Read Online The Doctor's Wife by Elizabeth Brundage - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
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up, swings it by its tail. And he can hear it, like a clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock . His mother stands on the shore, growing smaller, waving to him, waving her arms. He is out too far. The raft has drifted. Maybe he has fallen asleep. Come back, Michael! He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. I am laughing now. I am laughing and laughing. The more he laughs, the harder it is to breathe. The water is black and deep, thick as tar. It pulls him down, grips his feet. It isn’t fair! I’m caught. Hands smash through the surface, trying to pull him out. He twists and reaches, but cannot grab hold. I can’t breathe!
Later. Hours later. No, seconds. Something crawling on his head. Warm fur, sharp feet, a long wet tail. He tries to catch it, but it is too quick. And he is afraid of it. He would not know what to do with it if he caught it. Kill it with my bare hands. He does not like the idea of catching the rat.
Now the woman is near. He can smell her: tea rose, lemongrass. It is a familiar scent, yet he cannot place its origin and it confuses him because it reeks of springtime, the citron ache of grass before rain, and he knows that it is autumn now. She is washing him, humming a tune he has heard innumerable times but still cannot name. He does not know for certain if he is dreaming, because the woman is beautiful, as if in a dream, and her voice is sweet and the sound of her singing comforts him. The way she moves, like the lines of a poem, making him see things in his head. I know you, he thinks, yet he cannot place her. I’ve seen you before.
Her hands wringing out the cloth, the sound of water like rain in a storm, a single drop running down his ear, all the way down inside of him. Her breathing, like wind, a warm wind that smells of bread. The cloth glides down his chin, his neck, down the length of his arms. She feeds him more pills and he swallows them willingly. Anything to escape, if only in his mind. He wants to tell her about the rat, he wants to tell her that he is terrified of it, but he cannot move his mouth and he knows that it will return. The lines of her body mingle with the shadows as she moves to do her work, singing, always singing. Whispering her prayers. Once he thinks she is crying. Who are you? his brain screams. What have you done?
Much later, she whispers his name. He does not want to open his eyes. He hears her strike a match, smells the tiny, sulfurous explosion. The flame hisses as it melts the wick of a candle. She is a blur, her hair the color of ripe corn. He breathes in her wet-wool smell. In the half-dark of what he imagines is late afternoon, he discerns the shapes that make her whole. A red sweater. A green scarf. You had black hair before, he implores her with his eyes. She wears the smell of snow like a child. The smell of freedom, like too much perfume. It makes him want to throttle her. She shakes off the cold, rubs her hands. “Michael,” she says again in the warm voice of a lover.
Yes, what? What do you want?
He cannot dream of speaking.
“Are you feeling better? You look much better today, really, much much better.”
He doesn’t feel better. In fact, he feels worse.
She moves away and for a few horrible moments there is nothing but space and silence and it terrifies him. He listens to the silence and discerns the sound of her breathing and imagines that she is just sitting there, watching him, the way one observes an animal in the zoo.
“I wasn’t always like this,” she whispers, and he smells her cigarette. Wanting to see her face, he twists slightly, prompting a spasm of pain up his spine. “I won’t hurt you if you’re good.”
He doesn’t say anything, his throat jammed up with anger. Then she’s gone again and he hears something rattling on the cement, snaking across the floor. Moments later he feels something cold and tight coiling around his ankle. A chain, he
Later. Hours later. No, seconds. Something crawling on his head. Warm fur, sharp feet, a long wet tail. He tries to catch it, but it is too quick. And he is afraid of it. He would not know what to do with it if he caught it. Kill it with my bare hands. He does not like the idea of catching the rat.
Now the woman is near. He can smell her: tea rose, lemongrass. It is a familiar scent, yet he cannot place its origin and it confuses him because it reeks of springtime, the citron ache of grass before rain, and he knows that it is autumn now. She is washing him, humming a tune he has heard innumerable times but still cannot name. He does not know for certain if he is dreaming, because the woman is beautiful, as if in a dream, and her voice is sweet and the sound of her singing comforts him. The way she moves, like the lines of a poem, making him see things in his head. I know you, he thinks, yet he cannot place her. I’ve seen you before.
Her hands wringing out the cloth, the sound of water like rain in a storm, a single drop running down his ear, all the way down inside of him. Her breathing, like wind, a warm wind that smells of bread. The cloth glides down his chin, his neck, down the length of his arms. She feeds him more pills and he swallows them willingly. Anything to escape, if only in his mind. He wants to tell her about the rat, he wants to tell her that he is terrified of it, but he cannot move his mouth and he knows that it will return. The lines of her body mingle with the shadows as she moves to do her work, singing, always singing. Whispering her prayers. Once he thinks she is crying. Who are you? his brain screams. What have you done?
Much later, she whispers his name. He does not want to open his eyes. He hears her strike a match, smells the tiny, sulfurous explosion. The flame hisses as it melts the wick of a candle. She is a blur, her hair the color of ripe corn. He breathes in her wet-wool smell. In the half-dark of what he imagines is late afternoon, he discerns the shapes that make her whole. A red sweater. A green scarf. You had black hair before, he implores her with his eyes. She wears the smell of snow like a child. The smell of freedom, like too much perfume. It makes him want to throttle her. She shakes off the cold, rubs her hands. “Michael,” she says again in the warm voice of a lover.
Yes, what? What do you want?
He cannot dream of speaking.
“Are you feeling better? You look much better today, really, much much better.”
He doesn’t feel better. In fact, he feels worse.
She moves away and for a few horrible moments there is nothing but space and silence and it terrifies him. He listens to the silence and discerns the sound of her breathing and imagines that she is just sitting there, watching him, the way one observes an animal in the zoo.
“I wasn’t always like this,” she whispers, and he smells her cigarette. Wanting to see her face, he twists slightly, prompting a spasm of pain up his spine. “I won’t hurt you if you’re good.”
He doesn’t say anything, his throat jammed up with anger. Then she’s gone again and he hears something rattling on the cement, snaking across the floor. Moments later he feels something cold and tight coiling around his ankle. A chain, he
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