afterwards. That’s why I brought him here, not for you to tell me he’s got a virus!”
“Well, I don’t have any information about that,” said the doctor, “and his symptoms are consistent…”
“Has he been poisoned by gas?” snapped Mum.
“It wasn’t gas,” I reminded her. “It was dust, I told you.”
Mum turned to the doctor. “Has he been poisoned by dust?”
The doctor was looking a bit frazzled. “This really seems like a viral infection,” he said.
“Then I want a second opinion,” said Mum.
“I can’t find anything wrong with your son,” said the doctor, really patronisingly. “His temperature and blood pressure are normal; he has no lumps, bumps or unusual spots. He said he felt dizzy and sick earlier without any vomiting, which is consistent with an inner ear infection.”
They glared at each other and I was worried Mum really would make us wait to see another doctor, which would have meant being here hours longer.
“I’m fine now, Mum,” I said. “Can we just go home?”
“I suggest he gets rest and plenty of fluids,” said the doctor, “and go to your GP in a week if it hasn’t cleared up by itself.”
Mum glared at me like it was my fault, and we left. All the way home she muttered stuff about stupid doctors…
Doctors.
Hang on, you’re the doctor, aren’t you? The one from the hospital where Isis died. You asked me loads of questions then as well.
I was expecting this; you are beginning to remember events from your previous hypnotic state. Yes, I was in the hospital.
I forgot all about talking to you in the hospital. Why did I forget?
For the same reason you will forget this conversation when it is ended. You will only remember coming to this office, and having a rather dull session with a rather dull therapist.
Now I’d like you to get back to telling your story. That’s right, look at me, don’t fight it…
I woke up the next day feeling fine. But Mum must have been worried because I got the day off school and she didn’t even hassle me to get up. Normally she’s on at me from the crack of dawn, but that day I didn’t even get dressed until lunchtime. I guess by then she’d held off for as long as she could manage.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, putting her head round the living room door.
“Fine,” I said, because I wasn’t thinking.
“Well then, maybe you should do something?”
I looked round at her. “I’m watching telly.”
“I mean actual activity. Why don’t you go outside for a bit?”
Sometimes I think Mum hasn’t got over me not being eight any more. She still wants me to rush out into the garden and play football, like that’ll solve everything.
“There’s nothing to do in the garden.”
“There’s fresh air,” she said, “and moving around.”
“The doctor said I should rest.”
Mum made a pretty rude comment about doctors, and started on about how fresh air is the best medicine. I don’t know where she even gets that from, but she nagged on so much that I couldn’t listen to the telly. In the end I got up.
“All right then. But only for ten minutes.”
“Half an hour.”
“Don’t blame me if I have a relapse.”
“I’ll call an ambulance if you do.”
Mum’s always that way, you know? It’s like she has some internal timer which flips her over from caring to sarcastic.
So I went outside. There really isn’t anything to Mum’s garden. It’s just about big enough for a washing line, a few scraggly plants, an apple tree that’s never really grown and a rockery that Brian made her for one birthday. It was quite good when he did it, with big lumps of stone and little plants growing through. I wonder if he was trying to make a point, seeing how Dad’s a landscape gardener. Anyway, none of us has ever weeded it, and now it’s just a pile of rocks and dandelions.
I went and sat on one of the rocks. If I had even slightly normal parents, I could’ve been out there for
“Well, I don’t have any information about that,” said the doctor, “and his symptoms are consistent…”
“Has he been poisoned by gas?” snapped Mum.
“It wasn’t gas,” I reminded her. “It was dust, I told you.”
Mum turned to the doctor. “Has he been poisoned by dust?”
The doctor was looking a bit frazzled. “This really seems like a viral infection,” he said.
“Then I want a second opinion,” said Mum.
“I can’t find anything wrong with your son,” said the doctor, really patronisingly. “His temperature and blood pressure are normal; he has no lumps, bumps or unusual spots. He said he felt dizzy and sick earlier without any vomiting, which is consistent with an inner ear infection.”
They glared at each other and I was worried Mum really would make us wait to see another doctor, which would have meant being here hours longer.
“I’m fine now, Mum,” I said. “Can we just go home?”
“I suggest he gets rest and plenty of fluids,” said the doctor, “and go to your GP in a week if it hasn’t cleared up by itself.”
Mum glared at me like it was my fault, and we left. All the way home she muttered stuff about stupid doctors…
Doctors.
Hang on, you’re the doctor, aren’t you? The one from the hospital where Isis died. You asked me loads of questions then as well.
I was expecting this; you are beginning to remember events from your previous hypnotic state. Yes, I was in the hospital.
I forgot all about talking to you in the hospital. Why did I forget?
For the same reason you will forget this conversation when it is ended. You will only remember coming to this office, and having a rather dull session with a rather dull therapist.
Now I’d like you to get back to telling your story. That’s right, look at me, don’t fight it…
I woke up the next day feeling fine. But Mum must have been worried because I got the day off school and she didn’t even hassle me to get up. Normally she’s on at me from the crack of dawn, but that day I didn’t even get dressed until lunchtime. I guess by then she’d held off for as long as she could manage.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, putting her head round the living room door.
“Fine,” I said, because I wasn’t thinking.
“Well then, maybe you should do something?”
I looked round at her. “I’m watching telly.”
“I mean actual activity. Why don’t you go outside for a bit?”
Sometimes I think Mum hasn’t got over me not being eight any more. She still wants me to rush out into the garden and play football, like that’ll solve everything.
“There’s nothing to do in the garden.”
“There’s fresh air,” she said, “and moving around.”
“The doctor said I should rest.”
Mum made a pretty rude comment about doctors, and started on about how fresh air is the best medicine. I don’t know where she even gets that from, but she nagged on so much that I couldn’t listen to the telly. In the end I got up.
“All right then. But only for ten minutes.”
“Half an hour.”
“Don’t blame me if I have a relapse.”
“I’ll call an ambulance if you do.”
Mum’s always that way, you know? It’s like she has some internal timer which flips her over from caring to sarcastic.
So I went outside. There really isn’t anything to Mum’s garden. It’s just about big enough for a washing line, a few scraggly plants, an apple tree that’s never really grown and a rockery that Brian made her for one birthday. It was quite good when he did it, with big lumps of stone and little plants growing through. I wonder if he was trying to make a point, seeing how Dad’s a landscape gardener. Anyway, none of us has ever weeded it, and now it’s just a pile of rocks and dandelions.
I went and sat on one of the rocks. If I had even slightly normal parents, I could’ve been out there for
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