.”

Hands
? He’s given me two arms and surprised me! Of course. It’s like him. I grin drunkenly, as I feel the gauzy veil of the opiate.

“Oh, no. I’ve given it away. Don’t tell. Please.”

I can’t tell. I wouldn’t anyway. Greta’s been so good to me. So very good.

“I hear him. Act surprised.”

His footsteps are quick, light. He’s been notified I am awake. He hurries to me, a concerned lover. How lucky I am!

“Allison, you’re awake.” I felt the movement of my IV, the sound of his fingers tapping the drip gauge. “Ah, Greta’s started a bit of morphine for you. Do your shoulders hurt?”

I nod dramatically, but I’m probably wobbling my head instead, inebriated with the drug.

“Surprised? Did you think I would give you two different arms? A writer with mismatched hands? A travesty. What I did to Simon, I still don’t forgive myself for.” I hear his pen on paper on a metal chart. He brushes my hair off my forehead. He told me it’s golden blonde. “You might like knowing the arms came from a eighteen year old ballerina. Imagine the sylph-like gestures they’ve performed. Imagine perfect arms and hands. They’re yours, now.” His lips brush mine. His cheek presses against my cheek. I feel moisture. A tear?

How I want to reach out and hold him, but all I know is the pain where the tubes used to be. In time, as he’s often said. In time.

I drift in and out of consciousness. The numbness extends to my brain, sometimes. The day becomes night, the night day. I know only the touch of my Kenneth, and Greta.

It must be night. His sister, Sonia, is sitting beside me, reading. I hear her whispering the words, sometimes. She never touches me, even if I cry out in pain. Then, she calls the doctor. I know only her voice and the sound of pages turning.

Suddenly, a deep guttural moan comes from me, unbidden. I am shocked by the sound. I try to make a word with it and hear myself say, “Help.”

She drops her book and runs from the room. She leaves the door open, I know, because I feel the cooler air of the hallway. Then I hear her strained voice on the telephone.

“Yes, dammit, she
spoke
. . . Plainly . . . ‘Help’.”

Whoever she speaks to is flustered or excited by her news. Her tone is apologetic, careful, but indignant. Confused.

“All right. Of course. Immediately.” She hangs up.

She rushes in, then slows as she nears my bed. It amazes me how stupid people think the blind are. As if blindness affects all the senses and the mind.

“I’ve called Kenneth. He’ll be here shortly. I woke him.”

I struggle with words. “I can talk.” My voice is shrill and strained. The larynx is probably still damaged somewhat, the promised surgery not yet performed.

“Yes, you can.” Under her feigned cheer, she’s upset.

I wait until he arrives to speak again. He rushes in but doesn’t slow. His lips are all over me, my face, neck.

“Sonia tells me you speak. Say only one thing. My name. Please.”

I grin as he cradles my face in his hands. I feel beautiful in this moment.

“Kennnnettth.”

“Ah! Rest the vocal chords now. I don’t want to strain them. I can hardly believe this. Spontaneous regeneration!”

I nod, smiling. I’ll do anything you ask. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you I love you.

Just as I am dozing off to sleep again, the excitement of the event worn off, I hear them outside, in the hall. The door is almost completely closed, so their voices are not distinct.

“She
sounds
like her.” Sonia is sarcastic.

“With the work I plan on doing on the larynx, she will sound like Allison. I will never listen to that woman’s keening voice again in this lifetime. Or have those eyes staring at me with such . . . derision.”

“Kenny, I know you think this is going to turn out ideally, but things are already turning ugly.”

“Sonia, don’t get negative with me.” It isn’t what Kenneth says that disturbs me, but the tone. As if he is saying, “I’ll kill you if you say one more thing”, and meaning it.

Sonia is silent. I hear her returning, sitting down, grabbing her book. Her breathing is shallow. She’s afraid. I feel her hand, briefly, on my shoulder. Now, I am afraid.

There is no sleep for me. I make scenarios in my waking dream state, full of morphine. In all of them, I am the victim. Kenneth is no longer the benevolent, loving craftsman, but a butcher, out to eradicate the traces of someone who still haunts him.

Greta comes to relieve Sonia. I wait until she is washing me, then use my new voice.

“Greta.”

“What did you say?” She hasn’t been told I speak.

“I’m scared.”

“Oh, my god.” She begins again in a whisper. “Does he know you can talk?”

I nod. “Do you know who I am?”

“Allison Neary Craig. I actually read one of your books, and I’m not a reader. I’m an action person, got to see it, hear it. You know.”

“I’m not someone else the doctor knew from before?”

“You know who you are, don’t you?” She sounds frightened now.

“I’m who you say I am. But my body. Face. The doctor heard my voice and told his sister he would never listen to my voice again as long as he lived. That he’s going to fix it.”

“I don’t know.” Did she? I wondered. “You’re very beautiful to me, but you . . . you know how I feel about . . .”

I’m learning. “I’m afraid he knows this body and face. Or that he took the eyes and larynx because they remind him of someone.”

“Miss Allison.” She cups my chin. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

We both hear the doctor’s footsteps in the hallway and are quiet. She pulls away, begins readying my bath.

“How are you this morning?” He takes the light blanket covering me down, exposing my nakedness to his eyes.

“I hurt.” I make my voice gravelly, low.

“After your bath, I’ll double your drip and ease the pain. I have incredible news. Legs. I was faxed a photograph of them. I’m waiting on tissue matching, but I’m fairly certain they’ll be yours. And they’re long ones.” I can hear the delight in his voice. He is truly happy. It softens my doubts.

“Fine.” I grunt it out. “Then I’ll dance for you.”

He laughs coolly. “Be patient.” I feel his fingertips tracing my areolas, making my nipples rigid. His hands move over my breasts, appreciating their curves. His fingers move downward. Suddenly, I worry for Greta. Seeing. Being hurt.