seventy-four

“Mr. Tate?” The quiet voice roused Nathan from a thoughtless, heavy place where nothing mattered.

“Nathan?” The light hurt. He covered his face with his arm and peered out at the world from beneath it, at his legs under a dull grey blanket and his feet in dingy grey socks at the other end of his long, long body. Strange that his body had grown.

“You’re grand,” the voice said. “Do you know where you are?”

He rolled away from the voice.

“I’m Brenda, one of the clinical nurse managers for psychiatric care. You’re on a hold because you attacked your daughter with a knife. Do you remember this?”

Of course he remembered. They’d been repeating a variation of this question for years. The head nurse had changed and so had the color of the blanket, but of course he remembered where he was: England.

He buried his head under his arms again. Susannah, his lovely Susannah. Grief overwhelmed him as if she’d died yesterday. He sat up and scrabbled at his clothes. “Help,” he said. Or thought he said.

“What’s wrong? We’ll get you bathed and into clean clothes, and then you can sleep.”

“Help,” he said again. He’d forgotten the head nurse’s name. Didn’t need to remember it anyhow. They came, they went. He knew this.

He yanked at his crusty jeans, then switched gears and pulled his jumper over his head. He had to see for himself. Maybe none of what he thought of as the truth, was true. Maybe he’d dreamed his way to this reality. Maybe Susannah was alive, maybe he was living a massive delusion, maybe there was no scar. Maybe he hadn’t been locked up for years, after all.

Hands arrived to help him tug the jumper off, and an indrawn breath from the head nurse told him what he hoped wasn’t true. He looked for himself then dropped back onto the bed, panting in confusion. “How long have I been here?” he said.

The head nurse stepped closer and placed a hand on his forehead. Then she reached for his wrist and held her fingers against his pulse. “How long does it feel?”

“I thought—I hoped—” Nathan’s heart thumped hard against the medications swirling through his body. “But I’ve been imprisoned for half my life, haven’t I?” He pointed to the scar that years ago hadn’t existed. Instead, there’d been a wound that had festered and oozed, that had radiated pain so fierce he’d blacked out every time he tried to move. “It’s better now.”

“It is, and you’re quite safe here. You know that, don’t you?”

“But how long have I been here?”

“Only a few hours.”

Cool air circulated throughout the bare room, which, he now saw, had walls covered with foam mattresses. He lay on a low platform with more plasticky foam covering it. His skin pulled away from it with a pop and a pinch of pain when he shifted. “I don’t remember this place. This isn’t Sussex.”

“You’re in Ennis, Ireland, and this is the Quiet Room.” Brenda helped him pull on his jumper again. “Do you remember how you got injured?”

He rolled away from her again, tucking himself around his scar. “It started with the goldfinch.”