I can only tell it sideways. The memory constantly shifts its shape.
I find a set of scrubs scrunched into a ball in the bottom of my wardrobe. In the pocket, a souvenired scalpel, the blade still wrapped in plastic.
I peel back the packaging and connect the blade to the holder, the metal cool and smooth in my hand.
What my hand remembers – an incision on virgin skin, the exhilarating excision of malignancy, the satisfying draining of a tense, pointed abscess.
The scalpel might remember a surgeon waving the bloodied tip at a nurse when he wasn’t happy with the lighting, or the diathermy, or how much sex he was not getting.
The scalpel would recognise the rhythm of Verdi’s requiem and the tremor in my grip after Liv’s first surgery. I wouldn’t need to explain the whole messy picture – the scalpel knew.
In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of myself, holding the scalpel. I remember hearing its voice as we stood over Liv’s paralysed body: cut
with care.
I know the way.
It’s through the darkness.
It is the night of the gala, the 9th of July. The ceiling is low, the walls lean in. I need light, I want light, but darkness surrounds me, pressing into my back and arms and legs, pinning me here to the floor. I become aware of a word pulsing in my head, run, run, run, but my legs won’t move, and when I open my mouth to scream, my voice is a hoarse, empty nothing.
The hospital carpet smells of disinfectant and ambition. I want to get away from that smell. I scrabble on all fours, this way and that. I don’t know where I am…
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