I don’t know how long I have been in the darkness when the light pulls me up again.
I can hear steps approaching, voices, laughter.
Rachel’s laugh.
I am in my body again.
The pain in my foot is excruciating. I want to cry, but there are no tears. All that happens is that sweat starts to break out at my temples and my heart beats fast.
The door opens and Rachel and a thin guy with long blond hair come in.
I can’t open my eyes enough to see them clearly, and as soon as they come toward me they disappear from the narrow field of vision I have through the crack between my eyelids.
‘You can sit there,’ Rachel says, and moments later I hear creaking from the grandma chair as the guy takes a seat. Then the scraping of the stool against the floor as Rachel pulls it out to sit on it.
There is a warm hand on mine.
‘This is Theo,’ Rachel, says, squeezing my hand a little. ‘He’s visiting today. He might begin working for us, to keep you company. Read to you and play music.’
Her lips graze my cheek. The light touch burns like fire and I feel nauseous.
The guy says something about my nose and Rachel answers.
‘Oh that. Jonas is tube-fed. But you don’t need to worry about it. I take care of all that.’
I want to scream at them to get the bloody tube out of my nose, but I can’t. I want to speak with them, tell them about the pain in my foot, but I don’t have words. The pain is speaking to me, it shouts and screams, so that I can’t hear my own thoughts.
‘Did he fall?’ The guy asks.
‘Yes, he had an epileptic fit a few days ago. But it looks much worse than it is. It’ll heal well.’
A drop of sweat runs down my temple and makes its way behind one ear. I hear a smacking sound and a click. Seconds later I feel something slippery and cold on my hand.
Rachel’s fingers are massaging me. Rubbing the sticky stuff in slowly and methodically.
‘His hands get so terribly dry,’ she says. ‘I usually moisturise them once a day or so. It’s a good idea to put some balm on his lips too. There’s a stick on the bedside table.’
There is another smacking sound, Rachel begins to massage my other hand.
‘Uhh,’ I manage, but it sounds more like a groan than a word.
‘He knows you’re here,’ Rachel pants theatrically sounding at once elated and surprised. ‘You know what, I think this will work out really well!’
‘I’m not sure,’ the guy says. ‘I mean, I don’t know anything about diseases and stuff.’
‘All you need to do is keep Jonas company. Read to him, play music. He is almost always calm, but sometimes he gets restless or has seizures. If that happens I want you to come and get me immediately. He can end up hurting himself.’
‘OK.’
‘You can read a bit now. Begin where the bookmark is.’
‘Now?’
‘Of course,’ Rachel says.
The guy clears his throat and begins to read:
‘You don’t like Paris? No. Why don’t you go somewhere else? There isn’t anywhere else.’
Rachel laughs.
‘I was just joking. You don’t need to read right now. You’re just here visiting today.’
‘Uhm, OK.’
The guy clears his throat.
‘Nice bracelet.’
Rachel’s hands stop mid-movement and my wrist is lifted up. Someone fingers my mum’s glass-bead bracelet.
I want to cry, even though I don’t have any tears left.
‘Isn’t it pretty?’ Rachel murmurs with feeling and a bit of a tremble to her voice. ‘He made it for me in Year One, but after his accident I put it on him so that it would always be with him. Look at the beads.’
The guy leans in. I can’t see it, but I can feel his breath against my cheek. It comes in regular, warm puffs that smell of snuff.
‘M-U-M-M-Y,’ he sounds out like a fucking six-year-old. And when he does that – when he takes the word he shouldn’t be allowed to say into his mouth – something inside of me stirs and my whole body stiffens into spasms.
I want to hit him. I want to punch him, a straight punch to his face to send him straight into the wall head-first.
I test moving my fingers, expecting resistance but it’s not there. The sedative must be wearing off.
My arm flies up to his face, but not fast enough to knock him out. My fingers bend and I scratch him across the face. I can feel my nails cut through his skin before he yelps and jumps back.
‘Jonas,’ Rachel gasps.
And then: ‘I don’t understand what happened. He has never . . .’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ the guy says.
‘Wait here and I’ll get some Neosporin,’ Rachel says.
I hear steps and glimpse Rachel’s silhouette as she leaves the room.
It is quiet.
The guy breathes heavily. A few seconds later I hear a snap. He is taking a photo of me.
Why is he doing that?
A moment later I hear steps. Rachel is on her way back.
I try forming my lips into words, try to warn the guy. Because even though I didn’t like him messing with Mum’s bracelet I don’t want Rachel to get her hands on him.
But no sound passes my lips. My mouth won’t form itself around the words. My lungs are powerless. My vocal cords won’t obey me.
‘What are you doing?’
Rachel’s voice is calm, but I can hear the fear and anger under the surface.
‘I just wanted to . . .’
Rachel takes a few steps into the room.
‘Why are you photographing my son?’
‘I . . . didn’t mean. I . . .’
‘Give me your phone!’ Rachel screams.
No, I bellow. No, no, no!
But only in my head.