Mr. Nobody(36)
After the third blow the old man had pulled back, spittle hanging grotesquely from his chin as he scowled down at her. Then he’d lowered his cane, looked around the park purposefully, and called to his dog before turning and stalking away. Just like that.
The way he’d walked off, in such an ordinary, everyday way, her ears ringing and blood stinging her eyes as he’d left her to bleed in the mud. That was the thing that made the tears come as Coco whined and nosed around her.
Rhoda lay almost motionless, stunned, crying hot tears of confusion, scalding tears of rage. What had been a nice afternoon walk was now a nightmare. He’d walked away and she couldn’t think of what to say or what to do, so dizzy and disoriented she’d screamed at the top of her lungs after him.
“HEY! HEY!”
And at that, he’d turned back briefly to look at her, his eyes scanning the still-empty park beyond her. But seeing no one else, no one but the two of them, he’d turned and stumped away, his stupid oblivious dog following obediently at his heels.
Rhoda stayed in the park long after he’d left. The last thing she wanted was to see him again farther down the street back toward her home. She needed to fix herself, wash her face, check the throbbing wound on her forehead, but she had no pocket mirror in her bag. Rhoda knew she was a brave woman, she’d been a nurse for nearly three decades, but for some reason she’d not fought back. When the moment came, she did nothing. Why? She’d asked herself then, and every day since.
She’d talked it all through with the police counselor of course. It was shock, he’d told her. Simple as that. The old man had caught her by surprise; no one expects to be attacked in a public place in broad daylight walking their dog. No one expects frail old men with canes to be a threat. She had been blindsided, plain and simple.
Just as she’d been blindsided again on the ward. But this time someone else had been there to help. He’d looked into her eyes, and he’d understood her fear. He’d stepped in for her. He was her lucky charm. Her gift from God.
So, when she gets to work, she heads straight to his ward and shakes out the contents of her bulging rucksack on his bed. He sits motionless under the blankets, watching, as six thick books tumble out, alongside pens, pencils, and a brand-new sketchpad, with their discount stickers still attached.
Rhoda smiles at him. The library books are foreign dictionaries, the library maximum was six, and the sketchpad was the idea of one of the police officers yesterday.
If he couldn’t talk, then perhaps he could draw? the policeman had suggested. Perhaps he could communicate where he was from or anything he could remember?
He looks down at his gifts now, arrayed on his blankets, and he smiles a knowing smile to Rhoda. Thanks, his eyes say. Her gifts promise that today they will get to the bottom of this, together.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rhoda says, laying the books out so that the patient can see the titles and covers. “I know you can’t remember your real name just yet, but how do you feel about a temporary one? Just for now?” Her fingertips absentmindedly touch the scar by her hairline. “I know it’s not ideal but it would be nice to call you something, what do you say?”
He looks down at her pile of books, eyes flitting from one to the next, then back up to her. He nods.
18
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 8—PUBLIC SPEAKING
Nick leads me up to the hospital canteen on the top floor. I follow, my mind whirring.
He chatters on as we take the stairs up two at a time. “Sorry for the stairs, the elevators take forever and I told everyone to be ready up there at half past.” He glances at his watch and then back over his shoulder at me. Catching my expression, he smiles. “Listen, seriously, there’s no big speech required, don’t worry about that. Nothing too stressful, just a quick mission statement so everyone knows who they’re working with and who to speak to if they have questions. Okay?”
It’s hard to tell how pale my face has got but I suddenly feel intensely light-headed. I pause on the stairs for a second, pretending to be out of breath. A speech in front of most of the hospital staff. I feel sick. This is not keeping a low profile. I suddenly wonder: How much has Peter actually told Nick about me and my history? I’m guessing nothing, otherwise Nick would appreciate the implications of me “getting my face out there.” But what can I do?
Just pray that no one I was at school with went into medicine and works here, I suppose.
Nick pauses. “Sorry! I’m rushing you, aren’t I? Sorry, take your time. They can wait a few more minutes. It’s just all a little fraught at the moment, morale up and down—things like this help. Makes sure everyone feels like they’re part of the team, in it together.”
“Of course, it’s fine. I just—I haven’t had much exercise over the Christmas break, ha,” I lie.
It’s fine, I tell myself; even if someone does recognize me, they aren’t going to blurt it out in the middle of a speech, are they? People don’t do things like that in real life. They’d come and talk to me after. Right? Right?
Stop it! No one here is going to remember you. You have a different name. And you look completely different. So stop it.
I smile up at Nick.
At the top of the stairwell, he turns to me again.
“So, it’s just through here. Shouldn’t be more than forty, fifty people. I’ll do a quick intro and then you can introduce yourself, a bit about your background and maybe a basic outline of the diagnostic plan. I’ll open up a quick Q&A and then we’re done.”