We Are Both Mammals (12 page)

Immediately everyone had seen the benefits
of this idea. It would be a faster, less risky way of carrying
Toro-a-Ba if speed or convenience were a priority. At the time,
however, I had not been physically fit enough to wear a backpack,
nor to perform the kneeling, crouching and bending required for
Toro-a-Ba to climb into it from the floor. The physiotherapist
showed me exercises to strengthen myself for these things, and, a
few weeks later, when she deemed me fit enough, she brought to the
clinic three different backpacks that she had borrowed for us to
try. Each of them had a zipper with double sliders that ran from
one side right across the top of the backpack to the other, so that
the backpack could be opened wide for Toro-a-Ba to enter.

It worked beautifully. As the
physiotherapist, Surgeon Fong, and the two on-duty nurses watched,
I carefully put on a fully unzipped backpack, and sat down on my
bed, planting my feet firmly on the floor for balance. We had
decided that to start thus seated would be easiest, at least until
Toro-a-Ba and I became practised at this and my physical strength
returned.

Standing on the bed, at my right, Toro-a-Ba
turned toward me and regarded the backpack for a moment, and I
could see him trying to figure out the best way to enter it. Then,
to my slight surprise, he walked around behind me, crossing to my
left side. The hose now encircled us, running from my right side,
behind our backs, to his left. Toro-a-Ba climbed carefully into the
backpack from its left side. I leaned forward slightly to balance
the weight, gripping the edge of the bed with my hands, and trying
not to clench my abdominal muscles as hard as instinct was
dictating. This was the first time I had borne his weight, and he
seemed heavier than he looked. Peering over my left shoulder, I saw
him gathering the slack hose up after himself, arranging it on his
left. His little furry hands even managed to coil it, after a
fashion, thanks to its flexibility. As the length of hose that was
hanging loose outside the backpack shortened, Toro-a-Ba lifted it
up to the top of the backpack and inside. Now, only a short length
of hose remained outside the backpack, running from my right side
directly into the right side of the backpack. Toro-a-Ba then
reached a small furry arm outside of the backpack and pulled on a
zipper slider to close it, and repeated the movement on the other
side, so that he and the hose were safely partially enclosed in the
backpack, and he had enough room to stick his head and shoulders
out of the backpack as he wished.

Carefully, remembering to keep breathing and
to move deliberately, I leaned forward and stood up slowly.
Toro-a-Ba seemed astonishingly heavy, but I reminded myself that it
had been months since I last carried any weight besides my own. I
stepped forward cautiously, and managed to carry us both slowly
around the room and back to my bed. At one point I stopped and
carefully looked over my shoulder, and saw Toro-a-Ba standing in
the backpack, his head and shoulders protruding from it, his hands
gripping the top of it where it touched my back, apparently riding
me with ease.

My body would tolerate no more than that one
circuit of the bedroom, and I was surprised by the amount of
concentration that was required; but it was clear to me and
everyone else in the room that this idea would work. In the future,
Toro-a-Ba would not have to exhaust himself in trying to keep up
with me. If he could tolerate it, I might even be able to run
whilst carrying him. He would be able to curl up inside the
backpack and sleep, or stand up and get my attention by tapping my
shoulder or speaking into my ear. Whilst standing, he would be able
to see in all directions, and he would be safe from any hazard that
I was able to evade. And the hose, that constant worry that dangled
between us, was tucked up safely out of the way.

The physiotherapist asked us what we
thought. Toro-a-Ba pronounced it ‘a truly excellent idea’ and said
that he was very thankful to her for thinking of it. I said
similarly.

The physiotherapist told us that we could
borrow any or all of the backpacks for as long as we wanted, and
she recommended that we experiment to find what kind of design we
liked best. Eventually we could get one made to our own
specifications.

It may not seem like a life-changing thing,
to own and use a backpack. Sometimes, it is the small, mundane
things that make the biggest difference to our happiness.

–––––––

One day Surgeons Fong and Suva-a informed me and
Toro-a-Ba that our healing was now at a stage whereat we could
safely leave the clinic and make a home elsewhere. Our wounds were
fully healed, my body was recuperating steadily, the specialists
had collected all the data that they wanted for now; there was no
longer any real need for us to remain here at the clinic.

I received the news with mixed feelings. I
had not been looking forward to leaving the clinic, primarily
because I knew that when that happened I would not be going ‘home’;
I would be embarking on a new life, one that I had not
– initially, at least – chosen and one which I was not
especially eager to begin. There was nothing outside the clinic for
me, just as there was nothing inside it for me. I was going to have
to start my life again, and it would perforce be nothing like
anything that I might have chosen for myself.

Toro-a-Ba, on the other hand, seemed glad.
Of course he was: he had a family to see. A village to return to,
though he would have me in tow.

His happiness made my sadness complete. I
had nothing to return to. All that I cared about had been crushed
under a laser-imaging machine. There was nothing, out there, beyond
these walls, that I cared about.

At least while I was in here I had something
to do: I could focus on getting better, and learning about what had
been done to me. Out there … what would I do? What was the point of
me, now? The surgeons had performed their experiment, and it was a
success; what further purpose could I serve?

“
We will want to keep
monitoring you, of course,” Fong had said, in her matter-of-fact
way, “which is why we’re glad that you’re choosing to live near the
clinic. Every week we want to take scans and samples so that we can
see how your bodies are adjusting. But we can send someone out to
you for that; the government will subsidise us to do
that.”

I had nodded silently.

Was that my purpose, now? To keep living so
that the surgeons and specialists could keep studying me?

Perhaps it was as good a purpose as any, I
thought dolefully. Perhaps it was as good a purpose as I could hope
for.

Toro-a-Ba said that he wanted to see his
family in their village before we did anything else. I had no
objection to this, so he contacted his family and made the
arrangements.

When, eventually, the thought occurred to
me, I asked him why none of his family had visited him in the
clinic. He replied that I had not been ready for visitors; and that
he had known that I had no family of my own, and he did not want to
distress me by introducing me to his world when I was struggling to
cope with the fact that mine had just been shattered.

In all those months when he was bedridden
with me, he had never once complained or wished for company. He
could have died, during the surgery or after, and yet he never
asked for his loved ones to be near him, purely because such a
thing would have distressed me.

Before we left the clinic, a few significant
matters had to be resolved. The house we would move into after
returning from visiting Toro-a-Ba’s family had to be purchased, and
arrangements had to be made for us to move into it on our return.
Furniture had to be procured, and my possessions moved from my old
apartment to the new house. I could not do any lifting of heavy
boxes, of course, but someone still needed to pack up my effects;
so Toro-a-Ba asked me if I wanted to return to my apartment to pack
things.

I hesitated for a long time over this
question, and Toro-a-Ba did not press for an answer. At last I
decided that I would: I wanted to see my apartment for the last
time, to confront the fact that I was leaving my old life
behind.

Before anything else, however, we had to
select our new dwelling.

We could now travel by vehicle, and
Toro-a-Ba booked a taxi for us, using his smartphone, specifically
requesting a driver who had experience with passengers who have
disabilities. He explained that this was not because he or I were
unable to function, but because he felt we would be stared at less
by such a person; and, since this would be our first trip into the
world beyond the clinic, he felt that would be best for us.

The houses that Toro-a-Ba had suggested were
as beautiful on the inside as they were outside. The government had
given us almost free rein: we could pick whatever house we wanted,
and ask for whatever alterations or furniture we wanted, and all
would be bought for us.

Toro-a-Ba and I inspected four houses before
we found the one that we both liked best. We are both rather
practically inclined, wanting a restful house rather than an
extravagant one, and we both wanted space, quiet and privacy, with
a garden; so the decision was rather easy and unanimous. The house
– our house – is in a quiet, upper-class part of Kivi-a,
near to Suva-a’s clinic, and has large windows, lots of wood
panelling and wooden floors, no stairs, plenty of space, a sizable
garden with numerous trees, and what the real estate agent called
‘marvellous indoor/outdoor flow’.

Because it may be possible to save Toro-a-Ba
if I die, providing he can be transported to a hospital quickly
enough, before we left the clinic Surgeons Suva-a and Fong procured
a medical alert that he can activate if something happens to me:
tethered to me as he is, if I collapse he will be unable to move
from my side to summon help. The device is a small, waterproof,
shockproof, bullet-shaped metal cylinder on a thin, strong, elastic
cord around Toro-a-Ba’s neck. All he has to do is squeeze it in the
right way, and an emergency global-positioning signal will be sent
to computers at Surgeon Suva-a’s clinic and at the nearest
ambulance station. The signal will inform them of our whereabouts
while a tiny red light blinks at the end of the cylinder to show
that it is activated and transmitting. The surgeons urged Toro-a-Ba
to remember to lock the tiny lever that would cut off the flow of
fluids between us, so that Toro-a-Ba will not bleed out with me if
I am bleeding, nor be poisoned with me if I am poisoned. There is
little point in my doing the same, however: if Toro-a-Ba is dying,
I will be dying also.

I tried not to think about how much this
device – small and discreet though it is, half-hidden in the fur of
the thurga’s neck – made Toro-a-Ba seem even more like a dog
trotting alongside me.

Visiting my old apartment to pack up my
possessions was even more gut-wrenching than I had thought it would
be. Toro-a-Ba and I took the elevator, where normally I would have
used the stairs; and when I unlocked the door and opened it
– oh, those familiar movements! – and stepped into my living
room, I almost burst into tears. Though my landlady had aired the
apartment out and had cleaned out the food so that nothing could
perish, the place still felt unlived-in; and here I was, walking
back into it after all these months that felt like half a lifetime,
a different person. It was like walking into the mausoleum of my
life.

Toro-a-Ba trotted along beside me, keeping
pace with me as I wandered like a ghost through my few rooms. It
was a struggle to start putting anything into boxes. At length I
began, and Toro-a-Ba helped by wrapping fragile things in clothes
and textiles and packing them carefully into boxes. It was strange
to see him handling my clothes for me, and again the freakish
feeling that I had brought home my new wife caused the skin of my
back to chill.

Out of necessity, we worked side by side. As
we always would, from this day on.

I did not have a great many possessions,
preferring to keep my life simple – hah! A luxury I would
never have again, thanks to a cursed laser-imaging machine! – and
it took only a day to pack them all. I left the boxes where they
sat, rather than risk injury by lifting them, and they and the
furniture would all have to be moved by the removal crew in two
days’ time.

When we had checked that all was packed, I
stood near the door, keys in hand, and gazed at the living room. A
lump was rising in my throat. When I left here, I would be saying
goodbye forever to the person I had been.

“
Daniel.”

I glanced down at Toro-a-Ba.

“
I am not here.” Toro-a-Ba
turned away from me, to our right, lay down on the floor beside and
a little behind me, closed his small dark eyes, folded his soft
ears back against his head, and covered his face with his little
furry hands. He was being absent, invisible, as much as he could
be. He was leaving me alone, as much as he ever could, to say
goodbye to my apartment by myself.

Appreciative of the gesture, I looked around
my apartment, my eyes filling with tears. This moment was the
nearest thing to solitude that I would ever again experience. And
in the same moment, I was saying goodbye to all the solitude I had
ever had.

I stood still and closed my eyes. I tried to
forget little Toro-a-Ba lying on the floor near me, and to feel
alone. I wept, and I could feel my body shaking with quiet sobs,
and I am sure the hose must have trembled slightly and Toro-a-Ba
must have felt it, but he did nothing, said nothing, and I stood
there and wept for I know not how long.

At last, I wiped my tears, breathed deeply,
and silently said my last goodbye.