‘We know, darling,’ Mum smiled at me, calmly and proudly, but without warning she burst into tears and threw her arms around my neck. Just softly enough that Dad wouldn’t have heard, she whispered into my ear, ‘You have done something for Declan’s memory that I could never have even dreamed of. Thank you.’
It was the first time I had heard my mother say my brother’s name in over ten years and although she was crying, I knew they were happy tears. Somehow, the work I was doing had given her some peace too. I wondered if this miraculous generosity would have eventuated had the Foundation been doing work with drug addicts or researching addiction, which was something I’d vaguely thought we might try to fund in the future. Still – it was a gesture that I could never refuse, and one that I hoped showed an acceptance of the person I now was.
I was still so angry with Leo, but as soon as I got home, I took a photo of the cheque and emailed it to him. Leo, I hope you’re still alive to read this. See the image? From Mum and Dad for Christmas. Isn’t it wonderful? This is going to generate so much publicity – I’m sure more money will follow from their ‘end of town’. I almost hit the send button, and then I re-read my flippant intro to the email and softened. Once again I rested my hands on the keyboard and added a farewell. Please be safe, love. I couldn’t live without you. Come home soon.
34
Leo – September 2015
I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about our argument – ‘friendly discussion’ according to Molly – and after a while, I realise I’m not going back to sleep.
I go to the kitchen for tea, fix the cup into the holder that’s been attached to my wheelchair and take myself out onto the balcony. The sliding doors are in tracks that would have prevented me from getting out there, but Molly had ramps added. There’s not a place in this apartment that I can’t go, and not a thing I can’t do for myself: she has thought of everything. It matters to her that I’m happy here.
I face the sparkling arch of the bridge and let the breeze fan the last vestiges of sleep from my mind. It’s dark, and I feel alone with my thoughts. I haven’t even thought about failure in this quest to rebuild a life with Molly so far; I do not actually consider it an option. I also haven’t considered what my life would look like if I wasn’t able to return to work at all. Sitting on the balcony nursing my tea, I let myself think about both possibilities for just a moment. Molly has not issued me an ultimatum – although I know she hates my job, I also know that she understands how important it is to me.
All the same, the conversation in the shower left no doubt in my mind that a serious change in my role is the direction her thoughts have taken. Was that what caused the break between us? I know I need to ask her about the moments that led to us separating, but that question is one that I have quite deliberately postponed. I know that it is going to be an intensely painful conversation and we need a level of intimacy and trust between us before we go there.
It is coming, and I will ask soon – but I still do not know what I will say if she tries to make me choose. For just a moment I imagine getting back to work. The vision that arises is one of the places where I have always felt most alive – I can smell gunpowder and dust and blood in the air. I can hear the explosions in the distance, and machine gun fire nearby, and Brad in my ear inevitably trying to convince me to pull back.
I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins and that strange sense of triumph when I finally understand the situation in a way that no one has understood it before. I picture myself at the computer later in the dingy hotel room, the words flowing out of me. I feel the satisfaction of that moment when the magazine is in my hands and it is me who has interpreted the conflict and brought it to light. It is me who has determined how history will remember that moment in time.
Those are the moments when I feel I am the most powerful man in the world. I have overcome the fear – but not just that, I am the only one who has overcome the fear. I have given a voice to the voiceless.
I love those moments – I love them with passion and strength and fire.
I look down at my legs, their form illuminated only by the light I left on in the kitchen. They are already wasting – the muscles fading away from disuse despite the hours of therapy I’ve been doing. I think about the headaches I get almost daily – throbbing pain that starts at the site of the fracture and that radiates all through my skull sometimes. I think about the mental tiredness and the fogginess that still creeps up on me unexpectedly.