Strangers: A Novel(30)
I clear my throat and try again, making an effort to sound stronger. “Believe me, Erik. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t even know how to; I’ve got no idea about gas boilers and vents and…” I run out of air, and press the oxygen mask back down over my face, for three, four breaths. “I’m not trying to kill myself,” I say then. “Neither myself nor you.”
He doesn’t smile. Staring at the floor, he says, “I hid the scarves; maybe that was stupid of me. But I didn’t want you to get into trouble with the police, or for them to lock you up in a psychiatric unit.” Now he looks up, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I feel the urge to take his hand. To hold it and squeeze it.
I don’t, but when he reaches for mine, as if he can sense my thoughts, I let him.
“I still believe that we can get over our problems,” he says. “But you have to want it, Jo. You’re making it so unbelievably difficult for me right now. I’m doing everything I can, but you have to help me. Please.”
I don’t know why I nod. Probably because I’d like to believe what he’s saying. Because I need something to hold on to, too. Or someone.
And maybe that’s exactly what he was after the entire time. If that’s so, he’s achieved his goal.
14
“You were lucky.” The ward doctor looks up from the clipboard holding my patient chart, and puts it down at the foot of the bed I’m sitting on, all dressed and ready to go. Lucky? That seems like an absolute mockery, given the chaos of the past few days.
“All in all, your blood levels are OK. Your paperwork is being prepared as we speak, and after that you’re free to go. I’ll write you a sick note for the next two days. You should use the time to recover.”
He gives me a firm handshake. Then I’m by myself again.
I can go. Leave this room with its whitewashed walls that threw back my thoughts like an echo when I was staring at them, for hours on end, searching in vain for answers. .
But I’m still reluctant about the prospect of leaving the hospital. About leaving Joanna, who’s lying in a room only a few doors down from mine.
If I leave now, I won’t be able to protect her. From … from what, really?
From herself? From me?
What if it’s not Joanna who has mental problems, but me? How can I be so sure her head is the one that’s out of whack? She’s fighting the idea that something’s wrong with her just as desperately as I would be. As I am. But maybe it really was me who plugged the boiler’s vent, and I just don’t remember it? I do know where you’d have to stuff the scarves to block it, at least.
“OK, Herr Thieben, here’s your sick note and the letter for your doctor.”
A rotund nurse is holding an envelope out toward me. I get up and take it from her. “Thanks,” I say, and I truly do feel thankful. Because she showed up at exactly the right moment and pulled me out of these frightening thoughts.
“And that’s all. You can go now. Get well soon.” She gives me an encouraging smile, and a moment later she’s gone. Next patient, next smile.
I leave the room, turn to the left, and walk to the room five doors down. I decide not to knock.
Joanna seems to be asleep as I carefully shut the door behind me and go over to her bed. I stand there and look at her. The oxygen mask over her pale face, the tubes, the monitor next to her bed. Three jagged lines, one underneath the other. Green, blue, white. Some numbers as well. Blood pressure, oxygenation, ECG, heart rate. She looks so incredibly helpless, so fragile. I scream silently on the inside. I desperately want to take her in my arms, hold her against me. Whisper into her ear that everything’s going to be OK. That I love her more than words can say, that we’ll get through everything together. Everything.
If only I could at least hold her hand.
But I leave it. She needs her rest.
Get well quick, I think. I’ll be back later. I leave the room on tiptoe. Hallway, elevator, foyer, and reception. I register them all as though they were props in this nightmare I’m stumbling through, this horror film in which I’m inadvertently playing the leading role.
I get into a taxi and tell the driver my address. Stare out the window as we drive off in silence, leaving the hospital behind us. The concrete faces of the suburban houses gawp at me with cold indifference.
I’ve been put on sick leave for two days, but I don’t want to sit around the house, especially not now, when things are quite clearly going off course for me at work.
On the other hand, it would give me the chance to look after Joanna without having to invent any stories. Stories that would give Gabor, or Bernhard, even more reasons to speculate.
“You want me to drive up there?” The driver points at our driveway.
“Yes, please.”
I pay, get out, and pause in front of the spot where the cockatoo had been standing until two days ago. Already it seems so long ago that our world still made sense. I realize now how we always took it for granted, never wasting a single thought on how it could all be different one day.
I close the door behind me and slump back against it. The house seems empty to me, almost like it belongs to a stranger. It was only on rare occasions that Joanna wasn’t in the house when I got back. And even then I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d hear the door click into the lock and a cheerful “Hi, darling, I’m back.”