Winman, Sarah - When God Was a Rabbit

I met him again in the living room. I was kneeling in front of the hearth with a small pile of sticks in my hand.

‘I can do that,’ he said, and started to place them on the bed of newspaper, awaiting only a taper. It was one of the many moments where his memory divided at a crossroads and allowed him the knowledge of how to light a fire, but not to remember when he last did it, or who he was with. He turned to me and smiled. Would learn to smile a lot; smile when he didn’t know what else to say; smile when politeness, fear of hurting – all those things families don’t bother with – sat between us.

‘Do you think you could talk to them?’ I said. ‘Just to hear your voice would be enough.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want.’

I left him in the room. Caught the odd words like, ‘home’ and ‘doing well’ and lots about ‘Grace’, and I knew it was my mother talking to him, this woman who had read up on so much since his discovery; a woman who was not forcing in her conversation, a woman who could wait that bit longer because she’d already waited and it was enough he was in the world.

He found us in the kitchen. Came down the stairs as if they were fragile. I handed him a glass.

‘Here,’ I said, and poured out the wine. ‘This was your favourite.’

‘Right,’ he said awkwardly.

We watched him drink.

‘It’s nice.’ He raised the glass to the light. ‘Is it expensive?’

‘Horribly so,’ I said.

‘Can I afford it?’

‘Think so. You can check your accounts tomorrow, if you want.’

‘Am I rich?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Do I have enough to give away?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, and shrugged. ‘Do you want to give it away?’

‘I don’t know what I want,’ he said, refilling his glass.

He listened to start with, to stories about home life or about my life in London, but would then suddenly take himself off to bed or out of a room, and that was the hardest; the sudden ennui at people he didn’t remember, didn’t know, had no curiosity in knowing. His interest was held only by stories of Grace or the films he watched in hospital, or Gerry in ICU or the porters, precious stories of his post-accident life, the five weeks of his life that reverberated with the contagion of memory. The life we were not part of.

‘What are you writing?’ he asked me one day after a hospital checkup.

‘A column for a newspaper. It’s what I do. My job.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘You, in part. I’ve called you Max. And Charlie. And Jenny Penny.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘A childhood friend. You knew her once. She’s in prison now. Murdered her husband.’

‘Nice friend,’ he said, laughing. Uncaring.

That threw me. He threw me.

‘Yeah, she is,’ I said quietly.

We got as close as we could. The smell of burning oil had given way to the stench of the unspeakable. He read the photocopied sheets of paper depicting the Missing, and somewhere I knew he still felt that way. We split up and I watched him work his way past fifty, maybe sixty, smiling faces before he suddenly stopped and touched one of the photos.

‘Elly,’ he said, and gestured for me to join him. ‘It’s me.’ And there, nestled by the grandmother, with frayed worn edges, was his smiling face; the black and white shimmer of a swimming pool behind him. He took the picture down and folded it; put it into his pocket.

‘Let’s go home,’ I said.

‘No. Let’s go on.’

I looked back at the empty space. I knew I should have felt happier.

We’d walked too far; he’d overestimated his strength and soon his faced paled beneath exhaustion. We took it slow across the bridge and I told him how he used to love the bridge, and that he’d probably taken it the night of his attack. We headed down to the promenade, to the bench we always sat on; the bench on which he was found by the young man from Illinois, the young man we would later know as Vince.

‘Did we come here a lot?’ he asked.

‘I s’pose so. When we needed to talk, if we had problems. It seemed to work down here, looking over at the city. We’d always talked about this city as kids. Actually, not kids – you know, adolescents – it was our escape; the place we were gonna go to. “New York, New York.” You know, everyone’s dream. We were going to live it all here. It’s where you ran away to, where you flourished.’

‘I ran away?’

‘Yeah. We both did, in a way. You did it physically, that’s all.’

‘What was I running from?’

I shrugged. ‘You?’

He laughed. ‘Didn’t get far, then?’

‘No, not really.’

He took out the folded sheet of paper and looked at himself.

‘Was I a nice person?’

It was strange to hear him refer to himself in the past.

‘Yes. You were funny and kind. Generous. Difficult. But so sweet.’

‘What problems did I have?’

‘Same as everyone else’s.’

‘Is that why I came here that night, do you think?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I asked Charlie if I had a boyfriend.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said I never had a boyfriend. I made it hard for people who loved me. Do you know why I did that?’

I shook my head. ‘Why does anyone do that?’

He didn’t answer.

‘I loved you,’ I said. ‘Still do.’

I looked at the picture still gripped in his hand. Miami. February, nearly eight months before. I’d worried that the holiday was so expensive, so extravagant. How silly, I thought.

‘You always looked out for me when we were kids,’ I said. ‘You protected me.’

He stood up, and knelt down by the bench.

‘This is where I was found, right?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for blood.’

‘I don’t think there was much.’

He crouched and leant on the slats.

‘Are you waiting for my mind to fully return?’

I took a moment to think how I should answer.

‘Yes.’

‘What if it doesn’t?’

I shrugged.

‘Why’s it so important for you?’

‘Why d’you think? You’re my brother.’

‘I can still be your brother.’

Not the same, I thought.

‘You’re the only person who really knows me,’ I said. ‘It’s how we were, how we grew up.’

‘That’s a bit fucked,’ he said. ‘No pressure, then?’

And before I could answer he said, ‘I think I’ve found some,’ and he leant closer in to the metal foot. ‘Do you want to see?’

‘No. Not really.’

He got up and came and sat next to me again.

‘I feel like sex a lot of the time,’ he said.

‘Well, I can’t help with that.’

He laughed.

‘Where did I go?’

‘I don’t know. Clubs? Saunas? What did Charlie say?’

‘Said he’d take me.’

‘You need protection these days.’

‘I lost my memory – I’m not fucking stupid.’

‘Right,’ I said.

I lay in bed, restless and overtired, and it was nearly four when I heard the front door. I could have gone out with them but I’d felt like time apart. Wanted to clear my head, rid myself of the bitter clutter piling behind my words, and I’d reached for music instead, music and wine – plenty of both. But now I lay in bed, drowsy and on edge, a vicious thirst replacing the drunkenness that had seen me to sleep.

I heard footsteps on the stairs, just one pair. I waited. There was a gentle tap on my door. I got up and opened it.

‘Hey, Ell.’

‘Charlie.’

He stumbled forwards, drunk. I guided him to the bed where he fell and rolled over. He looked miserable.

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘I dunno. Got picked up and I left ’em to it.’

‘You’re soaked.’