We Are Both Mammals (8 page)

Was it living that I wanted, or life without
a thurga attached to me?

Was I prepared to live like this?

Was life with a constant, conjoined
companion actually palatable to me?

I sensed that this was a crossroads, an
all-or-nothing decision. I did not want to change my mind in five
years’ time, or six months’, or fifteen years’. To give this
situation a trial run – to test the surgery for a year or so
in order to see if I was all right with it, treating Toro-a-Ba and
my own life and all the medical technology and expertise that had
been poured into me like a new car that I was taking for a test
drive – would be graceless. Ignorant. Selfish. I was either
prepared to live the rest of my days with Toro-a-Ba attached to me,
or I was not. If I was not, then I must die. That was the only fair
decision to make: why should Toro-a-Ba be yoked to someone who
unwaveringly resented his presence and his self-sacrifice?

I would die nobly, for the
right reasons, or I would live on in these new circumstances with
all the grace and acceptance I could muster. That was my choice.
That was all I
could
do.

Unfair things happen every day. Life is
under no obligation to treat us fairly. We can wither and wilt, or
we can swallow and move on.

It was not fair that this had happened to
me. It was not fair that Toro-a-Ba and the surgeons had had no
knowledge of what my wishes would be with regard to the surgery.
They had done the best that they could, knowing that they were
taking risks, but that what they did might serve a greater purpose
in the end. Was it fair of me to hate them for that? What would I
have done in their positions?

I began, quietly, to cry, as I lay there in
the dark on my pillow.

Life is harsh and horrible. Life is cruel,
and unfair.

And it has been thus since the beginning of
the world. Hundreds of generations have suffered under life’s
cruelty, bearing unspeakable sorrow. And yet we have endured.

My tears flowed on and on.

How brave is the human spirit? What light is
it that keeps us from lying down to die?

I did not sleep that night. The nurses
continued to check on us, as always, but I feigned sleep whenever
they entered the room. By the time morning came, I had made my
decision.

As the room lightened with the unseen dawn,
I looked at the thurga asleep beside me. For the first time, I
really looked at him, and this time I wanted to see him.

This was the person who had risked his life
for me, a stranger.

This was the person who had offered to
devote his life to my service.

I stared at him; that small, furry,
dark-brown body with its little ribs rising and falling in sleep.
On his back, eyes closed, he looked vulnerable and diminutive. His
small, rat-like hands were lightly clasping the edge of the
bedclothes where they rested on his midriff.

He even had whiskers. Whiskers,
and a small dark nose. I had known this all along, of course, but
now I was
accepting
it.

He had claws, and a semi-prehensile tail,
this creature, the creature with whom I would spend the rest of my
life. His body was now joined to my body; I had an appendage, and
that appendage had fur. He had pointed teeth, including little
fangs, and tufts of black fur on his ears. Even though I had worked
with thurga-a for years now, and was living on their planet, they
still resembled animals to my eyes, and in this moment, knowing
that I would be joined to one for the rest of my days, it was, in
my heart of hearts, difficult not to feel that I was joining myself
to an animal.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and gulped
hugely.

I would accept that.

Fangs, fur, tufted ears, and all. I would
accept it.

I forced my eyes open again and made myself
stare at Toro-a-Ba. I could feel myself shaking slightly, and I
could not pretend that it was only because I was weary, emotionally
drained, and a little cold. This was him. This was the creature who
was attached to me. This was the creature with whom I would spend
the rest of my life, as with a spouse or ‘significant other’.

His name was Vi-i-a Toro-a Ni-Ev.

That was the name his parents gave him. The
Vi-i-a family – I was joined to a member of it. Vi-i-a Toro-a
Ni-Ev … that name would become familiar to me; perhaps almost as
familiar as my own.

No spouse, no children, for me. I could
accept that.

No normal life, ever. I could accept
that.

Orphans are never really normal, anyway.

I would be a freak for the rest of my days,
as would Toro-a.

I would accept that.

I stared at Toro-a-Ba for a long time; I do
not know how long. At length, his eyes opened and he looked
straight at me, as though even before he woke he had sensed that he
was being watched.

We looked at each other for a long time, in
silence.

Before, I could scarcely bear to glance at
him. Now, I could not look away.

I could see Toro-a reading my face. Still he
said nothing, but I could see him … knowing.

After a long moment, I realised that I was
crying again; slow, cool tears were parading down my face in the
tremulous light of dawn.

Eventually the nurses came in to check on us
as usual at about six o’clock, and Toro-a-Ba and I behaved as
normal. The nurses, seeing my tear-streaked countenance, asked me
with concern if I was all right, and I assured them that I was all
right, that I was in no especial pain, and that I had simply not
slept well. I do not know how much of this they believed, but they
had seen me in distressed states before and knew that distress was
simply to be expected in my case.

Later, after breakfast, we were alone once
more, and had picked up our books to read, propped up on our
pillows; though I for one was not reading.

I wanted to speak to him, but would almost
rather have shoved my head into a bucket of ice-water than try. I
felt shy, self-conscious and awkward, and somehow ashamed.

I dallied for a long time, and then decided
that it would never get any easier. I would have to speak to him at
some point. After all the ignoring of him that I had done, was it
not my turn to speak? After all that he had done for me, was it too
much for me to speak openly with him about something that concerned
us both?

My fingers had been holding open my
paperback book where it rested on its stand; I let the book slowly
sink closed onto them. I turned my head to look at Toro-a-Ba.

He met my gaze within a few seconds, as
though he had been monitoring me out of the corner of his eye. I
looked away and down, at the bedclothes toward the foot of the
bed.

“
Erm … Toro-a-Ba …” I
began, sounding, even to my own ears, very unsure of
myself.

“
What is it, Daniel?”
Toro-a-Ba murmured. ‘Daniel’, again.

“
Erm … I … I should like
to live,” I fumbled. Then I dared to glance at him.

Toro-a-Ba nodded slowly in acknowledgement.
I could not tell what he was thinking.

And then, mercifully, I saw him smile. His
ears relaxed, his face softened, the eyelids over those round dark
eyes drooped slightly, and the corners of his mouth curled upwards
a little.

“
I understand,” he said
softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

And, for some reason, all I wanted to do was
weep some more.

I lay back on my pillows and stared straight
ahead at the wall, unsteadily pulling my fingertips from the book,
fighting tears so hard that I could not stop my face from twitching
and my breath from being jerky.

After a moment, Toro-a-Ba murmured, “Daniel
…

“
You are very
brave.”

I swallowed with a throat that felt like it
was made of concrete, and shook my head slowly and emphatically,
side to side across the pillow.

I was not brave. I was a coward.

Toro-a-Ba was brave.

–––––––

I – we – were bedridden for a total of two
and a half months.

Most of this time Toro-a-Ba spent in bed not
because he needed to but because I did.

It seemed like it should have been so easy
for Toro-a-Ba to get up and leave: he was fine; his body had healed
very well and he was back to full health. But of course, he could
never get up and leave ever again. He could never, ever, walk away
from me.

Actually, it was slightly untrue to say that
Toro-a-Ba was back to full health: his organs were having to work
harder than normal in order to assist mine. This, however, would be
normal for him for the rest of my life.

Toro-a-Ba asked me if it would hurt me were
he to stand up and move around on his bed, since the hose in his
side no longer hurt him provided he moved carefully. We found that
so long as my end of the hose remained still, it did not hurt me;
and I watched him stand, shake himself and stretch gingerly, and
walk about on the bed. He now had the run of the bed; – his
bed: he did not venture onto my bed. I suppose he felt that he
could not do so without my express permission. He would often sit
or lie in varying spots on his bed, changing position and location
frequently as though enjoying the ability to move again. I envied
him.

I found myself watching him a great deal;
studying him, as though trying to get used to him. His
semi-prehensile tail, his movements, his mannerisms … the shapes he
made as he moved, and the way he carried himself …

I would know him for the rest of my life. He
would be by my side until the end of my days; for if he left me, I
would be dead within hours. No marriage, no relationship, was ever
so permanent or so certain.

The thought made me melancholy,
and a little fearful. What relationship is free of strain? What
marriage is so harmonious that no small disagreement ever arises?
Yet Toro-a-Ba and I would have to agree forever. We were from
different cultures, different planets originally, different species
… we were not even
physically
similar! It was difficult for me to think of any attribute
that we shared, except for the fact that we are both male, and of
comparable ages … and, as Toro-a-Ba had said, we are both
mammals. And we two disparate creatures would have to find a way to
coexist and cohabit in the most intimate way. We could never be
apart. We could never have separate hobbies, occupations, friends …
I would never so much as take a shower alone again.

The thought filled me with grief. Yes, that
was the word for it: prior to the surgery I had been alone,
independent; lonely, yes, often, but free. The one triumph of an
orphan: freedom. And now even that had been taken from me. I still
had no family; and now I also had no independence. That was
something to grieve for.

I refused to regret my decision: early in
life I had made it a rule never to regret: but I realised, as the
days went on, that there was still a lot of ‘processing’, as the
psychologist would say, that I had to do. This new situation was
still difficult, still demanding. I had chosen life, but I knew
with a heavy heart that it would not be easy. Death would certainly
have been easier.

But I think it is not really in human nature
to take the easy path. Not when it comes to survival.

The surgeons did not dare allow me to stand
up until they were sure that every organ and my abdominal muscles
had healed sufficiently that they would not be damaged by the
engagement required to hold me upright. The nurses continued to
massage my muscles – everywhere except my abdomen, which could not
tolerate pressure – to prevent them wasting too much, and they
wiped me down every day to keep me clean. It was embarrassing, of
course, but embarrassment was a normal part of my life now.

Gradually, one by one, the tubes and
bandages and clusters of twinging stitches were removed. My abdomen
was riddled with scars, but was a relief to see and feel my body
becoming more and more normal; to look and feel more human
again, and more like myself again – albeit a battered version
of myself.

It would be another few months, they told
me, before all the heaviest drugs in my system had drained away,
and it could be longer still before I no longer needed painkillers
of any kind: there was, after all, a large synthetic hose hanging
out of my side. My body’s purification and digestive systems were
currently working at far less than their usual capacity, and of
course would never return to their full efficiency, which was why
Toro-a-Ba was needed. His, much smaller, organs would filter and
digest whatever my organs could not.

Thankfully, my bladder had remained almost
unscathed; however, because my other organs were not processing
urine, Toro-a-Ba’s body had been processing my waste for me. The
surgeons were delighted when one day I told the nurses that I
needed to urinate. The nurses on duty happily helped me to use a
toilet pan. It was embarrassing, but the nurses were so
businesslike and encouraging that my discomfort was minimised, and
I was glad that my body was resuming its natural functions.
Naturally, everything I produced was saved and studied.

On the subject of such things, since the
beginning of his recovery Toro-a-Ba had had a sort of litter tray
brought to him. I never saw exactly how he used it, for it seemed
rude to watch; but I could sense that he was always very careful
not to jog the hose that protruded out of himself.

The surgeons happily gave us reams of
information about what had been done to us. With little else to do,
and in the knowledge that the more we knew about our new bodies the
better our quality of life might be, Toro-a-Ba and I read every
word.

It felt curious, to me, to pass things
between us, as though we were roommates reading the same
newspapers.