the chair
This form reads like a kind of poetry, she thought. Maybe Deirdre could use it, too. Maybe Deirdre wrote it. Maybe Deirdre is right. There is a kind of poetry, bad or good, in everything, everywhere we look.
Her eyes hurt. She closed them. Visionary. Poetic. Revelatory. Mystic. Yeah, Lise thought behind her closed eyes. It’s true. Being ill is revelatory. It reveals to you exactly what well people think of ill people. They put flowers on the bed or on the table. They look at you with widening eyes. You look like death, they say, and then they laugh and add quickly, like it’s all a joke, you look about as good as I feel. Then they look embarrassed (like they’re letting the side down, ill people). Then they try tothink up some imperfections of their own, and spend the hour telling you about them. Some of them expect to be made tea, or even lunch (you can’t be that ill). Others are frightened to touch anything. They breathe, self-conscious, testing every breath. They look to the side of you as if you aren’t there. They leave as soon as possible. For days after their visit they test themselves, listening for the press of glands and the slightest velvety creeping of skin, the tenderness of throat, the small knock-knock of symptoms. Who’s there? Vi. Vi who? Vi Russ, we met at your friend’s house, don’t you know me? Don’t you recognize me? Let me in. One day (maybe) Lise would be well enough again to go to someone’s party and someone would ask her in that way that means who are you, what do you do , and Lise would answer with her new job description. I’ve been ill. I could not sit comfortably in a chair for more than thirty minutes. Now I cannot sit comfortably in a chair for more than two hours. It’s hard work, but I’m getting better at it. And someone has to do it.
Lise was lying in bed. The room swung. The walls shifted then settled again. The idea of even imagining going to a party had frightened her. Every afternoon Deirdre put the telephone plug back into the socket on the wall. Every evening as her mother closed the front door behind her Lise yanked it out again. She could do it without getting up out of bed.
So imagine Lise’s memory opening, now.
Imagine that when it did, it was as startling andfractious to her as it would have been had the dead telephone at the side of the bed suddenly started to ring.
Imagine her heart, leaping. Imagine her mind, sluiced wide.
Lise, behind Reception, is at work. The clock on the computer reads 6:51 p.m., but at the very moment she glances at it the black 1 changes to a 2.
6:52 p.m.
She is pleased to have seen it happen. It feels meant. Then she forgets about seeing it. Her neck is hurting.
The surveillance cameras at the front of the hotel are out of action, including the one over Reception, so she undoes her top button and pulls at the material round her neck. She looks down at her Name Badge, LISE
backwards upside down. She undoes the pin on the back of it, unhooks it from the uniform and throws it at the waste bin up at the other end of Reception.
It misses. It falls down the back. She snorts.
She gets up, walks the length of the Reception desk, leans down the back of the bin and picks the badge up again. She jabs the tip of her finger with the end of the pin.
Ow, she says. Shit.
She slides the pin back through the fabric of her lapel, clipping it shut. She sits back down on the chair. She drums her fingers on the desk. She sees a tiny smear of blood on the desk, and sucks her finger where the pinpoint went in. She wipes at the blood on the desk with the edge of her jacket.
She is still high with what she’s done.
She looks at the phone. She picks up the receiver, dials 9. She holds the receiver in the air for a moment. Then she puts it down again without dialling anything else.
She picks up a pen, puts the end of it in her mouth. She gets up. She presses the code on the door, letting herself out in front of Reception where the
This form reads like a kind of poetry, she thought. Maybe Deirdre could use it, too. Maybe Deirdre wrote it. Maybe Deirdre is right. There is a kind of poetry, bad or good, in everything, everywhere we look.
Her eyes hurt. She closed them. Visionary. Poetic. Revelatory. Mystic. Yeah, Lise thought behind her closed eyes. It’s true. Being ill is revelatory. It reveals to you exactly what well people think of ill people. They put flowers on the bed or on the table. They look at you with widening eyes. You look like death, they say, and then they laugh and add quickly, like it’s all a joke, you look about as good as I feel. Then they look embarrassed (like they’re letting the side down, ill people). Then they try tothink up some imperfections of their own, and spend the hour telling you about them. Some of them expect to be made tea, or even lunch (you can’t be that ill). Others are frightened to touch anything. They breathe, self-conscious, testing every breath. They look to the side of you as if you aren’t there. They leave as soon as possible. For days after their visit they test themselves, listening for the press of glands and the slightest velvety creeping of skin, the tenderness of throat, the small knock-knock of symptoms. Who’s there? Vi. Vi who? Vi Russ, we met at your friend’s house, don’t you know me? Don’t you recognize me? Let me in. One day (maybe) Lise would be well enough again to go to someone’s party and someone would ask her in that way that means who are you, what do you do , and Lise would answer with her new job description. I’ve been ill. I could not sit comfortably in a chair for more than thirty minutes. Now I cannot sit comfortably in a chair for more than two hours. It’s hard work, but I’m getting better at it. And someone has to do it.
Lise was lying in bed. The room swung. The walls shifted then settled again. The idea of even imagining going to a party had frightened her. Every afternoon Deirdre put the telephone plug back into the socket on the wall. Every evening as her mother closed the front door behind her Lise yanked it out again. She could do it without getting up out of bed.
So imagine Lise’s memory opening, now.
Imagine that when it did, it was as startling andfractious to her as it would have been had the dead telephone at the side of the bed suddenly started to ring.
Imagine her heart, leaping. Imagine her mind, sluiced wide.
Lise, behind Reception, is at work. The clock on the computer reads 6:51 p.m., but at the very moment she glances at it the black 1 changes to a 2.
6:52 p.m.
She is pleased to have seen it happen. It feels meant. Then she forgets about seeing it. Her neck is hurting.
The surveillance cameras at the front of the hotel are out of action, including the one over Reception, so she undoes her top button and pulls at the material round her neck. She looks down at her Name Badge, LISE
backwards upside down. She undoes the pin on the back of it, unhooks it from the uniform and throws it at the waste bin up at the other end of Reception.
It misses. It falls down the back. She snorts.
She gets up, walks the length of the Reception desk, leans down the back of the bin and picks the badge up again. She jabs the tip of her finger with the end of the pin.
Ow, she says. Shit.
She slides the pin back through the fabric of her lapel, clipping it shut. She sits back down on the chair. She drums her fingers on the desk. She sees a tiny smear of blood on the desk, and sucks her finger where the pinpoint went in. She wipes at the blood on the desk with the edge of her jacket.
She is still high with what she’s done.
She looks at the phone. She picks up the receiver, dials 9. She holds the receiver in the air for a moment. Then she puts it down again without dialling anything else.
She picks up a pen, puts the end of it in her mouth. She gets up. She presses the code on the door, letting herself out in front of Reception where the
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