Mortality

The boy lay in his bed, listening for sounds of movement coming from other parts of the house. He had been bed bound for some days with a fever. Time dragged. The day was reduced to the simple alternation of light and dark, unbroken but for appearances of his mother at the bedside proffering medicine bottle, or a cup of soup or juice.

Occasionally he could hear distant evidence of his mother or father: the closing of a door, the remote sound of a voice. One of his ears was blocked and throbbing, and too painful to lie on. This forced him to lie with his good ear against the pillow, and because of it everything seemed muffled and far away.

In his room there was little to distract him from the pain. He was too ill to read or even look at books. His school satchel lay on his desk in the corner, occasionally giving him stress as he thought of classes missed, and the mounting homework he would eventually have to catch up on. School seemed an insubstantial memory, a far off country he had once visited.

The swaying of peppermint tree branches at his window occupied him off and on. He could see it was a dull, overcast day, and the thin leaves shivered in the cold spring wind, silently shedding their dustings of white flowers. His bad ear provided its own rumbling soundtrack, and whizzed and crackled whenever he swallowed.

He had dozed for an unknown amount of time, and after that had lain quietly, wishing someone would come and speak to him. His head was dull and burning, and he longed for some relief, even his mother coming again with the foul-tasting medicine and ear drops. It seemed such a long time since he had spoken to anyone. He supposed they were thinking him asleep. Even though they were only in the lounge room at the end of the hall they seemed very far away. After a time the sweating came over him again and he huddled under the blankets, swamped in aching damp.

Gradual consciousness came on him, and he realised he must have slept again. A terrible heaviness settled on him when he looked at the window and saw that light and colour had gone out of the day. It was nearly evening. His room was dim. In the lounge room the television was playing, he could hear the tinny noise of a cheering crowd. The football. He realised a day had passed without his knowledge. It was Sunday.

He sat up to reach for the water glass by his bed and thirstily drained the remaining drops. Once he was sitting up he could hear a little better, and over the television’s muffled noise he heard a man speak. It was his father.

A sudden longing to be in company, to feel pleasure again, to be sitting on the couch listening to his father making his usual sarcastic commentary on the play, came over him. His mother’s answering voice was further away. He imagined her in the golden light of the kitchen, in her apron, making dinner.

Then his father’s voice came again, louder, as though he had turned his head toward the hall. The boy reached hungrily toward that sound, craving to hear. The voice tuned in clearly for a moment. The boy distinctly heard his father say, “...when he’s gone.”

His heart pounded in his ears as he sat up, straining to hear something more. The football went on, and nothing more was said. He lay back down, burrowed under the covers and curled like a rabbit.

As he lay there he imagined what it would be like if he died. His room closed off, his bed made, dust accumulating on the disused action figures displayed on the shelves. He thought of his things, his books and construction models, left lying exactly where he had laid them three days before, a memorial to their only son. His parents would sit in the lounge room as they always had, reading, watching television. They would talk of normal, everyday things, groceries, the bills, the weather. His existence would be wiped clean, except only for this room, and the passing moments when neurons would fire, recalling him in a memory.

Suddenly his door opened. The silhouette of his mother appeared, framed in the warm rectangle of light. Beyond her was the brightness of the passage walls, and the framed baby photograph of the boy and his parents. This ordinary thing, usually not even noticed by the boy, now filled him with a sudden despair, and he couldn’t suppress the sobs that pushed up in his chest. His mother was beside him instantly, kneeling by the bed. He lifted his head to hear her.

“What’s wrong, my boy?” she soothed.

“No one came in for a long time, and I was...” He was going to say scared, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

“But darling, I came in every hour, and every time you were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you. You needed your rest.”

His mother took his water glass away and refilled it. Within fifteen minutes he’d been given his medicine and drops, and brought a mug of warm chicken broth. His mother sat next to him as he sipped it. He managed a few mouthfuls before resting back onto the pillows.

She put her cool hand to his burning forehead. “Your fever is up again,” she said, and her eyebrows drew together in concern. “Tomorrow if you’re no better we’ll go back to the doctor again.” After that she stayed with him for a while, just sitting on the chair beside his bed. When she did get up to leave the room the boy begged her to stay. “I’m just going to check on dinner,” she said, smiling at him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

The boy did not know how to tell her what was wrong. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was himself. He became choked up again as he said, “I will get better, won’t I?”

His mother’s brow furrowed and she laughed gently at this, and smoothed his forehead. “Of course you will darling. Of course you will. It’s only a little fever. You’re just a bit miserable because you’ve been cooped up so long.”

That night the boy was restless and lay awake for hours. The pills eventually wore off and he could feel the fever coming on again like a dark spirit creeping into the room. He put on his bedside lamp and watched the shadowed corners and the lighter patterns of the lamp shade making arches around the walls. He couldn’t bear to look at the toys on his shelves, ranged in ranks, all staring at him. The worst thing of all was he could not imagine ever feeling differently, ever being light and unconcerned, again. The house made its settling noises, the tree branches brushed at the window, and he lay as still as he could, longing for the light of day to come again.