Rick looked into Nedâs eyes he knew then that his brother was going to die.
For the first time in his life he wanted to embrace his father but instead they stood, face to face, two stone pillars, until Ned turned and said, âYouâd better get yourself a drink.â
That night he drove with Jane to the hospital. In silence they took the lift to the third floor, and when they entered through the grey doors of the ICU he felt an odd sensation of déjà vu. The ICU was a square room with six separate cubicles radiating off like the spokes of a wheel, and in the middle of this space was an elevated platform of waist-high benches inlaid with central monitoring computers, a corona of screens reflecting obscure patterns and emitting low-level beeps. The whole place looked like a circular flight deck. Beyond the platform, each body in its cubicle was wired up to the central consoles; it was like an assemblage of futuristic pods.
Silently he followed Jane to the bedside of their brother. And there was Gareth, looking really quite well, as if he had just that moment fallen asleep. Not a mark on him , Rick thought. It was three years since he had seen Gareth, at a family wedding, and he saw that his hair was much greyer, and that it suited him; it was as if he had only now, on the point of death, come into his looks.
Jane sat in the chair by the bed and held Garethâs hand. On the drive over she had explained that Allie spent most of the day beside him, squeezing his hand in the hope that somehow this might prevent him from slipping away; might keep him anchored to his life, to the earth, to her. But now she was exhausted, so they had set up a roster and Jane would be taking over for tonight. Ned would come in at midnight and Rick could come in when he had recovered from his jet lag.
Over the next four days he spent the mornings with Gareth. He suggested to Ned that, as a younger man, he should take the midnight shift, but Ned wanted to be there through the night; Rick suspected that this was when Ned feared Gareth would die, and that he wanted to be with him when he did. So Rick would get up at six, shower, eat a large breakfast (for some reason he was extremely hungry) and buy all the papers in the hospital kiosk downstairs. Then he would take the lift to the third floor and sit by Garethâs bed and read aloud to his brother, sotto voce , omitting any violent or depressing news but dwelling in detail on the financial and sports pages. Gareth had been an enthusiastic small investor, and it seemed logical that if anything could reach his brain, could bring him back from whatever blind or chaotic landscape he inhabited in his coma, it would be the rise and fall of his money.
It was a ritual, and like any ritual it had the power to console. There were whole hours when Rick felt absurdly cheerful until, without warning, the newspaper would turn to ashes in his hands. Then he would sit and brood on the nature of the body, its hidden malignancy, its death wish. He had taken his older brotherâs life for granted, even more than he took his own. Gareth was always the cheerful one, gregarious and with lots of friends. In his youth Gareth had played First Grade cricket, and later he had become a scratch golfer. But here was his body, that magnificent machine, hooked up helplessly to other machines.
When Allie relieved him, Rick would walk to the coffee shops down the road and eat out on the pavement in the sun. One cafe opened out onto a pleasant terrace, and it was as good a place as any to just sit. One morning, after he had collected his coffee from the counter, he becalmed himself in a corner of the terrace and gazed out at the trees in the park opposite.
Something odd had happened to him that morning. He had awoken from a dream in a state of inexpressible homesickness, a kind of sweet sadness that flooded his body like an ache. And, of all things, he had dreamed that he was back in Leniâs villa,
For the first time in his life he wanted to embrace his father but instead they stood, face to face, two stone pillars, until Ned turned and said, âYouâd better get yourself a drink.â
That night he drove with Jane to the hospital. In silence they took the lift to the third floor, and when they entered through the grey doors of the ICU he felt an odd sensation of déjà vu. The ICU was a square room with six separate cubicles radiating off like the spokes of a wheel, and in the middle of this space was an elevated platform of waist-high benches inlaid with central monitoring computers, a corona of screens reflecting obscure patterns and emitting low-level beeps. The whole place looked like a circular flight deck. Beyond the platform, each body in its cubicle was wired up to the central consoles; it was like an assemblage of futuristic pods.
Silently he followed Jane to the bedside of their brother. And there was Gareth, looking really quite well, as if he had just that moment fallen asleep. Not a mark on him , Rick thought. It was three years since he had seen Gareth, at a family wedding, and he saw that his hair was much greyer, and that it suited him; it was as if he had only now, on the point of death, come into his looks.
Jane sat in the chair by the bed and held Garethâs hand. On the drive over she had explained that Allie spent most of the day beside him, squeezing his hand in the hope that somehow this might prevent him from slipping away; might keep him anchored to his life, to the earth, to her. But now she was exhausted, so they had set up a roster and Jane would be taking over for tonight. Ned would come in at midnight and Rick could come in when he had recovered from his jet lag.
Over the next four days he spent the mornings with Gareth. He suggested to Ned that, as a younger man, he should take the midnight shift, but Ned wanted to be there through the night; Rick suspected that this was when Ned feared Gareth would die, and that he wanted to be with him when he did. So Rick would get up at six, shower, eat a large breakfast (for some reason he was extremely hungry) and buy all the papers in the hospital kiosk downstairs. Then he would take the lift to the third floor and sit by Garethâs bed and read aloud to his brother, sotto voce , omitting any violent or depressing news but dwelling in detail on the financial and sports pages. Gareth had been an enthusiastic small investor, and it seemed logical that if anything could reach his brain, could bring him back from whatever blind or chaotic landscape he inhabited in his coma, it would be the rise and fall of his money.
It was a ritual, and like any ritual it had the power to console. There were whole hours when Rick felt absurdly cheerful until, without warning, the newspaper would turn to ashes in his hands. Then he would sit and brood on the nature of the body, its hidden malignancy, its death wish. He had taken his older brotherâs life for granted, even more than he took his own. Gareth was always the cheerful one, gregarious and with lots of friends. In his youth Gareth had played First Grade cricket, and later he had become a scratch golfer. But here was his body, that magnificent machine, hooked up helplessly to other machines.
When Allie relieved him, Rick would walk to the coffee shops down the road and eat out on the pavement in the sun. One cafe opened out onto a pleasant terrace, and it was as good a place as any to just sit. One morning, after he had collected his coffee from the counter, he becalmed himself in a corner of the terrace and gazed out at the trees in the park opposite.
Something odd had happened to him that morning. He had awoken from a dream in a state of inexpressible homesickness, a kind of sweet sadness that flooded his body like an ache. And, of all things, he had dreamed that he was back in Leniâs villa,
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