Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

Before entering I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t try to recall the two nights we’d spent together, fearing that such thoughts when she was ill were a kind of sacrilege, as bad as spitting on the image of Christ in a church. But seeing Jo made me think, sifting through the fragments looking for a clue that would explain what had happened. I fast-forwarded the sex, the flesh (shit, there was so much flesh) passing without feeling, just as a second porn film in one evening loses any allure. It was the drug taking that I searched my memory for. Each time I glimpsed Jo taking a line of coke I tried to remember the minutes before. Was she taking the stuff because she wanted to, or had I forced her to take more as the three of us attempted walls better left unclimbed? I squeezed Jo’s hand as if that simple act alone might propel my own memory into action and all would suddenly become clear.

The door behind me opened and I ended my fruitless task. Perhaps given more time I might recall better. Although it made perfect sense, I hadn’t even considered the visitor might be a nurse. She was of medium height and slim, her face brown from what appeared to be a recent holiday and scarred with little white marks from teenage acne. Before replacing the clipboard at the end of the bed she looked first at Jo’s inanimate body and then at me. It took a moment for her to recognise me, but I knew when it came and she flashed a broad smile.

‘Family?’

I shook my head.

‘Friend then?’ She had a soft Scottish accent.

‘Yes.’ Was that such a lie?

The nurse started a routine check of the machines that pumped and pulsed to keep Jo alive. She looked at me a couple of times, wondering whether she should say something. This was a conscious moment of embarrassment for her, one I knew well and would usually break by talking. This time I just couldn’t be bothered, other than broaching the mundane.

‘How is she?’

‘The same.’

‘Same as what exactly?’ She looked puzzled. ‘This is my first visit. I’ve been busy with the show but I came as soon as I heard. We went to school together, you know, but I’ve lost touch with her family, so I have no one to ask. I’ve no idea how she is.’

‘Jo’s in a coma.’ There was a pause, but she was going to tell me, despite what the rules might say. ‘I’m afraid there’s been no improvement since she first came in.’ To keep busy, she smoothed out the already smooth sheet.

‘When will she come out of the coma?’

She stopped, straightened and looked at me. She was used to giving bad news, to seeing faces crumble as she gave it straight. ‘The doctors aren’t sure she ever will.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Her parents have been here all day, in fact they left just before you came.’ She was about to gossip. This has happened to me many times before: it’s as though my life on planet fame makes me special enough to hear other people’s secrets. I’m like a cosmic agony aunt. Perhaps people think I have some redemptive quality and that telling me is like taking a cure. ‘The doctors have talked to them about her chances of improvement and they’ve gone to make their decision.’ She rolled her eyes in sympathy.

‘I see.’ Nothing more needed to be said. I’d met Jo’s parents once briefly at school after a play in which Jo had done an admirable job at playing an eighteenth-century wench complete with heaving bosom. Her father had lost a leg in a motorbike accident ten years before and walked with an awful exaggerated limp as though the artificial limb were too long. When he spoke, his voice was so loud I thought he was still competing to be heard above the throaty engine and coughing exhaust of a Triumph. Jo’s mother was tiny, with a badly bent back. I never felt any sympathy for Jo when we were young, but remembering her parents filled me with a sudden understanding of how embarrassed she must have been as a teenager and why her parents were so rarely seen. Now this poor couple had to make the decision that would kill their daughter.

The nurse came round to my side of the bed. She didn’t need to—the sheets were as smooth as on the other side—but she wanted to be seen, wanted to be noticed. It was the first time I’d seen her legs. Her calves, even in the thick tights, were well sculptured and quite alluring.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Evelyn.’

‘How long have you been in New Zealand?’

‘Eight years.’

‘The Scottish always seem to take the longest to lose their accents.’

She hummed her agreement.

‘Who do you prefer, John Lennon or Paul McCartney?’ Surely I couldn’t be thinking of this now.

She stopped her chores and turned back to look at me, ironing the front of her uniform flat with the palms of her hand. ‘I’m not sure I like either better. I like them both.’

‘Everyone likes one better than the other. Think about one of their songs you like the best and just say who you think wrote it, even if you have no idea.’

She thought for a while. ‘Paul McCartney, yes, McCartney.’

‘Thought so.’

Evelyn gave me a quizzical look, saw I didn’t want to engage in any more conversation and left the room. As the door clicked I saw something from the corner of my eye and turned back as quickly as possible to look at Jo. I was sure I’d seen the bedcover twitch. ‘Jo,’ I said, leaning over the bed to look at her face for added signs of life. Nothing. I willed some movement, a sign that there was some chance for Jo, some hope for her parents. Even though I didn’t know them, the thought of their sadness overwhelmed me. I wanted them saved from this terrible day. They’d coped with enough. They should be spared the awful finality of the thrown switch and inevitable flat line. It would only take a couple of words, just a whisper that I’d seen her move and it was done. It was that simple to raise their hopes and gain Jo a stay of execution, more time for a miracle to happen. For a few more days the curse of death would be lifted. It might seem false hope, but I could do with some false hope at the moment. I might have given her the shit that tipped her over the edge. Of course I wanted her to move a fucking leg. If her parents flicked that switch and turned out Jo’s lights, where did that leave me? With a fucking death on my hands, that’s where. Please dear God, please make her move her leg.

There was nothing more, if there had ever been anything in the first place. I sat back in the chair, realising how hot I was and how uncomfortable the seat had become. The door behind opened again.

‘Hello, Jack.’

‘Mary?’

‘How is she?’

The shock of seeing Mary sent me rocking out of the chair and I gulped for a breath of air to clear my head. ‘She’s as good as dead.’

‘Nice turn of phrase.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry to me, Jack.’

‘There doesn’t seem much hope for her…I thought I saw her leg move before, but there’s been nothing since. Perhaps I just imagined it, just hoped to see it move.’

Mary walked into my silence and sat on the seat I’d recently vacated. She had her back to me and I could see the twirl of her crown. Her hair was thick and sleek, a much deeper colour than when we were together. I stood awkwardly, unsure if she expected me to leave or stay.

‘I hear the show went well.’

‘It was good.’ At last I felt confident enough to step into her view and went to the second chair.

‘Sorry I didn’t catch it, but then I doubt if I’d have understood it if I had gone.’

‘Please, Mary, there’s no need for that, not here, not at a time like this.’

‘You’re right.’

‘It’s a shame we didn’t get the chance to talk the other night. How are things for you?’