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Authors: Cesca Major
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the wastepaper basket and returns to sit on the chair by my bed.
‘Right then, if you remember, as we practised,’ he says, gesturing to his own mouth. ‘O,’ he enunciates, making an exaggerated shape of an ‘O’ with his mouth that makes him look not unlike a small child sucking on a straw. ‘A,’ he continues, his mouth moving into the exaggerated smile of a circus clown. All his teeth are shown in the process, a neat little row, slightly yellowing, but uniformly straight. ‘I,’ he demonstrates, nodding at me eagerly as I attempt to mimic the movements.
I feel mildly ridiculous, as I do every time this routine is performed. I continue though, always spurred on by the eager look in his eyes as he waits for a breakthrough.
He shows me how to say ‘E’. I copy.
It seems so easy. Why won’t the words come? Have I simply forgotten how to speak? I stop copying his movements. The doctor continues for another few tries, determined to make some kind of progress with his patient.
He gives up in the middle of an ‘O’, snaps his mouth shut. He presses his hair down. I know his first question: ‘When did you last speak?’ he asks, as he does in all our meetings. He waits an appropriate time and, when there is no response, asks another: ‘Can you remember what event might have triggered your condition?’
I shake my head.
He sighs. More seconds tick by and he shifts in his chair. ‘Have you ever been able to speak?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Good, good,’ he responds, almost as enthusiastically as he did the time before. ‘Can you remember when this ceased?’
More seconds tick. I shake my head. Seeing a doctor’s bag, a bottle, the odour of anaesthetic, I feel a sharp stinging in my legs and flinch as if it is not imagined.
The doctor doesn’t appear to notice as he smooths his hair once more and then places both hands in his lap. They are the hands of a professional: smooth, clean, fingernails clipped. He starts wiggling his fingers, perceptibly irritated by my focus on his appendages. ‘We’ll continue with some exercises. Now, slowly breathe in and breathe out …’
An hour later, I see the cloud of dust in the road in the distance as the doctor’s motorcar speeds away. I’m sitting on a wooden bench in the garden stitching the hem of a brown skirt to give to Sister Marguerite – we are mending clothes donated to us for a family in the village.
Sister Marguerite and Sister Constance are talking a little way off across the lawn, looking across to me every now and again. The stone walls of the nunnery rise up behind them, throwing half the lawn into shadow. A statute of St Clare in a stone niche just behind them kneels as if she is pleading to be heard too. Sister Marguerite points a finger towards me as she talks. I know she is keen to ensure the doctor’s visits continue in the hope that I will one day find my voice.
I think I want that too.
In the last few weeks I have started to feel alive again, aware of my surroundings, like putting on spectacles and having things come into focus. Whether I can talk or not I don’t know, but my thoughts are less fuzzy now, more distinct, and I can stay in them longer. Perhaps it is talk of moving me on. Sister Constance’s threat lingers in the corridors, on the faces of the nuns I have come to know. It is in Sister Marguerite’s worried looks.
As I work I watch the hens claw at the soil, their great bottoms wobbling as they strut about the little square of ground allotted to them. Behind the wire that has been have put up to keep out the foxes is their entire world, and eight of them are happily pecking at the ground, scraping their feet along the earth, delving and scratching about the place, exuding a contented calm.
We kept chickens.
I was amused by their strange little habits, touched by their incessant babble of communication. One hen used to follow me right into the house, clucking expectantly as if she was continuing a conversation I had
‘Right then, if you remember, as we practised,’ he says, gesturing to his own mouth. ‘O,’ he enunciates, making an exaggerated shape of an ‘O’ with his mouth that makes him look not unlike a small child sucking on a straw. ‘A,’ he continues, his mouth moving into the exaggerated smile of a circus clown. All his teeth are shown in the process, a neat little row, slightly yellowing, but uniformly straight. ‘I,’ he demonstrates, nodding at me eagerly as I attempt to mimic the movements.
I feel mildly ridiculous, as I do every time this routine is performed. I continue though, always spurred on by the eager look in his eyes as he waits for a breakthrough.
He shows me how to say ‘E’. I copy.
It seems so easy. Why won’t the words come? Have I simply forgotten how to speak? I stop copying his movements. The doctor continues for another few tries, determined to make some kind of progress with his patient.
He gives up in the middle of an ‘O’, snaps his mouth shut. He presses his hair down. I know his first question: ‘When did you last speak?’ he asks, as he does in all our meetings. He waits an appropriate time and, when there is no response, asks another: ‘Can you remember what event might have triggered your condition?’
I shake my head.
He sighs. More seconds tick by and he shifts in his chair. ‘Have you ever been able to speak?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Good, good,’ he responds, almost as enthusiastically as he did the time before. ‘Can you remember when this ceased?’
More seconds tick. I shake my head. Seeing a doctor’s bag, a bottle, the odour of anaesthetic, I feel a sharp stinging in my legs and flinch as if it is not imagined.
The doctor doesn’t appear to notice as he smooths his hair once more and then places both hands in his lap. They are the hands of a professional: smooth, clean, fingernails clipped. He starts wiggling his fingers, perceptibly irritated by my focus on his appendages. ‘We’ll continue with some exercises. Now, slowly breathe in and breathe out …’
An hour later, I see the cloud of dust in the road in the distance as the doctor’s motorcar speeds away. I’m sitting on a wooden bench in the garden stitching the hem of a brown skirt to give to Sister Marguerite – we are mending clothes donated to us for a family in the village.
Sister Marguerite and Sister Constance are talking a little way off across the lawn, looking across to me every now and again. The stone walls of the nunnery rise up behind them, throwing half the lawn into shadow. A statute of St Clare in a stone niche just behind them kneels as if she is pleading to be heard too. Sister Marguerite points a finger towards me as she talks. I know she is keen to ensure the doctor’s visits continue in the hope that I will one day find my voice.
I think I want that too.
In the last few weeks I have started to feel alive again, aware of my surroundings, like putting on spectacles and having things come into focus. Whether I can talk or not I don’t know, but my thoughts are less fuzzy now, more distinct, and I can stay in them longer. Perhaps it is talk of moving me on. Sister Constance’s threat lingers in the corridors, on the faces of the nuns I have come to know. It is in Sister Marguerite’s worried looks.
As I work I watch the hens claw at the soil, their great bottoms wobbling as they strut about the little square of ground allotted to them. Behind the wire that has been have put up to keep out the foxes is their entire world, and eight of them are happily pecking at the ground, scraping their feet along the earth, delving and scratching about the place, exuding a contented calm.
We kept chickens.
I was amused by their strange little habits, touched by their incessant babble of communication. One hen used to follow me right into the house, clucking expectantly as if she was continuing a conversation I had
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