THE VOICE THREAD

We walked through the rose gardens, just as the wind was rising. The bushes became wild, sprang up into trees, grabbed at your arms. Soon you were covered in small bloody crescent-shaped scratches.

“Sorry for walking so slowly,” you said, although we were almost bowled through the brick archway and into the car park. So many of your sentences began with “sorry” these days! It made me wish I were less strong, less capable, just less than. Simply walking upright, without the aid of a stick or another human being, felt wrong in the face of your diminishment.

We threaded through the shiny bodies of cars, knocking against wing mirrors, our coats trailing. Dry leaves flew in shreds. Everything was messy, everything was a mess. “Don’t look so scared.” You smiled at me. “I’m used to this now!”

But I wasn’t. I’d never been this way before. Up ahead, the traffic barrier hung like a broken arm. I stumbled on the concrete base, stubbed my toe and swore.

Still gripping each other, we swooshed through the double doors into a bright foyer: one of us bleeding, the other limping. “Walking wounded,” you joked, leading the way. This was your territory and you knew it intimately; you’d been coming here for weeks.

You settled me in a chair, in a faded waiting room: anxious, as if I were the patient. “I’ll be OK,” you assured me. “Will you be OK?”

“I’ll be OK!” I promised. But after you left, I seized up a magazine – not browsing, but searching. O,K, O, K. hunting down the letters, page by page, OK-OK-OK, to feed the voice thread leading to the room where you lay, motionless, in a humming white tube. It had to be strong and taut, that thread, so you could find your way back, hand over hand, to me.

Everyone has places they have to go to alone, and this was one of yours. It was fact. Unavoidable truth. But if I could? I would have made the journey for you.