When God Was a Rabbit (24 page)

His back was to me, framed by the window. The trees beyond were starting to change colour. A plane flew from right to left, skimmed the top of his head, trailed a plume of white lit by intermittent sunshine. It was a normal day outside. Inside, there was a vase of flowers, simple pink roses that Charlie had brought in a few days before; they were all he could get. I’d brought nothing. I suddenly felt shy, frightened maybe, of all he wasn’t. He was wearing the shirt I brought him from Paris, but he didn’t know that; he didn’t know me.

I’d had days to think about this moment. From the time of the phone call when we steered our storm-wracked boat back to shore and hauled our excited selves up the slope towards the house and my parents within. And from the moment I stood in front of them and told them all that Charlie had said and my mother said, ‘It doesn’t matter, we have him and that’s enough.’ And from the moment my father looked at her and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and she held him and said, ‘He’s come back to us, my darling. No sorry.’

Charlie let go of my hand and motioned me forward.

‘Hi,’ I said.

He turned round and smiled, looked exactly the same; more rested, perhaps, but no bruising, just the same.

‘You’re Elly?’ he said, and put his hand to his mouth, started to bite his nails; a gesture that made him, him. ‘My sister.’

‘Yeah.’

I went towards him, went to hold him, but he held out his hand instead and I took it and it felt cold. I pointed to his mouth.

‘You did that playing rugby, by the way.’

‘Ah, I wondered,’ he said.

I hadn’t seen the gap in years, since he broke the crown on a rogue piece of crab shell. I wondered if I should tell him. I didn’t.

He looked at Grace and shrugged. ‘Rugby,’ he said.

‘See, I says you were no fighter, Joe.’

She said ‘Joe’ as if it were a new word.

We had to go slow. The doctors said that. He was a blank photo album. I wanted to replace all the pictures, but the doctors told me it was important for him to create new ones. Go slow, they said. My parents entrusted Charlie and me to bring him home. But not just yet, the doctors said. Go slow. Work backwards. Allow him to unravel by himself. Go slow.

I saw her in the corridor as I was speaking to my parents. She was relacing her sensible black shoes, styled for comfort, not for fashion. What would I do with fashion? I could hear her say. My parents made me put her on the line, thanked her, invited her to Cornwall, to stay as long as she wanted; ‘For ever,’ my babbling father shouted, and he meant it, of course. Grace Mary Goodfield, who smelled so wondrously of Chanel and hope. I will know you for the rest of my life.

Charlie and I had already said our goodbyes, and we sat on the bed and waited.

‘Well, Mr Joe,’ said Grace. ‘This is it.’

‘I know.’

She reached for him as he moved towards her.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

And he whispered something neither of us could hear.

‘You keep in touch now. Get that aunt of yours to send some signed photos for us all. Item of clothing for the raffle would be nice,’ she added, laughing.

‘We’ll send her over in person. Get her on a few ward rounds,’ I said.

‘Do her good,’ said Charlie.

‘Even better,’ said Grace.

Awkward silence.

‘And don’t forget – Louisiana – always nice in spring.’

‘Spring it is then,’ we said.

‘I’ll never forget you,’ said Joe.

‘Told you, you were no fighter,’ she said, pointing to his mouth.

I am here but I am not yours.

He leant against the cab window, distant, quiet, non-reciprocal. We crossed the bridge and the lights lifted the dusk, and Joe eased his face towards the view beyond.

‘My God,’ he said as the illuminated world fired his imagination until I realised, naïvely, that this was probably the first time he had ever seen it.

‘And where were the Towers?’ he asked.

Charlie pointed. He nodded and we didn’t say any more after that; not about that day or where he was found or how that bridge used to be his favourite bridge – there would be time for that. Instead, we followed his gaze and quietly re-experienced the awe of the city neither of us had felt in years.

Charlie paid the driver and as we got out I felt a sudden chill I hadn’t prepared for.

‘This is home,’ I said to Joe, and ran up the steps expecting him to follow. He didn’t. He wandered into the middle of the road and looked up and down the street; trying to get some bearing, I imagine. He was nervous about entering an environment that would give clues to who he was.

Charlie patted his back, encouraged him towards the door. ‘Come on,’ he said naturally.

The hallway was lit and I could still smell the candle scent of two nights before; the night Charlie had filled me in on what to expect, the night we’d got stinking drunk into the early hours.

The house felt warm and the lighting cast shadows around the hearth and stairwells, and made the rooms look strangely bigger. Joe followed me in; he stopped and quietly looked around. He looked at the photos on the hall walls – a set of three Nan Goldins he’d paid thousands for – but he didn’t say anything, and instead ran upstairs and we heard him pacing on both sets of landings, until he ran back down to us and then beyond to the kitchen below. We heard the back door open. The sound of footsteps on the fire escape.

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.’

‘Couldn’t find a cab.’

No one would take you, more like.

He tried to tell me something about the evening, about a stripper, but the last of his words were barely audible as he buried them in the dent of my still-warm pillow. I took his clothes off and covered him with the duvet, and soon his breath was deep and unlaboured, even.

I pulled back the shutter and looked out. The street looked greasy and reflective; the rain had stopped and the first of the workers – the cleaners, the postal workers – were heading out. I got up and put on a sweater. It smelt of damp wool ever since I’d washed it. Joe told me I could never wear it out, only at home. That was the Joe before.

I crept downstairs to the kitchen and opened the back door to the smell of earth and rain, the smell I associated with Cornwall, and I suddenly longed to go back, longed to grieve in a landscape born of and eroded by grief, where hills fell into the sea in gestures of despair.

I heard the front door just as the coffee came to the boil. He must have noticed the light because he came down the stairs and put his head round the corner and seemed surprisingly sober.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Up early or still up late?’

‘Not sure. Want a coffee?’

‘Coffee would be good,’ he said.

We wrapped up and sat outside on the old bistro chairs, the damp slats soon penetrating the skin, but not uncomfortably so. The sound of traffic was slowly climbing over the back wall, a creeping precursor to the hue of sunrise. He looked around at the garden, seemed soothed by it, could have been the light, though, for shadows hide shadows.

‘You were a shit gardener who created a beautiful garden,’ I said. ‘Ginger used to say that you could make a woman pregnant just by looking at her. She loved you.’

He nodded. Sighed deeply.

‘Everybody seemed to love me. What am I supposed to do with that?’

I felt the anger creep back into his voice.

‘How was your night?’ I asked.

‘Strange. I got picked up by some kid and went back to his place. And before I got naked, he told me what a cunt I was and that he wouldn’t fuck me if I was the last person on earth. Somewhere around that time his flatmate came out to witness the humiliation.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to hide my laughter.

‘No, please go ahead. It’s doing wonders for me.’

‘Refill?’

‘Sure.’

I poured out some more coffee.

‘So who was he?’ I said.

‘Face from the past? Someone I treated bad? Someone who
didn’t
love me, I dunno. He thought I was taking the piss when I said I couldn’t remember him.’

He reached for his cup.