Chapter Two
Memories
"Sit still."
"I am sitting still."
"No you're not." Virgil looked up from the canvas, holding his paintbrush away from the painting, irritation playing with his brow, "You keep fidgeting."
"How long are you going to be?" Gordon shifted again, trying to get comfortable on the wooden chair. He glanced quickly yet longingly out of the window.
"Not long. I'm nearly done."
"Really?"
"No, but the sooner you sit still, the sooner I will be."
"Fine." Gordon sat stock still, straight-backed and plain-faced. Virgil nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the canvas. He was just over halfway through when Gordon started moving, disrupting his concentration and changing position.
After a few minutes, Virgil paused again. "You've changed your mouth. Can't you smile a bit?" Gordon raised the corners of his mouth slightly and tried to speak without moving his lips.
"This okay?"
Virgil sighed. It was nothing like the bright smile he'd had when he'd first sat down, excited at the prospect of being drawn. He shook his head. "Try to look happy."
"I'm bored."
"Well, try not to show that in your facial expressions."
Gordon heaved a sigh and smiled a bit more. Virgil studied him for a moment and compared it to his half-completed picture. Thankfully, he'd already done the eyes, so he didn't need to worry too much about that. He considered trying to make Gordon laugh, but he wasn't in the mood. It would ruin both their focus.
"That'll do."
Another half an hour passed, with Gordon changing his position three times and Virgil refilling the red on his palette twice. Gordon had been still for nearly ten minutes when he shifted again and sighed.
"Done yet?"
Virgil grinned at his younger brother, seeing the impatience on his face. "Actually, yes. Just after I do this one little bit…"
He finalized the portrait by filling in the bottom right hand corner, and stood back to admire his handiwork. He compared it to Gordon, whose gaze had drifted into the opposite corner where a small spider was making its way up the wall. "There we go."
Gordon snapped out of his trance and looked up at Virgil, his eyes shining again. "Can I see it?"
"Sure." Virgil turned the easel around so Gordon could see the image. For a moment, he stared at it with his mouth slightly open, before his eyes turned to Virgil once more.
"You did that?"
"Yup."
"No you didn't! I'm sure it's a photo…" Gordon stood up to look at the image closely. Sure enough, he could see the rough marks Virgil's brush had imprinted in the picture. Virgil smiled proudly at the effect his picture was having on his younger brother.
"You like it?"
"It's great! No way should you be doing an engineering course. You could get millions if you became an artist."
Virgil made a face and shrugged. "Nah. Being an artist's never really appealed to me. It's great for a thing to do in my spare time, but not as a career."
Gordon smiled and took one last look at the picture. "What're you going to do with it?"
"You can have it, if you like."
"What? No way."
"Take it. My room's full of stuff, and I've got nowhere to put it. I've already given Scott his, and John his…"
"You mean I'm not the first?" Gordon pulled a comical face, "Gee, and I thought I was special."
Virgil laughed and took the painting from the easel, passing it to Gordon. "Be careful, it's still wet."
Gordon gingerly adjusted his grip and headed out the door, turning to smile at Virgil as he went. "Cheers, Virg! It's going on my wall."
Virgil chuckled at patted him lightly on the back. "No problem. It's a pleasure, anyway. Now dump that picture on your bed, so we can go challenge the others to a game of table tennis."
Gordon looked at the picture and sighed happily. What a great family he had. "Will do," he said.
I eventually do drift off, but the dream doesn't come back. It's one of those periods of blankness that confuses me when I wake up.
In actual fact, I am awoken by soft voices talking over my bed. Two very familiar voices, talking to me, to each other. I strain to hear the conversation.
"…Dad's coming in later. Say, what's this?" It's Virgil. He reaches down and picks up the plastic bag Alan left. It rustles as he looks inside. "Whoa, Gordy! Its – "
"Ssh, Virg! He's probably not meant to know. Sorry, Gordo, you'll have to wake up first. What is it?" Scott says to Virgil, and his voice gets a bit louder as he leans over me. "Aw, Gordon! You'll love it!" They're teasing me. Little do they know that I already know what's in the bag. Bless them. I'll tell them when I wake up. Or maybe I should play along for a bit first…
Which reminds me: I still don't know which color they are.
They carry on chatting for a while, but you can tell they're not as at ease as Alan and Lucy are when they're here. I know Scott feels guilty about it. He thinks he should have been there, and then maybe he would have been able to stop it happening. And Virgil – I think it just creeps him out a bit, seeing me like this. I can understand. I think it would scare me, too, seeing him, or any of the others, in the state I am in now.
But I'm glad they're here. I've looked up to them my entire life, and it feels good to have them both right next to me right now, whether they know it or not.
Scott stands up and stretches. "Man, I'm tired as hell. Can't get much sleep at night with you like this, Gordy!"
"Not that it's much better when you're awake, either…" Virgil says, and I can tell he's grinning. I want to laugh and tell them they'd better watch out.
"What time is it?" Scott says, and then answers himself after looking at the clock, "Ten o'clock. I'd better catch some sleep, and I'll probably be back later."
Ten o'clock… why does that ring a bell?
The door opens, but it can't be Scott leaving, because it's too soon after he spoke right next to my bedside. Instead, it's Lucy, coming in.
"I'm – oh, hey, guys!" she says, on seeing Scott and Virgil, "I was just coming to let Gordon know that I'm leaving now. I'll be back in tomorrow." She sounds even more tired than she did yesterday. I don't know how she and all the other night-shift nurses go on like this. They must get home and go straight to bed.
"Sure, OK. I'm leaving too, to get some sleep." Scott replies.
"That's convenient!" Lucy laughs, a light sound that fills the room. She turns to Virgil. "I guess you're staying here for a while?"
"I am."
"That's good. It's great for coma patients to get enough time with family members and close friends as possible. It also helps the visitors themselves, to get some 'alone' time with them."
There's a short silence before Virgil says, "Cool. I'll see you later then, Scott."
"Bye, Virg. Bye Gordon." Scott leaves with Lucy, and Virgil's left on his own. He doesn't know what to say for a while.
"Hey, Gordy – " he begins, and clears his throat, "You really need to wake up, you know? I don't know how we'd all cope if you – if you didn't."
It's strange. Virgil's normally the one I go to when I'm in trouble, and to hear him like this is disconcerting. He's normally so calm and sure of himself, though quiet and serious. I suddenly remember the piano piece Alan had told me about. Would it come up?
"Do you remember all those swim meets you did, all through junior and senior school, and every single time you'd be so excited for days beforehand. You irritated the hell out of us, with every word that came out of your mouth being related to swimming. And then after the event, you'd be talking about it for days still, because you got placed every single time." God, please don't remind me, Virgil. It's hard enough as it is, not being able to swim even once a week.
"It's difficult, Gordy. To start with, Dad just thought it was a phase, didn't he? We all did. But you insisted it wasn't, and you were right. You carried on, and look at where you were before you – before the accident." Virgil pauses. "We hardly ever visit the pool now, you know that? Because every time we do, we look up, expecting to see you splashing about in there with us, or about to perform one of your amazing dives into it. And we're disappointed – because you're not.
"Y'know, if you stay immobile for too long, your joints will seize up and you'll be all stiff! Yourbody's used to the training. You can't just stop like this!" It's an attempt at humor. Virgil knows, I know – we all know that it's not as simple as that. If only. From the way doctors are talking and people are acting around me, it's like every bone in my body is fractured, broken or shattered.
"Wake up, man." Virgil puts his hand on mine, and I can tell he's run out of things to say. Right now, there's nothing I want more than to wake up, and maybe find that all my injuries are somehow miraculously healed, so I can get straight back into swimming again.
No such luck. No matter how hard I concentrate or put my mind to it, my body just won't respond to my orders. If I can't tell my own eyes to open, how will I ever wake up? It's not as if it's too hard, or too painful – I physically can't get the message to other parts of my body.
It sucks.
The next few days pass in a bit of a blur. People come in and out, chatting, sitting in silence, and I drift in and out of sleep. It's been about three weeks, I think. I wonder what's changed, if any of them have had haircuts? John always looks weird when he has his hair cut. We used to tease him about it, which is probably why he tries to keep it long. John's been here twice in the last few days, and both times he's read to me from one of his space encyclopedias. We argue about which is the best, space or water.
"Here, Gordy – I've got proof. Space is better than the ocean, and I'm going to give it to you while you can't respond." He's such a sadist. He knows; I can nearly hear the grin tickling his ears. "Listen to this." He follows by reading a quote so fast that I can only pick up a few words, including 'space' and 'human race.' Then he shuts the book with a satisfied snap. "There. And don't try and come up with something better."
Dad's here nearly twenty-four seven. He goes out to use the bathroom and catch some lunch. I don't know if he's still there when I'm asleep. But every time I wake up he's here, either sitting in silence, talking to me or one of the others.
Grandma pops in sometimes too, to check on Dad just as much to check on me. Alan's right – he is overdoing it. If I could, I'd tell him to go and sleep for a couple days, have a shave and sort himself out. I don't know how long it's been since he's shaved, but I'm guessing a while.
Grandma's a lot more considerate than John for my feelings! She's not a sadist in the least. If she wanted to, she could bring in her freshly-baked cookies and hold them under my nose, knowing full well I can't eat anything. She's a funny old woman, is Grandma. She's so solid – you wouldn't think it, looking at her – but she's always been a rock in our family. I don't know where Dad, or the rest of us, would be now if it wasn't for her.
After Dad and Grandma, Alan's probably my most frequent visitor. He doesn't have as much to do as Scott, Virg and John, and usually he'd spend his spare time with me anyway, messing about and playing pranks on the others. He's probably bored most of the time. He bounds in, cheerful as ever. I don't know where he gets his energy from!
"Hey Gordy – hey, Dad. How's it going?"
"Morning, Alan." Dad.
"And what a morning it is, Gordon! The sun's shining, the sky's blue. Don't forget about those trunks – you can have them once you're swimming again. By the way, Dad – Virgil says to make sure you're home for dinner, because he wants to show you something, a new picture he did or something."
Alan just doesn't stop. I bet he lights up the room when he comes in. He chats away, about everything – except for the color of the swimming trunks – and anything. I'm glad. Scott talks too, sometimes about the news and sport and what's going on in the world. Apparently there are floods in India at the moment, and the world's biggest aquarium has opened in France. He says he'll take me there when I wake up.
Dad's breaking up. If nothing else, I will hang on to everything just for him. I don't think he could take another family death. I don't want to think about that.
I think it's afternoon. People have been dropping in for quite a few hours now, so it has to be nearing evening. Usually when your eyes are closed, you can tell if it's light or dark, but this is different. Either hospital lighting stays the same all the time, or I've lost the ability to do this due to inactivity in that part of the brain.
Dad's in the chair, but he's not asleep. I can tell by the way he's breathing – it's not slow or irregular. I've always wondered about that chair. It's light enough to lift to different places around the bed, but comfortable enough to sleep in.
It's tense. I think he's staring at me. I want to crack a joke or something, to lighten the mood. I don't know how long he sits there for – a few minutes? Few hours?
Finally he moves. He sighs and puts a hand on my forehead, as if he's feeling for a fever. He's shaking: ever so slightly, but still trembling.
When he speaks, he's using his low, authoritative voice, although there's a slight tremor. I try not to notice it.
"Gordon Cooper Tracy," he says, "What will we ever do if we lose you?"