Ted

Ted

I am not dead, I can tell, because there is a strand of spaghetti on the green tile floor. What happens after death may be bad or good but there won’t be spilled spaghetti. The white hospital bed is hard, the walls are scuffed, and everything smells like lunch. The man is looking at me. The light glints on his orange-juice hair. ‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Where’s the woman?’ I ask. ‘The neighbour lady? She was saying the girl’s name. She was sick.’ Her arm looked snake-bit. I think she used the kit from my bag, but everyone knows those kits don’t do anything. I don’t know why I carry it. The memories are very confused, but there was something wrong with the neighbour lady – inside and out.

‘You were alone when I found you,’ he says. The man stares at me and I stare back. How are you supposed to talk to the person who saved your life?

‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

‘Someone had been blazing young trees with yellow paint. I’m a park ranger up in King County, so I didn’t like that. It’s toxic. I followed the trail, to tell them to stop. The dog got a blood scent. That was you.’

The doctor comes and the orange-haired man goes into the hall, out of earshot. The doctor is young, tired-looking.

‘You seem better. Let’s take a look.’ He does everything gently. ‘I want to ask you about the pills they found with you,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say, anxiety settling on me like a cloak. ‘I need them. They keep me calm.’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’m not sure about that. Did a doctor prescribe them?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘He gave them to me in his office.’

‘I don’t know where your doctor got them – but I would stop taking them, if I were you. They stopped manufacturing these pills about ten years ago. They have extreme side effects. Hallucinations, memory loss. Some people experience rapid weight gain. I am happy to recommend an alternative.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I won’t be able to afford that.’

He sighs and sits on the bed, which I know they’re not supposed to do. Mommy would have been upset. But he looks exhausted, so I don’t say anything. ‘It’s tough,’ he says. ‘There’s not enough support or funding. But I’ll bring you the forms. You might be eligible for aid.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s not just the medication that concerns me. There is a great deal of burn scarring on your back, legs and arms. There are also many scars from sutured incisions. That would normally indicate many hospitalisations in childhood. But your medical records don’t reflect that. They don’t seem to reflect any medical intervention at all.’ He looks at me and says, ‘Somebody should have caught this. Somebody should have stopped what was being done to you.’

It never before occurred to me that Mommy could have been stopped. I consider. ‘I don’t think they could have,’ I say. But it’s nice that it matters to him.

‘I can give you the name of someone who can go over your medical history in detail, someone you can talk to about … what happened. It’s never too late.’

He sounds unsure and I understand why. Sometimes it is too late. I think I finally understand the difference between now and then. ‘Maybe some other time,’ I say. ‘Right now I’m kind of tired of therapy.’

He looks like he wants to say more but he doesn’t, and I’m so grateful to him for that that I just start crying.

The orange-haired man brings me a toothbrush from the gift shop, sweatpants, a T-shirt and some underwear. It’s kind of embarrassing that he bought me underwear, but I need it. All my clothes were ruined by blood.

Doctors come and give me the stuff that makes the world go underwater. It keeps the others in here quiet, too. For the first time in many years, there is silence. But I know that they are there. We all move gently in and out of time.

Through the window I can see tall buildings, gleaming in the sun. I feel how far I am from the forest. I ask to have the window open, but the nurse says no, that the heatwave is over. This part of the world is returning to its cool, deep-green self. I feel like I’m coming home after a war.

The nurses are nice to me, amused. I’m just some clumsy guy who slipped and fell on his hunting knife, early one morning in the woods.

The orange-haired man is still here when I wake again. It should be weird, having a stranger in the room. But it isn’t. He is a peaceful person.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

‘Better,’ I say. And it’s true.

‘I have to ask,’ he says. ‘Did you really slip on that knife, or not? There was something in your eyes while I was trying to stop the bleeding. It looked like maybe you weren’t sorry to be – you know. Dying.’

‘It’s complicated,’ I say.

‘I’m no stranger to complicated.’ He takes off his cap and rubs his head so his hair stands up in red spikes. He looks exhausted. ‘You know what they say. If you save someone’s life, you’re responsible for them.’

If I tell him the truth, I guess I won’t see him again. But I am so tired of hiding what I am. My brain and my heart and my bones are exhausted by it. Mommy’s rules haven’t done me any good. What do I have to lose?

Lauren stirs, watchful.

I ask her, ‘Do you want to start?’