twenty-seven
Davey was with Chewie, his childhood wire fox terrier, called that because as a puppy he’d chew just about anything he could sink his teeth into, even Davey’s fingers sometimes.
Plus he looked a bit like Chewbacca the wookie, too.
They were climbing Ravenscragg, hunting for rabbits, Chewie’s favorite game.
It was getting dark, twilight creating deep shadows among the wooded oak groves covering the crag, even while the last of the setting sun filtered through the tallest birches, gilding their leaves. He shivered. It was turning cold.
“Come on, Chewie, home time!”
But Chewie had run deeper into the woods and was barking madly, maybe a rabbit or deer he’d cornered?
“Chewie, come on!”
But he plunged in after the dog, going deeper in and down into a hollow, stepping over twisted tree roots and ducking under the heavy boughs of the oak trees that were like roof beams, closing off the light.
His feet crunched in the thick carpet of dead leaves and acorns underfoot, as he forced himself after the dog.
His feet sank deep, as if the leaves were like mud, and he were wading through an estuary at low tide.
The air felt heavy, like water or treacle as he trudged through it.
He tried to go faster but his legs wouldn’t work.
Soon he was alone in the warm dark, floating on his back.
His Dad was talking, saying something, but he couldn’t make out the words, just the slow cadences of his speech.
He was reading maybe. No idea where Chewie had got to.
He’d be in trouble running off like that, rabbit or no rabbit.
He listened to the words, but blowed if he knew what they were saying.
A story perhaps. Dad was reading from something.
“…I remembered her, from that instant… only as the young mother of my earliest impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight in the parlor….”
The voice stopped for several long moments, while there was some sniffling and coughing, then began again:
“…It may be curious, but it is true. In her death she winged her way back to her calm untroubled youth, and canceled all the rest….”
David Copperfield. His Dad had read that to Owen and him as kids. And he was reading it again. Davey tried to open his eyes, but found that a layer of leaves seemed to have settled over them and all he saw was darkness. So he lay there listening to the voice some more.
“The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my infancy; the little creature in her arms, was myself, as I had once been, hushed for ever on her bosom.”
It was his Dad reading for sure, but what was he…
? Where was he? Not on Ravenscragg anymore.
It smelled sterile, of disinfectant. He was grown up.
He’d left, run away, tried to anyway. Ramon.
He wanted to confess… Where was Ramon? He tried to move, but his arms seemed to be held.
He struggled and his Dad stopped reading.
“Davey?”
He opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed… couldn’t see much at first; it was all too bright. Just a figure looming over him.
“Dad….”
Where was Ramon? Why was his Dad here in hospital?
He’d been in Catalonia. Was he back home?
Then another figure loomed over him and leaned in.
He smelt like Ramon. That dark, masculine scent and mix of sweat.
His policeman. Had he fallen from a horse?
They’d been riding on the Trabucador. He must have fallen off.
But Ramon was here… At least Ramon was with him…
and his Dad… He’d be alright now. His eyes closed and he slept again.
The next time he awoke, the words were going again.
David Copperfield. But it was a different voice, foreign, stumbling over the tricky words, or making a complete hash of pronouncing them.
His policeman… speaking in English… or trying to.
Fair enough. Ramon’s English was better, maybe, than Davey’s Catalan.
Then that was a few too many thoughts all at once, hurting his head, and he found himself drifting back toward sleep.
But calm now, knowing his policeman was here, making such a hash of David Copperfield.
He woke up again in the night, and he was able to look around his room a little.
A dim recessed light showed two dark figures slumped in chairs beside his bed, one each side, like sleeping guardians.
He would have spoken, but even breathing brought back a headache.
So he was silent, keeping his breathing shallow, until he slipped back into sleep.
It was only the next morning when the dawn against his lids woke him, and he opened his eyes to see a blond female nurse fussing around his bed. She smiled at him when she noticed he was awake.
“Bon dia, David, maco, cóm estàs?”
She was speaking to him in Catalan and he understood her! She’d said his name and asked how he was.
“Bé,“ he whispered. And for the first time his head didn’t hurt.
Ramon stirred in the chair he was sleeping in. His Dad was nowhere to be seen. At least that meant he must be in Catalonia, not Yorkshire.
“Vols beure alguna cosa? Tens gana?”
Yes, he was both thirsty and hungry. He nodded, and immediately his headache came back.
The nurse saw his wince and told him to lay still.
She went away and when she came back she was carrying a small carton of juice, which she pierced with its straw and raised to his lips.
He drank. Oh, that was good! Pineapple. Not his favorite, but it quenched his thirst. Then he lay there resting for a while, watching Ramon as he slept.
The policeman was slumped to one side, his head cushioned in his palm.
He had that arm propped against the wall, so that he wouldn’t slide down, and one leg crooked, its foot, shoe kicked off, wedged under his other thigh in the armchair.
It looked like the most uncomfortable sleeping position Davey had ever seen, but Ramon was snoring quietly, his breath giving a gentle whistle as it left his lungs and a slight grunt as he inhaled.
Davey smiled, wanting to tease him about it.
But he wouldn’t wake him. He looked exhausted. Let him sleep.
The nurse was back and she undid the restraints from his wrists.
“We didn’t want you harming yourself while you were unconscious,” she murmured, “or pulling out the drip.”
At the sound of her voice, Ramon awoke with a start, shook his head and looked around. Then his eyes met Davey’s and he uncoiled from his armchair in one smooth motion and was suddenly there, his face hovering inches above Davey’s.
“Hola, Davey,” he breathed, and his fingers were in Davey’s hair, stroking his face.
His breath smelled like Ramon… beautifully, overwhelmingly so, that slightly acidic masculine tang Davey had missed so badly for so long. They smiled at each other.
“Hola,” Davey whispered. “Was our Dad here?” He had asked in English, without thinking.
Ramon nodded. “He was… is,” he said, also in English. “He’s gone back to his hotel to sleep. He was exhausted.”
Davey nodded.
“How’d he…?” But he didn’t know what he wanted to ask. He had so many questions. The voice in his head, reading to him… It’d been his Dad for real. Something troubled him, not just how he’d come to Catalonia, but… but… “He’s off the drink, is he?”
Ramon nodded. “Seems so. For now.”
“Miracles never cease.”
“He did it for you. He came over here for you.”
Our Dad knocking off the drink for one of his sons? Davey couldn’t credit it, but he’d give him the benefit of the doubt. That wasn’t what he wanted to talk about, or even think about, though. Ramon was here with him, and he didn’t want to be thinking about his Dad.
But then the blond nurse came back in, and she was shooing Ramon out of the room.
“Enough now, he needs to rest,” she was saying to him in Catalan.
“OK, thanks, Mariona, I’m going, I’m going.”
But he slipped under her guard and planted a quick kiss on Davey’s lips.
And then he was gone. Davey was left just with the warm softness of his lips, like the impression of a feather on the air.
And his masculine scent, fading already.
But his headache was back, and as soon as he closed his eyes, he began drifting back into sleep.
But confess, he would. He needed to confess.
Ramon was sitting outside the ICU room when Simon Howard appeared.
He was looking better for a night’s sleep, and more so for having gone almost seven days now without a drink.
They greeted each other warily as they had for the last week, while they’d both been accompanying Davey, taking turns to read to him from the older Howard’s dog-eared copy of David Copperfield.
“He’s woken up.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant. How is he?”
“Confused. Didn’t know where he was. Mariona’s just kicked me out. Wants him to rest some more.”
“Can I see him?”
“You can try your luck. Being immediate family, she may let you.”
Davey’s father nodded and went into the room.
While he was gone, Ramon thought about Davey.
He had him back again. Davey had returned.
But was he the same? Both Sa?d and Mariona had warned him that recovery from a coma, even a very short one, could take months.
His memory might be affected, he could suffer from PTSD, depression, difficulties concentrating, and anxiety.
Even after months or years, he might not fully recover to where he was before.
Ramon had thought about all this in the hours while he was sitting beside Davey’s bed.
Was he prepared to take it on? He was, and he would if Davey would let him.