Dante came into view, kneeling a little to get to Frank’s level. ‘Come on Mr Sommersby,’ he said kindly, patting his huge, dark hand over the top of Frank’s rather pale-looking counterpart on the bed sheet. ‘We’ve been through this. Stroke is all about fast action and hard work. You got medical treatment fast, your body just needs a little help, is all.’ His voice was deep but rich, soothing. Frank could almost feel it wash over him. The man cared, but he didn’t realise that it was all a bit too late. Such a waste, really. Frank didn’t like to disappoint people. He never had.
‘Anything, Dante?’ A voice came from the doorway. Dante turned half to the door, patted Frank’s hand once more, and stood up.
‘Not yet, but it’s early days. The son coming today?’
Frank refocused on the flowers on the sill, resting his head back on the huge stack of pillows behind him. He needed to be kept upright, wanted to see out. He hated being laid down, his body uncooperative and clumsy. He hated this bed altogether, hated hospitals. He’d avoided the place like the plague for years. Now here he was. And so was she.
‘No, he’s … dealing with something at the moment, bit of a project, I think.’ She looked at Frank from the corner of her eye, and smiled when she saw that he’d turned his head to her. ‘Yes, I know you’re listening.’ She winked at him, and he felt a stir of something in him. Recognition? Annoyance? Frank puffed out his lips, a cavernous sigh erupting from him. It might as well be flatulence. He couldn’t even say the word, let alone decipher what his body was trying to tell him.
‘Oh, don’t be sighing at me. I’d rather have a wink, thanks.’ Turning back to Dante, she nibbled at the corner of her mouth, just for a moment. Frank recognised the movement, as though she did that a lot. He wanted to tell her that, to ask her if that was true. That his brain was still working, still remembering the things he wanted it to. Needed it to. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get the words out though, not without coming out in a cold sweat from the effort, so screw that. It had taken enough for him to scream at his son to get out, to go, to leave and not come back. He’d screamed at the nurses whenever his progeny showed up, and finally, they all got the message. No point anyway, in trying to articulate what he wanted. They wouldn’t listen, and they certainly wouldn’t help him. He sighed again, but the woman was there in front of him now. Looking out of the window. Now was his chance. He tried to raise his hand, but he got nothing more than a weak finger wave. He grunted in frustration, and tried again. Nothing. He couldn’t lift his own wretched hand from the bed. He wanted to punch something, to hit, to scream out, but nothing. Marilyn had turned to him now, and he tried to direct her back to his desire by opening his eyes wide. An old dog from his memory sprang to mind, eating a lolly on some garden back step. Him, laughing with someone else at the dog’s wide open eyes as he licked. The memory hit him so strongly that he could almost feel the fur under his hand, the warmth of the sun on his face. The memory faded, and Frank was left frustrated once more. He jerked his head wildly to the sill, and with one huge burst of anger, he shouted ‘Oooooouuuuuwwwtttt!’ He pushed the almost feral sound from his lungs with every little bit of strength he had. Marilyn looked at Dante, who grinned, exposing a huge set of white teeth that added a little shine to the rather dull room.
‘That’s it, Mr Sommersby, you sounded like a lion then! Roar again, go on!’
Frank clenched his fists, or at least tried to send out the signal, and took a breath. Marilyn was bouncing in front of him on the spot, her hair staying the same each time she landed.
‘Come on Frank, that’s it! Tell us what you want!’ She leaned in close, her eyes bright with excitement, the dark circles under her eyes at odds with the rest of her demeanour. He could see Dante, off to one side, ready to help. He felt like a bloody toddler, trying to take his first clumsy steps. He wanted to lash out, punch something. The fact that he couldn’t only made him worse.
‘Oooouuuutttttt!’ He tried again, looking intently at the cheap pot of artificial flowers on the sill. If he was going to sit here and waste away, then he jolly well wasn’t going to sit staring at that. He tried to flick his head, and the woman twirled, looking where he was, and picked up the pot.
‘It’s this,’ she said to Dante, her words coming out in excited whispers. ‘He loves his garden.’ She eyed Frank, who was staring at her from the bed with a wretched look on his face. ‘What’s the matter Frank? Is it this?’ She waggled it in front of him, and he deepened his scowl as much as he could muster. His face was still being as uncooperative in parts, like his stupid body. Marilyn looked at him, and to Dante, and then she placed the pot on his over bed table. Right in front of him.
He was about to
