Whiskey & Charlie (27 page)

“Don't think about it like that. It doesn't matter anymore, Mum,” he said. “We've all made mistakes. But there's no point going over it all now. Whiskey wouldn't want us to do that. He knows you love him. That's all that matters.”

And speaking the words, Charlie knew them to be true.

Charlie was already awake when the phone rang. For days he'd been waking in the space between night and morning, in that haunted hour when it was no longer dark but not yet light, when time seemed to stand still. He'd been waking and lying and thinking about Whiskey's funeral. At first, he had thought mostly about the logistics: where the service and the wake would be held, how many people might attend, what food and drinks should be served. It had taken him a few days to allow himself to think about the part of Whiskey's funeral that scared him the most: his own speech. In particular, he had spent a lot of time wondering how to address the issue of his estrangement from Whiskey.

Initially he had decided it was better not to mention it at all. Then he changed his mind. If he wanted his speech to do justice to Whiskey's life—and he did—he had to start by acknowledging the mistakes he had made, the ways in which he had been wrong about his brother.

Charlie had never had to make a speech before, not in any formal sense. He had never been a prize winner, or even a best man. But he did not need experience to know that this was the most difficult and important speech he would ever have to make. He would not insult Whiskey with some half-baked collection of clichés. For once in his life, Charlie would do his very best, for himself as well as for Whiskey.

He had not written anything down. He knew that once he had found the right words, he would not forget them. So far, what he had was this:

Right
after
Whiskey's accident, I remember thinking that if he died, I would not know which songs to play for his funeral. But it turned out I did know. And though there are plenty of things about Whiskey I don't know, that I wish I knew, that I'll never now have the chance to find out, what I've learned in the months since Whiskey's accident is that I know a lot more about my brother than I thought I did.

The phone rang as Charlie was thinking about his next line. Even as he lay planning the speech, he hoped he would never have to use it. The sound of the phone ringing stopped his heart. He didn't know what time it was, but he knew it was early, that a phone call at that time could only be about Whiskey.

“Charlie?” Juliet murmured.

Charlie didn't answer her, didn't move.

“Charlie?” she said again groggily, reaching to turn on the bedside lamp. “Do you want me to answer it?” she asked, sitting up.

The phone stopped ringing. Then from another room, they heard his mobile begin to ring.

“We better see who it is,” Juliet said. She disappeared, following the phone's inane ringtone, came back with it still ringing.

“It's Rosa,” she said looking at the screen. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

Charlie shook his head. Juliet sat down next to him on the bed. The call went to voice mail.

Charlie closed his eyes. For a long time he had avoided thinking about this moment, when Rosa or his mother would call to say, “It's over. We've lost him. He's gone.” Lately, with a lot of help from Thomas, Charlie had been trying to prepare himself for this. But now that it was upon him, Charlie knew he wasn't ready for it at all, that he wasn't even close to being ready, that in fact, nothing could prepare him for his brother's death. He felt terrified, more frightened than he had ever been. If he hadn't been lying down, he was certain he would have passed out.

“Did you hear me, Charlie?” he heard Juliet say. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Rosa's left a message,” she said gently. “Do you want me to listen to it?”

Charlie nodded, the slightest of movements, as though stillness could prevent the inevitable. Juliet dialed his voice mail, frowning as she held the phone to her ear. Charlie knew she too was expecting the worst. He was afraid to look at her, afraid to look away.

“Rosa said Whiskey moved,” Juliet said slowly.

“What do you mean,
moved
?”

“I don't know. But it sounds like good news, doesn't it? Let's ring back and find out.”

“Wait a minute,” Charlie said. “I need a minute. Are you sure that's what she said?”

“Positive. She sounded really happy. Do you want me to play you the message?”

Charlie shook his head. “I thought it was going to be bad news.”

“I know,” Juliet said. “I thought the same. Let's ring Rosa, and you can talk to her, put your mind at rest.”

She dialed the number and gave the phone back to him.

Rosa answered at once. “Charlie! Thank goodness. Did you listen to my message? He moved, Charlie, Whiskey moved! He's coming back to us at last!”

Charlie felt shocked by Rosa's excitement. He was lagging behind, still getting over the dread that had tightened around his heart before Juliet listened to the message.

“What happened?”

“He squeezed my hand!” Rosa said triumphantly.

“Are you sure?”

“I am absolutely sure,” she said impatiently, and Charlie could hear the old Rosa in her voice, the spark he had almost forgotten.

“Should we come over?”

“Of course, Charlie, of course! Your mother is already on her way.”

“What did she say?” Juliet asked as he hung up.

“She said Whiskey squeezed her hand.”

“I can't believe it! After all this time!”

Juliet hugged Charlie, elated. Charlie found himself unable to respond.

“What's wrong, Charlie?” she asked, pulling away. “Did Rosa say something else?”

He shook his head.

“What then? Aren't you happy? Whiskey's waking up!”

“We don't know that yet,” Charlie said hesitantly. He remembered the drive to the hospital on New Year's Day, after Whiskey opened his eyes; the way they had all sat around Whiskey's bed for hours on end, hardly daring to take their eyes off him for fear they might miss something. It had taken them days to admit to themselves what the medical staff had told them right away, that opening his eyes didn't mean Whiskey was coming out of his coma, that it might not mean anything at all. Charlie couldn't bear to go through it all again: the hope, the disappointment.

“It's possible Rosa might have made a mistake,” he said to Juliet. “Let's wait and see what the doctors say.”

x x x

Charlie's mother was already sitting with Rosa beside Whiskey's bed when Charlie and Juliet arrived.

“Isn't it wonderful?” she said, standing up to greet them.

“I can hardly believe it,” Juliet said, hugging her and Rosa exuberantly. “Does Mike know?”

“He'll come as soon as he's dropped the girls off at school.”

“Have there been any other signs?” Charlie asked, bending down to kiss Rosa hello.

“Not yet,” she said. Charlie could see her holding Whiskey's hand tightly.

“What did the doctors say?” he asked.

“They haven't been here yet,” Rosa said dismissively.

“Why not?”

Rosa didn't answer.

“The nurse said they won't call a doctor unless there are further signs,” Charlie's mother said after a pause.

“Who said that?”

“Robina.”

“She wouldn't call a doctor?” Charlie was incredulous.

“Apparently she told Rosa it might only have been a reflex.”

Charlie looked at Rosa. “A reflex? Is that possible, Rosa?”

“For goodness' sake, Charlie, not you as well!” Rosa snapped. “For the last nine months I have done nothing but sit here and hold Whiskey's hand. Do you think I do not know what a reflex feels like?”

“Sorry, Rosa,” Charlie said. “I just don't want to…”

Juliet looked at him warningly. “Maybe Charlie could talk to Robina,” she suggested.

Rosa shrugged.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Juliet asked him.

“No,” Charlie said. “You stay here. I won't be long.”

Out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall. The atmosphere in Whiskey's room was too charged, too intense. It was difficult not to get swept up in Rosa's excitement. It wasn't impossible she had felt something. It might have been true. But it had been the early hours of the morning; she must have been tired; wasn't it as likely that she had imagined it? Or been half asleep and dreamed it? Charlie wished Mike was there. He needed someone to help him keep a grip on himself.

He found Robina in the supplies cupboard.

“Hello, Charlie,” she said. “I thought I might see you this morning.”

“Is it true what Rosa said?” Charlie asked her.

“Which part?”

“That you won't call a doctor.”

“It's not that I won't call a doctor,” Robina said gently. “It's just that sometimes, with coma patients, someone might think they've seen something or felt something, and it turns out to be a false alarm. Now we've checked Whiskey's monitor, and his vital signs are unchanged. But if Rosa was right—if she did feel something, and if it was a genuine sign of arousal—there's a good chance there'll be further signs. So it's not that I won't call a doctor. But I'd like to see further evidence of arousal before I do that. Do you understand?”

Charlie nodded.

“I know it must be terribly hard on you, Charlie,” Robina said sympathetically. “You want it so much to be true. And we do too. But it's better not to get your hopes up at this stage, just in case.”

Charlie nodded again and turned to head back to Whiskey's room. Halfway there, he changed his mind, went back to the supplies cupboard.

“If Rosa
was
right, though,” he said, “when would we know? How soon would there be another sign?”

“The rate of recovery varies a lot,” Robina said. “It's difficult to predict the speed at which a patient will emerge from a coma.”

“But could you give me a rough idea? I mean, if there are no further signs today, would that prove Rosa was wrong?”

“I'm very hesitant to put a time frame on these things, Charlie, because there are always exceptions to the rule. But if you want some kind of norm to work by, it would be reasonable to say that if there's been no further signs of arousal in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours, it would probably indicate that Rosa was mistaken.”

Forty-eight hours.
Charlie nodded grimly. “Thank you.”

x x x

Try
not
to
get
your
hopes
up
, Robina had said. And Charlie did try. But as the long, slow minutes gave way to hours, he lost his resolve. He felt hope surging through him like adrenaline, making him fidget and sweat. Looking around that tiny room, he saw it on every face. He understood then the phrase he had seen in the title of Victor's book—
the
tyranny
of
hope
. It was like a habit you couldn't kick, a false friend who kept you clinging on long after you should have let go.

Late that afternoon, standing up to stretch, Charlie felt tense and shaky, utterly drained. His own body odor smelled strange to him. He and Juliet had been sitting beside Whiskey for almost eleven hours, his mother a little longer, Rosa a great deal more. Mike had been and gone, leaving reluctantly just before three to pick up the girls from school. All day they had survived on the strong tea and biscuits the catering staff brought around on trolleys. Charlie suddenly realized how hungry he was.

“I need to eat,” he said. “We all do.”

It was while Charlie was at the hospital cafeteria, waiting for their toasted sandwiches, that Whiskey moved again. But it didn't matter that Charlie missed it. Because Rosa and his mother and Juliet all saw it, and they couldn't all have imagined it.

All day the room had been quiet, but after Charlie came back from the cafeteria, they couldn't stop talking. Charlie heard the account of how Whiskey had bent and straightened his index finger, first from Juliet, then from his mother, and last from Rosa. None of them had anything to add to the other versions. But each of them needed to describe it for themselves. Charlie didn't mind. He could have listened to it recounted a dozen times. When they phoned Mike to tell him the news, he too seemed to need to have it repeated. He spoke first to Rosa, then to Elaine, then to Rosa again. Next they called Audrey, who was getting over the flu and could not come for fear of passing the virus to Whiskey. By then Charlie had heard the story so many times, he had gotten over his disappointment at missing it. By then he felt sure Whiskey would move again, and this time he would be there to witness it.

He didn't have to wait long. It was only a few hours later that he saw Whiskey slowly flex the fingers in his left hand, relax, and then flex them again. Charlie shrieked with excitement. He jumped up and hugged Juliet, his mother, Rosa. He sat down and thanked the god he did not believe in. Then he put his face in his hands and sobbed. When he had composed himself, they phoned Mike again and then Audrey, and this time it was Charlie who had the privilege of recounting the story.

By morning, Whiskey had moved several more times. Each time, there were four witnesses, and though she saw none of the movements herself, the night nurse was convinced enough to record the movements on Whiskey's chart.

The doctor came first thing the next morning. She frowned as she read the chart, checked Whiskey's monitor.

“Did you open his eyes this morning?”

“He opened them himself,” Rosa said.

“What do you think, Dr. Marinovich?” Charlie's mother asked anxiously.

The doctor smiled unexpectedly. “Call me Sanja.” She looked at Whiskey. “It certainly sounds very positive,” she said, still smiling. “We'll need to send William for tests to find out more, but at this stage the signs are very good.”

After she left, Magdalena came into the room. She'd been on shift for two hours, and though she was trying to be matter-of-fact, Charlie knew that she too was excited about the change in Whiskey's condition.