by G. Wulfing
Then I asked slowly, “What would you have done, Toro-a-Ba, if we had been incompatible?” I looked at him, awaiting his answer. “… Would you have been disappointed?” I hazarded.
Toro-a-Ba blinked his moist dark eyes at me, in – as best as I could tell – a contemplative expression.
“No.”
I was about to ask if someone else might have volunteered in his stead; my understanding had been that there were no other volunteers, but perhaps that had not been the case; when Toro-a-Ba continued, in his deliberate manner. “It is difficult to explain, Daniel. I do not know whether you believe in such things, for humans hold a great many differing opinions, but I believe that some things are fated. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“Yes, I know what ‘fated’ means,” I confirmed quietly.
“Do you remember my saying that I felt a great shout go up within me when Surgeon Suva-a proposed the surgery?”
I nodded. “I remember.”
“Daniel, I knew, when Surgeon Suva-a said that all that was needed for the surgery was a volunteer, that I was to be that volunteer.”
There was a pause.
“And … what if our bloods had not been compatible?” I asked soberly.
Toro-a-Ba blinked at me again. “They would be,” he said simply. “They are.”
“But … I mean …”
“It was fated, Daniel.”
“Oh.”
I fell silent, realising in that moment that I would receive no further explanation, because no further explanation could be given; and that this conversation illustrated a great deal about Toro-a-Ba.
The surgeons had collaborated with dietary specialists to draw up lists of things that Toro-a-Ba and I should and should not do to care for our new bodies. There were foods that we should avoid for a long time to come because they might be too difficult to digest; we should eat very healthily and ‘cleanly’ from now on; we should chew our food thoroughly to make digestion easier; drinking large quantities of water would become vital to our mutual health; and if I drank even a modest amount of alcohol, it was possible that Toro-a-Ba, with his much smaller body and the thurga-a’s natural intolerance for alcohol, would become drunk; so the surgeons recommended that we eschew alcohol altogether. This saddened me slightly, as I had always enjoyed certain beers and liqueurs; but the thought of giving the thurga beside me alcohol poisoning was not acceptable. Using the clamps on the hose to ensure that what I ingested did not reach Toro-a-Ba was strongly discouraged by the surgeons: the purpose of the clamps was to restrict the flow of fluids between us only when necessary, such as when I was receiving drugs the quantity of which would harm Toro-a-Ba, or if one of us ate something poisonous. After all, the whole point of the hose was to enable Toro-a-Ba’s organs to support mine: strangling that support would not be healthy. Teetotal I would have to become.
“Remember, Avari-Ba,” Surgeon Suva-a – a thurga with an unusual smudge of blonde fur above the left side of the bridge of her nose – told me one day, “that your physical capacity is far more massive than Toro-a-Ba’s. I do not speak here about your size, for you are fully aware of that; I mean your capacity. You are recovering from near-lethal injuries, now, but when in time you are more thoroughly healed you must remember that Toro-a-Ba cannot cover the distances that you can cover; he cannot tolerate the amount of sound that you can tolerate; he may not be able to jump as far or as high as you can jump; and so on. Furthermore, his body is working harder than normal in order to support yours. It is as though he is pregnant: his organs are giving life to yours. If he becomes fatigued and sickly, your body will suffer also.”
I nodded slowly, considering this.
Surgeon Suva-a continued, “We would not have attached Toro-a-Ba to you, Avari-Ba, if we did not think that he could keep up with you. However, he is not human. His needs are different, his capacity is different; and I believe that in your life together each of you will learn more about the other’s species than you thought there was to learn.”
I blinked.
“Toro-a-Ba,” the surgeon addressed him, “you must always remain as healthy as possible, and get plenty of sleep. You are pregnant with a creature larger than any our species has ever borne.”
I am, as I have said, not expert in reading thurga-a facial expressions, but as far as I could tell, when Surgeon Suva-a said these words she was completely earnest.
But she voiced nothing that had not already occurred, in one way or another, to me.
Eventually, I was allowed to sit up straighter and straighter. When I could sit almost bolt upright, and all other tubes and hoses had been removed, I was allowed to sit on the side of my bed. The hospital bed was lowered so that my feet could touch the floor to avoid putting any strain on my abdomen. It seemed like a milestone: my long, long days in this room in this clinic would, after all, come to an end.
Toro-a-Ba crawled carefully out of his bed and walked over the covers to sit beside me. The hose lay on the bedclothes between us: an innocuous, inanimate object that would rule our lives forever.
Now that I could sit safely, the nurses offered to take me and Toro-a-Ba outside, in a wheelchair. I was lifted bodily into the wheelchair, while Toro-a-Ba walked carefully but with relative ease down a small ramp that the nurses placed at the side of my bed so that he would not have to jump and thus jar the hose. At first every second day, but then every day, they wheeled me slowly through the clinic and outdoors, into the car park, with Toro-a-Ba walking carefully alongside. The clinic was not designed for long-term patient recovery, so there was no garden; but just to be outdoors again, after so long; to feel the breeze and the sun and the fresh air, and to see plants again, and the sky, felt like a relief; as though all of these things were reassurances that I would survive. One way or another.
It made me think about the future.
–––––––
One morning, after breakfast, it dawned on me: now that I was mobile, I – we – would at some point be leaving the clinic.
Leaving to go … where? Home, presumably. The image of my apartment flashed into my head. I had thought little about it: I had been so focussed on dealing with what had happened to me and my new circumstances that I had not thought much about my living quarters. The nurses had assured me that my landlady had been informed of my accident and was keeping an eye on my apartment. Having more pressing concerns on my mind than whether the yoghurt in my fridge was spoiling, I had been content to let the matter rest at that.
But where was ‘home’, now?
I could go home to my apartment … but Toro-a-Ba would have to come with me. Toro-a-Ba could go to his home … but I would have to go with him.
And it suddenly hit me that I could never go home again.
‘Home’, with my old life, my old independence, without even a pet to consider, was closed to me. My ability to go ‘home’ – to return to my own space, my own life – was gone. My home would now have to be with Toro-a-Ba.
I felt like a man who had married and, on returning from his honeymoon, had realised that his old life as a bachelor was gone. That independent, solitary season of his life was ended. From now on, his home would be in a new location, and it would have to be shared. The food in his fridge would no longer be only his. The milk, the remote controls, the cleaning supplies, would no longer always stay where he left them. Someone else would be sharing his furniture, his shower, his towels, even his bed; and the table would have to be big enough for two to sit at it.
Of course, if I had married, the person sharing my everything would have been a person of my choice, and of my own species.
‘Home’ was gone, my life was gone, and whatever happened now would have to be negotiated with someone who was still little more than a stranger to me.
I wept.
–––––––
From what Toro-a-Ba had told the psychologist during our sessions, I knew that his family consisted of parents, a sister and brother, and two uncles, and that they
all lived in the Goto-a region, which lies next to Suni-ku, the much smaller region in which Surgeon Suva-a’s clinic is located. Toro-a-Ba had left them to come to live in the city of Kivi-a, near the clinic, so that he could train as a nurse. That, however, was all that I knew. He might have said more, but I had not been listening with much dedication.
So where, then, would he and I live?
I was reluctant to ask, because I was reluctant to converse with Toro-a-Ba in general; although I had made my decision to live, a large part of me still wished that none of this had happened.
But I could see that such things would never get any easier. There would never be a time when I would be pleased about what had happened to me, or glad that I was joined to Toro-a-Ba. There would never be a moment when it would not be uncomfortable to ask Toro-a-Ba this question.
So one morning, when there was no one but us in the room, I cleared my throat and prepared myself to ask. “Ah … Toro-a-Ba …”
Ever polite, he looked at me expectantly. “What is it, Daniel?”
“Erm … at some point … we’re going to have to leave here, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Toro-a-Ba agreed. Then he waited.
“So where … where will we go? … Do you … What about your family?”
Toro-a-Ba was silent for a moment. He has this way of thinking before he speaks; I do not know how much of this is due to the fact that English is not his first language, how much is cultural – thurga-a are not voluble, and they often pause to think before speaking – and how much is simply his contemplative, deliberate personality.
“My family lives in the Goto-a region, in a village called Runa-ii,” he said. “I, however, have been living here in Kivi-a for two years.”
“So … do you want to go back to them?” My mind was filled with dismal, anxious questions. What about Toro-a-Ba’s nurse training? Did he intend to complete it, somehow? Surely he would not be able to do so with me attached to him. What on earth were we supposed to do with our lives, now, anyway, if neither of us could work?
“Yes. For a while. I wish to visit them.”
“… And then what?”
I looked across at him, feeling slightly tearful. “What do we do now? Where are we going to live?”
“Where would you like to live, Daniel?” Toro-a-Ba inquired calmly.
I flopped my head back into my pillow. I was a dead man without him; what did it matter what I wanted?! At no point in this entire debacle had what I wanted been a legitimate consideration!
Then I took a deep breath, and reminded myself that the only reason this surgery had been performed without my consent was because I had not been conscious to give or deny it. Toro-a-Ba himself had longed to know my wishes, but the information had simply been unobtainable. It was not fair of me to accuse him, at least, of mistreating me.
“May I offer some points from which we might begin a discussion?” Toro-a-Ba ventured, so politely that I almost laughed.
“Sure.”
Toro-a-Ba explained that he was, naturally, unable to continue his training as a nurse. “Nevertheless, for your safety and mine it seems sensible for us to base ourselves near this clinic, where the most expert assistance will be available to us should we need it. Since you and I were already living in this city, it should be no great hardship to do so. Besides, our surgeons wish to continue to study our recovery, so our remaining nearby would be convenient for them and us.”
He explained that he had requested various real estate publications, and had been searching through them for a dwelling that might be suitable for us.
‘For us’. For me and my thurga. So that we could live together. I tried not to feel overwhelmed yet again by the surreality of the situation.
Toro-a-Ba said that he had found a set of buildings that might be suitable for us. Gripping a magazine in both paws, for it was a human-sized magazine, he turned toward me and held it out to me.
The houses Toro-a-Ba pointed out to me were single-storey, luxury bungalows, with large windows overlooking a tree-laden park. The buildings were spacious, with large gardens. Most had only two shallow steps leading up to the front door, and the interiors seemed spacious, light and airy. They were very attractive … and, of course, very expensive.
“Will the government pay for something like this?” I asked uncertainly.
“I believe so.”
I looked again at the houses in the magazine. I would never have been able to afford this kind of house using my own wages; – or, at least, not without saving up for it for a few decades.
I thought for a long moment about living in a place like this with my thurga companion.
How different our lives would have been if I had not had that accident. Or if no volunteer had been found to keep me alive. How different things might have been …
“Is this where you want to live, Toro-a-Ba?” I inquired.
He hesitated – or was it just his usual pause before speaking?
“If you would be comfortable in such a place,” he said serenely.
I gulped.
“Where would you … where would you choose to live, Toro-a-Ba?” I ventured humbly, half dreading the answer. Surely he would want to return to the residence he had chosen here in the city, wherever that residence was … Or maybe he would want to live with his family in their village …
There was a slight pause, and then Toro-a-Ba climbed out from under his bedclothes and walked toward me. He sat on my bed, near my right hip, facing me; something he had never done before. I stared at him.
“Daniel, you do not understand,” he said, very softly. “… I choose to live with you.”
We held each other’s gaze for a long, long moment, as Toro-a-Ba’s words slowly sank into my head.
At last, I looked down, and swallowed.
Then I gave a tiny nod. I understood.
–––––––
Now I was wheelchair-bound instead of bedridden. The day I could actually stand felt like a momentous occasion. Wearing a hospital robe, and with a nurse on either side of me for support, I slowly allowed my feet to take my weight, shakily straightening my legs while the nurses steadied me by my arms. I stood, vertical but slightly bowed, for a few seconds before needing to sit back down because my belly began to ache. But I felt heroic. Had it had a consciousness, the accident that should have killed me would have been writhing in fury at the fact that I was standing once more.
The first few steps felt even more amazing. I almost laughed aloud, like a child learning to walk. To all of these achievements, the untalkative Toro-a-Ba seldom said more than a sincere “Well done, Daniel”, but I could tell by the warmth with which the words were delivered that he was pleased by my progress.
I still had difficulty with looking him in the eye.
Eventually I was able to leave the bed and use a toilet, with a nurse’s assistance. It was somewhat humiliating to have Toro-a-Ba sitting nearby as I did so, like a dog on a leash that I could not set down. It was more humiliating than needing assistance to use the toilet: the nurse was necessary, Toro-a-Ba was … inescapable. At least whilst I was bedridden the nurses had been able to use the bedclothes as a sort of screen while I used a toilet pan. But it was unavoidable, and Toro-a-Ba politely sat with his back to me and regarded the far wall.
One of the nurses asked me, one day, if I would like to wear some proper clothes now. It was like being asked if I wanted to rejoin the land of the living. My laboratory overalls, and my own shirt and trousers beneath them, had been ruined when the ambulance staff cut them off me after the accident. The nurse took my measurements, asked me what colours and fits I liked, and went out and bought, with the clinic’s money, some plain T-shirts, underwear, and comfortable, loose-fitting track pants. I needed some assistance at first, but soon I was able to put them on myself. I, and Toro-a-Ba, shuffled into the bathroom so that I could see myself in the mirror there. The T-shirts had a curious bulge in my right side where they hung over the hose, and a couple o
f days later I asked one of the nurses to help me cut a vertical slit in each of them to accommodate the hose. It felt strange to be wearing deliberately defaced T-shirts, but I supposed that eventually I would get used to it, and I preferred having a slitted T-shirt to one that bulged strangely on one side.
It is curious how significant ordinary things become when we have been denied the ability to do them. I felt more alive, and somehow more able to take myself seriously, once I was no longer wearing a hospital robe.
As soon as I – and Toro-a-Ba – could leave the bed – ‘our bed’ – to use the toilet without assistance, we were introduced to an expert in human physiotherapy and rehabilitation for amputees and other survivors of extreme physical trauma. She was primarily there to help me learn to move without damaging my abdomen as it recovered, and to observe. There had never been a case like mine before, so there were no methods for teaching two linked creatures how to move together. Toro-a-Ba and I would have to figure that out for ourselves, and the numerous specialists involved in our case were keen to observe and document our progress.
Toro-a-Ba and I would walk through the various rooms of the clinic, slowly and carefully, with me moving one foot at a time, and Toro-a-Ba keeping pace alongside. Eventually, of course, we were able to speed up as my body recovered and remembered how it felt to walk. Inevitably, I stepped on him a few times. I have no words for how embarrassingly inappropriate it feels to step on the creature who saved your life and volunteered to give the rest of his life to you. Of course, Toro-a-Ba was immeasurably accepting and forgiving of these literal faux pas, and this only added to my humiliation.
Ascertaining how to move whilst constantly joined to another creature was laborious enough in the controlled environment of the clinic: in the months since then, it has not become any easier. The hose must be thought about constantly; almost obsessively. Toro-a-Ba and I can never move too far apart, lest it tug on us both painfully. We have to be careful to avoid snagging it on anything, for the same reason. I have to move at a pace with which Toro-a-Ba can keep up; neither of us can move suddenly; and we must always, always be aware of what the other is doing. Courtesies such as informing the other of our intention to do something, even something as mundane as using the toilet, must always be observed; and we are constantly asking each other what the other wants to do. Shall we sit here? Is it all right with you if I have a nap? I need to do such-and-such a thing; when does it suit you for me to do it?
