says. She wipes his mouth and then the rest of his face, and she brushes his hair with her hands because his comb seems to be missing. It’s usually kept on the shelf at the side of the bed but there’s nothing on it today, which makes her think that the cleaners have had off with it. It wasn’t a cheap one: part of a set that she gave him for Christmas once. That set went through the war with him, and it was part of the stuff that they shipped back with him after his emergency surgery, that she had to sort through, that she had to choose to keep. The scar – the real scar, not the Machine’s burn scars – sits to the left of his forehead. When she stares at it she traces a line to the bullet’s exit point, and she wonders how close it really came to ending everything. A fraction of a millimetre, the doctors at the time said. Beth has always wondered if that was an exaggeration.
I don’t suppose you’ve managed to remember who I am, Beth says. She stands back and looks at his face, and tries to make eye contact. You’re Vic, she says. Do you remember that? She’s not expecting anything. This isn’t the point where she gives up: that happened a long time ago.
(She remembers the exact day, because it still sits there as a dream that she has when she’s drunk or lonely: Vic bucking as she held on to him, as she tried to console him, and she realized that he didn’t know who she was, and he didn’t care. She was the only one who cared, and she had the guilt on top of that, and she carried that with her every single day, every single time that she thought about him.)
She changes him. She can’t remember what it’s like to undress him normally, not like they used to. This is different, a shift in their relationship. The act of pulling down his underwear and replacing it. Wiping him if he’s had an accident. The nurses here change him every few hours to prevent them, now. Rubber-lined underwear; rubber sheets on the bed. She pulls the underwear down his legs and past his ankles, and then she takes a bath-wipe and rubs it over him. She doesn’t know how often the nurses actually do it.
I hope you’re all right in here, she says to him. She sits on the edge of the bed after putting his new pants on, and she turns on the television. It doesn’t hold his attention – she isn’t sure that he’s even capable of paying attention any more – but she watches a daytime cookery show for a few minutes. Sitting next to him is reassuring. She thinks that it won’t be that long until she’ll have him back with her, back as he was. Sitting with him now makes that prospect feel somehow more real. She can feel his warmth, which hasn’t changed at all. His blood still pumps the same way. His skin still smells the same, after she’s cleaned him.
He can walk still, sometimes: when she catches him on the right day, when the muscle memory does more than his active brain. Today isn’t one of those days. She asks an orderly who passes the room to help her put Vic into a wheelchair. It goes quite smoothly until he’s actually in it. He makes himself stiff as a board, back arched, and the orderly straps him in. They forcibly bend him, making him sit.
Safer for you both, the orderly says. He calls Vic Mr McAdams, which makes Beth feel sad. She wheels him down the ramps, pulling him behind her as she walks backwards, because he’s so much heavier than she is. At the end of the corridor is a wall of glass that’s so reflective and so dark inside as to be almost a mirror. She sees herself with him, her hands on the handles of the chair. She looks older, and his hair has become mussed in the move to the chair. She straightens it again with her hands. He doesn’t look at the reflection. She remembers something that she read this one time: how the only animals to recognize themselves are chimpanzees and elephants. You can put a mark on their heads and they will see the reflection and reach for themselves, to rub the mark off.
I don’t suppose you’ve managed to remember who I am, Beth says. She stands back and looks at his face, and tries to make eye contact. You’re Vic, she says. Do you remember that? She’s not expecting anything. This isn’t the point where she gives up: that happened a long time ago.
(She remembers the exact day, because it still sits there as a dream that she has when she’s drunk or lonely: Vic bucking as she held on to him, as she tried to console him, and she realized that he didn’t know who she was, and he didn’t care. She was the only one who cared, and she had the guilt on top of that, and she carried that with her every single day, every single time that she thought about him.)
She changes him. She can’t remember what it’s like to undress him normally, not like they used to. This is different, a shift in their relationship. The act of pulling down his underwear and replacing it. Wiping him if he’s had an accident. The nurses here change him every few hours to prevent them, now. Rubber-lined underwear; rubber sheets on the bed. She pulls the underwear down his legs and past his ankles, and then she takes a bath-wipe and rubs it over him. She doesn’t know how often the nurses actually do it.
I hope you’re all right in here, she says to him. She sits on the edge of the bed after putting his new pants on, and she turns on the television. It doesn’t hold his attention – she isn’t sure that he’s even capable of paying attention any more – but she watches a daytime cookery show for a few minutes. Sitting next to him is reassuring. She thinks that it won’t be that long until she’ll have him back with her, back as he was. Sitting with him now makes that prospect feel somehow more real. She can feel his warmth, which hasn’t changed at all. His blood still pumps the same way. His skin still smells the same, after she’s cleaned him.
He can walk still, sometimes: when she catches him on the right day, when the muscle memory does more than his active brain. Today isn’t one of those days. She asks an orderly who passes the room to help her put Vic into a wheelchair. It goes quite smoothly until he’s actually in it. He makes himself stiff as a board, back arched, and the orderly straps him in. They forcibly bend him, making him sit.
Safer for you both, the orderly says. He calls Vic Mr McAdams, which makes Beth feel sad. She wheels him down the ramps, pulling him behind her as she walks backwards, because he’s so much heavier than she is. At the end of the corridor is a wall of glass that’s so reflective and so dark inside as to be almost a mirror. She sees herself with him, her hands on the handles of the chair. She looks older, and his hair has become mussed in the move to the chair. She straightens it again with her hands. He doesn’t look at the reflection. She remembers something that she read this one time: how the only animals to recognize themselves are chimpanzees and elephants. You can put a mark on their heads and they will see the reflection and reach for themselves, to rub the mark off.
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