The Man Who Wasn't All There by David Handler (best pdf reader for ebooks .txt) 📗

Sorry about that. Take Tylenol for the pain. Wash and dry the wound thoroughly every day and cover it with a fresh bandage. We’ll give you some to take home.’ I noticed now that some of my fingers were bandaged. I held them up before me, looking at them.

‘They were all scratched up,’ Dr Eng explained. ‘And your nails were broken. The nurses cleaned you up and gave you a free manicure.’

‘Black nail polish would have made for a nice surprise.’

‘I’ll be sure to let them know. You can probably lose the bandages tomorrow. No deep wounds, unlike your little friend there.’

Lulu’s tail thumped on the bed next to me.

‘You don’t by any chance have any anchovies on the premises, do you?’

Dr Eng’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘I think we may be losing him again, Miss Nash.’

I shook my head, which was a big mistake. It felt as if a large marble was rattling around in there. ‘Anchovies are Lulu’s favorite treat.’

‘Oh, I see. I suppose I can ask at the nurse’s station, but …’

‘No need,’ Merilee assured her. ‘I brought a jar from home.’

‘What a good mommy you are,’ I marveled as she pulled the jar from her purse, extracted one and fed it to Lulu, who gobbled it down gratefully. ‘Why, some day, I can even imagine the pitter patter of little feet around the old Whitcomb place.’

‘We already have an ample supply of those, darling.’

‘I mean other than the mice.’

Dr Eng studied us curiously, slowly coming to the realization that we weren’t like other people. ‘Mr Hoag … Hoagy … have you had a tetanus shot lately?’

‘I … can’t remember.’

‘I’m going to take that as a no. You shall have one, because he said you were pawing around in rubble.’

‘“He” being …?’

‘Resident Trooper Conley. He’s been very anxious to talk to you as soon as you regained consciousness. I’ve phoned him and he’s on his way, but right now you still belong to me.’ She shone a pen light into my eyes to test the responsiveness of my pupils. ‘How’s your appetite?’

‘Haven’t got one.’

‘That’s typical. The dizziness will do that. Have you suffered any prior concussions? It’s important that I know, because the effects can be cumulative.’

‘One. Well, two, actually.’

Merilee drew in her breath. ‘You never told me that before.’

‘I like to be a man of mystery. It adds to my allure.’

‘Were they recent?’ Dr Eng asked.

‘No. I got the first one when I was on the football team my sophomore year of college up in Cambridge. I attended the school that we don’t mention by name so that we can draw more attention to it.’

‘You never told me you played football at Harvard,’ Merilee said indignantly.

‘It wasn’t my finest hour, I assure you. I was our punter. First game of the season we were playing Columbia at Baker Field in upper Manhattan, overlooking the Hudson. Wonderful old wooden stadium, like out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald story. I half-expected to see people wearing raccoon coats and drinking hooch out of flasks. Columbia had a terrible team but they had a punt returner who was a real jackrabbit. I got off a good, high kick and angled it toward the sideline the way we’re taught to. Didn’t matter. He darted his way through our entire punt defense, which left it up to me to bring him down or he’d score a touchdown. I dove for him and got kneed right in the head. He kept on going and scored six while I lay there on the grass in la-la land. I had no idea where I was until the trainer waved something under my nose, but I had a headache that lasted a week. I decided to quit the team and focus strictly on track and field after that. Dr Eng, it might interest you to know that I was once the third best javelin hurler in the entire Ivy League.’

‘And how about the second concussion?’ Evidently not a keen fan of Ivy League sports, our Dr Eng.

‘That one was four years later …’ I hesitated, cringing inwardly. ‘I got thrown from my motorcycle in Spanish Harlem when I hit a pothole the size of a Plymouth and flew headfirst into a parked car.’

‘Were you wearing a helmet?’

‘Helmets take away all of the fun.’

‘And here I thought you were a smart man,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘Did you lose consciousness that time, too?’

‘Actually, I was in a coma for three days.’

Merilee gasped. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never told me this.’

I fell silent for a moment, remembering. ‘Reggie walked away without a scratch. I nearly died. Things were different after that. It was as if it signified the end of …’ I fell silent again, realizing I’d just wandered down a darkened corridor and found my Third Level. All along I’d been thinking that Sid, Nancy and Room 100 of the Chelsea Hotel marked the end of ‘My Sweet Season of Madness.’ But it was my coma, an experience I try to block out because it terrifies me to recall it, that was the genuine end. I came out of it a different person. No longer the wild and crazy kid whom I’d once been, but a determined young writer who was obsessed with becoming an important author. After I got out of the hospital I broke it off with Reggie and got serious about ‘Our Family Enterprise.’

Merilee was studying me curiously. ‘The end of what, darling?’

‘I’m sorry, does one of you have a pad and pen?’

Dr Eng passed me a pharmaceutical company notepad and pen. I began scribbling madly with my bandaged fingers, page after page after page.

‘Is he OK?’ she asked Merilee.

‘He’s fine. I take it you’ve never lived with a writer.’

‘No, my husband’s an electrical engineer.’

I scribbled like a man possessed for several minutes before I tore the pages from the pad and asked Merilee to put them in her handbag and guard them with her life. She took them from me, smiling faintly. Then I