It’s late in the morning of day eleven after my arrival in Rome when I am woken by the sound of Leo coughing and grunting. I have been asleep in the chair under the window, my head on one armrest, my legs dangling over the other.
‘I’m here, Leo,’ I call. I’m not sure if he can move his neck, so I lean over the bed as I reach it. I see frustration in his wrinkled brow, so I fumble for his glasses. It’s a relief to finally slip them back onto his face. Now that the swelling and bruising are fading, he has looked so strange without his trademark tortoise-shell frames. I see his pupils shrink and expand as he adjusts to the lenses again and then his gaze fixes on mine. I offer a smile, but it’s weak and wobbly because I am too scared even to breathe. At first, Leo doesn’t react at all – and for a moment I feel the crushing swell of disappointment in my chest – what if this is as good as it gets? What if he is awake now, but will never speak or respond to my presence?
My hips and legs are stiff. I can’t stand over him forever, so I sink slowly into the chair beside his bed. Suddenly, my emotions swing again – now I’m excited because he turns his head to follow me. He stares at me – concentrating intently, but then his eyes narrow suddenly and I’m sure I see something of an accusation in them. I am instantly defensive – is he questioning my right to be here? What did he expect me to do – stay in Sydney and leave him here alone? Once again, he has no idea what he has put me through. The hide of the man is incomprehensible.
But I can’t snap at him – he’s emerging from a coma, for God’s sake. Just as this thought crosses my mind, Leo’s eyes drift closed again.
The doctors warned me that this might take a while and that we have no choice but to be patient – but I have already been patient for far too long and I have well and truly exhausted my supply of that virtue. I realise belatedly that I am so hungry that the bitter taste of nausea lingers in my throat and I rise reluctantly to head for the cafeteria. As I leave Leo’s room I ask myself what I really want out of the next few days. The answer is waiting at the forefront of my mind, but even as I acknowledge it, the guilt begins to rise.
I want Leo to wake up as quickly as possible and to somehow be completely okay. And then I want to go home and finally get on with my life.
2
Leo – 2011
Hi Leo,
I hope this email finds you well. I have been following your career – congratulations on the Pulitzer and the wonderful success you’ve achieved. My brother would have been so proud of you, he always told me you were going to do something great with your life.
As I’m sure you know, it was the tenth anniversary of Dec’s death a few months ago. I was hoping you could spare me some time when you’re next in Sydney to have a chat about his last days. I do understand that I’m asking a lot of you but if you are able to sit down and chat with me, I think understanding things a little better might bring me the closure I need. My contact details are below; please give me a call if you can.
Sincerely,
Molly
I was in a field hospital in Libya when I saw her note nestled in the first few entries in my inbox. It had been three weeks since I checked my mail. So many emails, so little care – hers was the only one out of the 200-odd waiting that I bothered to open. I was sitting on a stretcher, my left arm in a sling, a bullet lodged in my shoulder. I’d been lucky; there was minimal damage – supposedly. Still, it throbbed like hell and I was distracted when I first read Molly’s email on the screen of my satellite phone, but that wasn’t why I sent it straight to trash.
‘So,’ Brad Norse, my photo-journalist partner-in-crime, was seated on a chair beside me. ‘Home we go?’
‘Home?’ I repeated, then I sighed. ‘Brad…’
‘When one of us gets shot, we get to go home for a while. It’s one of the perks.’
‘Please––’ I turned off the satellite phone. ‘This barely counts as “getting shot”. The bullet missed all the important bits.’
‘That’s the morphine speaking.’
‘They didn’t have any morphine. I think they gave me paracetamol.’ Or maybe it had been some kind of sugar pill because whatever it was I’d swallowed two hours earlier, it hadn’t done a thing to ease the thumping pain in my shoulder. The truth was I almost wanted to go home too. The field medic had assessed me with the equipment he had available, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to wind up with permanent damage – and I really needed something stronger for the pain. But we had only been in Libya for a few weeks and I wasn’t at all satisfied with the progress I’d made on my research. And now, if I went home to Sydney to recuperate, I’d have to face Molly Torrington and her uncomfortable questions about her brother’s death.
‘We’re going home, Leo,’ Brad said suddenly. I shook my head, and then winced as the movement inadvertently triggered a damaged muscle in my shoulder.