Lullaby (13 page)

‘He's dead, Rene,' Emily spoke as if the other conversation was unrelated to ours.
As if we were the only two people in the corridor. Her stage trick. ‘Theo's dead.'

‘I know that,' I said.

‘I don't think you do.' Her voice was shaking. Her face took on an expression I'd
only seen once before, when I'd paid her an unexpected visit, and she hadn't heard
me come in. That time she was on her knees, her eyes closed in prayer. I misunderstood.
I thought she was just reaching down for something, under the bed.

How's God today? I'd asked. It was meant to be a joke.

The expression was not one of embarrassment,
although I think she felt that too.
It was the look of having been exposed, or rather of the gap between us having been
exposed. A gap too wide for either of us to reach across, so we'd ignored it. Her
face then spoke of fragility, and the sadness that comes from understanding how easily
everything can disappear. We covered it over quickly that time: an apology, a smile,
a change in the conversation. But we both knew some unassailable fact of the future
had leaked back into that moment. And now, the future had arrived.

Emily'd had her head shaved for an audition two weeks before, and the first millimetre
of fuzz had recolonised her scalp. I liked to rub it; she would roll her tongue to
make a sound like a purring cat. All those little intimacies that translate so poorly
beyond four walls. Now I could no more reach out to her hair than I could rub my
head against her breasts. Her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks were dulled by drying
tears. Her eyelashes were clumped and there was a red mark on her neck, just below
her ear, small and angry, the beginning of a pimple. She was half a head shorter
than me, a woman with her head tilted ever upwards, inquisitive, combative.

The guards, wherever they were, were taking their time.

‘You know the first thing Theo ever told me about you?' Emily said. ‘It was at one
of the early rehearsals, before you joined the cast. He told me about when you were
little, and you found a bumble bee with a damaged wing. He said you kept it in a
plastic container. You gave it flowers and honey and water, and a big overturned
shell to crawl under. People told you they only lived a few days, but you insisted
on looking after it, and you kept it alive for three months.'

I got the feeling it wasn't the first time today she'd told that story. Eulogy turned
accusation.

‘Is that true?'

‘Some of it,' I said.

‘What did he lie about?' Emily asked.

‘I'm pretty sure he was the one who found the bee. Why did he tell you that, do you
think?'

‘I think he was trying to sound sweet,' she said.

‘Yeah, me too. So what's your point?' I didn't mean to sound so aggressive. I watched
her flinch.

‘Just to remind you, that that's how you are,' she said. ‘That you see something
broken, and you
immediately think it's your responsibility to fix it. And sometimes
you can't.'

The journalist leaned forward, as if to will the next sentence out of her. I heard
footsteps, and turned to their source: two security guards—not huge men, but determined,
business-like—approaching fast.

‘All right, sir, I need you to come with us now. Any recording devices you have must
be—'

‘Okay, okay.' The journalist held his hands in the air, as if surrendering to a gun.

‘And the girl?' the older of the guards asked.

What was left of his hair was meanly cropped. I noticed a stud in his left ear, and
beneath the cuff of his uniform, the beginning of a tattoo. Something reptilian.

‘She can stay,' Maggie said.

‘Come on, sir, this way.'

As they moved off, the journalist tipped his head close to mine.

‘What will be left, Rene? When this is done, what stories shall we tell ourselves?'

His head jerked backwards. The younger guard, a wiry man with a barely contained
enthusiasm for violence, had the journalist's arm
behind his back in a flash, with
the wrist locked backwards, tight enough for the sentence to finish in a grunt of
pain.

And then there were three.

‘I'm sorry,' Maggie said. ‘We can't allow this to become a media event.'

‘Too late for that,' Emily said.

‘Perhaps.'

Silence. I imagined the day as a theatre script.
Pause. A silence. They wait.

Emily stayed quiet. Perhaps, without the journalist near, she had lost her confidence.
Or perhaps she had never wanted to say it. And I had nothing to add but sorry. It
was up to Maggie, to get us talking.

‘I feel terrible about the mix-up, and I will, in due course, do anything I can to
help you, but right now, we have other—'

‘Can I talk to him?' Emily asked. ‘Just five minutes. Me and him, alone.'

Her eyes filled with tears. She looked lost, diminished. I wanted to hold her. She
was right: I did want to fix things. I wanted to fix this.

Maggie hesitated. ‘I don't mean to appear unsympathetic, but time is—'

‘Just five minutes, please.'

Maggie was about to agree, but Dr Huxley appeared. His earlier calmness had gone,
as if some strange vibration had passed through the hospital, knocking everybody
from their equilibrium. He spoke quickly, the command cracking like the end of a
whip.

‘Back to the office, both of you.'

‘We just needed to see Emily,' Maggie tried to explain. ‘The admission details became—'

‘I'm aware of your mistake,' he snapped.

‘Emily and I just need five—'

‘There is no time. Theo cannot wait.'

I can't imagine it was accidental, the use of his name like that.

‘Say your goodbyes.'

Emily wrapped her arms about herself, as if she was cold, and bit her bottom lip.
She looked at the space between her feet and mine and spoke as if she were practising
lines.

‘I love you, Rene. I wanted us to move in together, find a place. I was going to
ask you, tonight, at dinner. I was terrified you'd say no.'

‘I wouldn't have,' I whispered.

‘But if you do this,' she said, ‘then who will
there be for me to love? Can you tell
me that?'

‘Ms Watts, do I need to call the security?'

I took Emily in my arms, and felt her wet cheek against my neck.

‘Me,' I told her. ‘You can love me.' My throat tightened. I held my breath, counted.

‘Which one of you?'

After the first time I'd stayed at Emily's house for the weekend, Theo had asked
me if it was love. I said I didn't know. How would you measure it? He said, well
if me and Emily were both drowning, which one would you save first?

I'd said, you're a better swimmer than I am, and didn't think about it again.

‘I'm not trying to hurt you,' I said.

‘Don't do it,' she whispered. ‘Don't let them.'

I felt Doctor Huxley's hand on my elbow, moving us apart.

I love the smell of Emily, the exact temperature of her skin against mine. Just
thinking of it, even now, makes me want to cry. I let go and she didn't meet my eye.
She turned and walked down the corridor.

I waited for her to look back, so that I could wave goodbye, but she never did.

14

When we got to the office, Doctor Huxley pulled Maggie back out into the corridor.
I wondered if her mistake would cost her job.

I waited and thought of Emily, walking away, and what she'd meant by the bee story.
I thought of the journalist, and what the other thing was, that he had wanted Emily
to tell me. And I thought of Theo, because I had no choice.

And here, as I remember it, thought is the wrong word. Thought does not capture the
feeling of simply receiving: of being bludgeoned, again and again, by the ugly, intransigent
truth.

They didn't leave me there for long. The clock was ticking. They hadn't resolved
their differences; Maggie's lips were bitten-thin, her jaw locked, her eyes taking
shelter behind her glasses. The doctor
motioned for me to sit down. I'd been pacing.

Huxley pulled up his chair and Maggie moved into hers, completing the triangle. He
wasted no time.

‘As you know, Maggie has spent the last hours assessing your emotional and psychological
state. The decision we are asking you to make is a huge one, and no person could
feel adequately prepared for it. Nevertheless, there is a fine difference, an important
difference, between a mind that is strained and one that is broken. This is not a
perfect science, and everything the two of you have talked about has been carefully
recorded, for future reference. You will have unrestricted access to this file,
and will be able to share it with whomsoever you choose. Whatever you may think of
this process, and I admit many aspects of it have been rushed and unfortunate, it
is not the case, must not be the case, that it involves any degree of subterfuge.
We have told you all you need to know, and you are free to ask any questions. The
decision you make today will be yours and yours alone.

‘But, in the first instance, there is Maggie's assessment. And so I have asked her
now, to report back to us both on her findings. I would like you
to understand that
she has not yet told me what she has concluded.'

He turned to Maggie, who nodded her confirmation.

‘Before Maggie begins, do you have any questions?'

The room tightened, squeezed by need and impossibility.

‘The journalist, the one with Emily, he asked me, what stories shall we tell ourselves,'
I said. ‘What did he mean?'

I have many faults, they can be easily read in my story, but I'm not stupid. I watched
the two of them squirming in their seats, preparing their lies.

‘Which of us are you asking?' the doctor said.

‘You weren't there,' I pointed out. ‘But perhaps you can guess, as well as she can.'

They looked at each other.

‘I don't know what he meant,' Maggie said.

‘And if you were forced to guess?' I asked.

‘Are you forcing me?'

‘I'm trying to.'

‘I honestly don't know, Rene. I'm sorry.' She looked at the doctor. He nodded.

‘It's the same for me, unfortunately. I couldn't
speculate.' He met my eye with a
steady gaze.

I thought at the time, and I think this still, that he wasn't trying to be evasive.
He wasn't trying to hurt me, but neither was he trying to protect me. Because, for
him, I was a small part of a greater good, a necessary negative element in a far
larger equation. My mistake was not in trusting him, but in neglecting to turn the
question back to Maggie. With her admissions error, a crack had opened through which
I could peer. And for all I didn't know about her, I knew she wasn't like him.

‘Is there anything else?' Doctor Huxley asked.

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Then—' he turned again to Maggie ‘—please deliver your findings.'

When she spoke it was not to me, but to the doctor. I was there simply to bear witness,
experience myself rendered in the third person.

‘Rene's relationship with his brother, though at times troubled, can be characterised
as extremely close and caring. Although Rene exhibits a range of classic shock symptoms,
there is no evidence that he is in denial. He has grasped the implications of the
brain death of his brother, Theo. He has, throughout our interview, displayed a
keen intelligence,
and I have never doubted he has the confidence required to question
or challenge any part of this process. Rene carries significant guilt regarding his
brother's accident, which in my opinion he is yet to properly process. Nevertheless,
it is also my opinion that the unprocessed nature of this conflict does not constitute
a compromised capacity for informed participation in this procedure.

‘The situation leading to Theo's accident has also placed great stress on his other
key relationship, and in this respect Rene can be categorised as being especially
troubled. Against this, the manner of the interactions I witnessed between the two
suggest that, even in these circumstances, Rene has not lost sight of the values
that he cleaved to prior to the incident.

‘Rene is understandably troubled by the philosophical and psychological complexity
of the proposed operation but this, in my opinion, would be true of anybody, and
as such can have no bearing upon the issue of capacity.

‘And so,' she paused, even though the conclusion was now clear, ‘it is my professional
assessment that Rene is, at this time, capable of making the decision required of
him.'

Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by fear. The effect was disorientating,
like being dragged backwards through a familiar dream. From the moment I first met
Maggie, the barrier had appeared insurmountable. That I would want to do this, take
my every memory, my self, and dump it on my brother's body, was surely reason enough
to find me of unfit mind. And yet the waters had parted, without fanfare or drama,
as if there had never been any intention to do anything but find me sane. Unnamed
possibilities jostled offstage, seeking out the raw nerve ends of my fear.

‘And have any considerations, be they personal or professional, beyond the clearly
defined terms of your investigation, influenced you in this decision?' the doctor
intoned.

I realised the recording was still in progress. And that, as much as my being there,
might have been why he had taken her into the corridor for their earlier conversation.

‘No, they have not.'

‘Thank you, Maggie.'

He turned to me, apparently uninterested in my reaction. ‘And now, young man, I will
not insult you by explaining again how important, or
complex, the decision ahead
of you is. Nor am I able to advise you. You will be left alone now. You can press
this button to call us back at any time, either to ask further questions, or to give
your decision. At this point, it is not possible for you to speak with anybody else,
and I must remind you that if, in the next ninety minutes, you are unable to reach
a decision, then the window will have closed. In this instance, not to decide is
to decide.'