'I see.' Lambourne glanced at his notes. One area where the dreams offered a convenient allegory; it would have been awkward to ask straight out which parent Eyran felt closest to.
'Did you catch up with your parents in any of the dreams?'
'No. My father was closest, but he always remained just out of reach.'
'Do you think there's any reason why your father appears more than your mother in the dreams? Were you closer to him?'
'When I was younger, no. But as I got older, I felt I could talk to him more. You know, if I was having trouble with someone picking a fight, some problem with my bike, or selection for the school football team. I just felt he'd know more about those things than my mum.'
'So you went to him for help, confided in him more. But you felt equally close to both of them?'
'Yes.'
'And did you love them both equally — mum and dad?' Stupid question, but it was necessary to have Eyran say it, admit the attachment before he started suggesting other object attachments.
'Yes.'
'And do you miss them?'
Longer pause this time; Eyran's brow was slightly furrowed. 'Yes, of course…'
Clasping. Unclasping.
The muted voices through the door after a while made Stuart’s mind drift. Back through the nightmare which had finally brought him to David Lambourne's office.
Hands clasped behind his back as he looked out at the view: two large palm trees like sentinels either side of the garden. A faint mist rising from the swimming pool. December in Southern California.
Moment's break from packing boxes with Jeremy's personal papers and mementoes. Behind him, Helena, Jeremy's Mexican maid, saying something he didn't quite catch. On arrival, she'd grasped his hand extended in greeting in both hers as she looked deep into his eyes and expressed her sorrow. He could tell that she had been crying, and as she kept grip a second longer, willing home her emotions with eyes brimming with watery compassion, she burst into tears again. He'd cried enough on the flight over and since, identifying the bodies of his brother and Allison in the morgue, seeing Eyran laying helpless and prostrate in the hospital bed — to be able to join her.
Death. The morning mist somehow mirrored his mood. Looking through the sliding windows towards the pool and patio; happier times. Jeremy at the barbecue, Eyran and Tessa swimming, Allison and Amanda sipping Long Island iced teas and preparing a salad. He snapped himself away, back to packing boxes. Another minefield of memories: Jeremy's diplomas from Cambridge and his bar exams, photos with his old rugby team in Hertfordshire, him and Jeremy sitting at a restaurant table in Mykonos, one of their few holidays together. They'd been in their early twenties and Stuart couldn't even remember the name of Jeremy's girlfriend at the time who had taken the picture. Two boxes had already been filled with a mixture of photos, papers, mementoes and small ornaments. How long did it take to tidy away the personal effects of a lifetime? Leave the room neat and tidy, so no memories, no trace remained.
The day before had been a nightmare, a blizzard of paperwork and officialdom. Forms to be filled out at the police station and morgue, more at the hospital, then onto Jeremy's employers, Hassler and Gertz, to deal with Jeremy's probate and insurance details.
It seemed that all he'd done since arriving in California was sign papers; autograph his brother's aftermath. Perhaps it was all part of the grieving process. 'You've now witnessed and signed fifteen papers relating to your brother's death, surely you can now finally accept that he is dead.' Hadn't he read somewhere that the grieving process didn't start until after acceptance.
Then when Stuart went finally into Eyran's room, the thought of Eyran at that moment in the hospital deep in coma, barely clinging to life — gripped him hard. Posters of Pamela Anderson, the Power Rangers, Jurassic Park, the Daytona racetrack. It was amazing how quickly they grew up. Had he started thinking of girls when he'd been eleven? From the stereo and a small stack of CDs to one side, he picked out four: Janet Jackson, Seal, Madonna, UB40. Quick scan of the rest of the room — probably the last time he would see it: a semi-precious rocks and minerals collection, some model sports cars, an SX25 computer with a small box of disks, a signed baseball bat, a model dolphin from San Diego SeaWorld, a large corner box full of assorted toys — many obviously from when Eyran was much younger.
Stuart bit his lip as he packed. But at least this duty carried with it a bit more hope. Mementoes for the living.
Hands clasping.
Clutched tight to the report as Eyran’s surgeon in California, Dr Torrens, delivered his stark prognosis.
Traumatic intracranial haemotomas. Two small parietal lobe haemotomas. Larger temporal lobe haemotoma. Risk of oedema. Irregular EEG recording.
But which one had carried the possibility of later psychological disturbance, thought Stuart. Which one?
At the time, all he'd hoped and prayed for had been Eyran awaking; he hadn't looked beyond. Torrens had mentioned only the possibility of later disorientation of direction, topography and shapes due to the temporal lobe haemotoma. Usually hardly noticeable outside of reading detailed maps or directions, or sorting out complex puzzles. 'If that's all we're facing, be thankful.'
In the end there had been two EEG activity recordings: 94 hours and 17 hours respectively before Eyran finally waking. In answer to his key questions — chances of survival, how long the coma might last and degrees of damage that might persist if and when Eyran finally awoke — Dr Torrens seemed reluctant to speculate, hiding mainly behind text book statistics from a cross section of American hospitals. Stuart recalled that 14 % of coma victims made a full recovery and another 14 % made recoveries with impairments so slight as to be unnoticeable, though a daunting 49 % did not survive at all, the mid-ground taken up by cases ranging from moderate disablement to complete vegetative states.
Easy to get lost in the medical terminology, Stuart thought. Acceptance by conditioning. Concern and grief, all so real when focused on a loved one, swallowed up as part of the grander scale of general statistics affecting all coma patients. The first shock had come learning that Eyran's heart had stopped for 54 seconds when first admitted. Stuart had asked if that might have contributed — but Torrens felt that the direct head injuries and cranial haemotomas were likely the prime cause of coma.
Clasping — as a nurse had led him finally to Eyran's bedside — an image to match with Torren's stark report. Tubes and wires feeding and monitoring, Eyran's face grey and wan. He found it hard to relate with the Eyran he remembered, so full of curiosity and enthusiasm — and suddenly came to mind a day out in his sports car, Eyran at his side, cheeks rosy with the crisp air.
Eyran had been only six, and they were driving up Highgate Hill. Stuart pointed theatrically towards the cemetery. 'Do you know who's buried there? Karl Marx!' To which Eyran's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. 'Was he one of the Marx brothers?' It had remained part of Stuart's dinner party repertoire for almost two years.
Talk to him, Torrens had said. Familiar voices, shared memories. Stuart started with the Karl Marx incident, then went on to relate another story from when Eyran had been seven and asked him what was the rudest word. At first, he'd tried to avoid it by saying he didn't know, but Eyran was persistent. 'But you must know lots of rude words at your age, uncle Stuart.' Knowing that he couldn't easily escape, but not wishing to get into trouble with Jeremy for teaching Eyran rude words, he'd finally offered 'Codswollop'.
'Is that the rudest word?'
'Yes, absolutely. It's a terrible swear word — never to be used.'