When God Was a Rabbit

His back was to me, framed by the window. The trees beyond were starting to change colour. A plane flew from right to left, skimmed the top of his head, trailed a plume of white lit by intermittent sunshine. It was a normal day outside. Inside, there was a vase of flowers, simple pink roses that Charlie had brought in a few days before; they were all he could get. I’d brought nothing. I suddenly felt shy, frightened maybe, of all he wasn’t. He was wearing the shirt I brought him from Paris, but he didn’t know that; he didn’t know me.

I’d had days to think about this moment. From the time of the phone call when we steered our storm-wracked boat back to shore and hauled our excited selves up the slope towards the house and my parents within. And from the moment I stood in front of them and told them all that Charlie had said and my mother said, ‘It doesn’t matter, we have him and that’s enough.’ And from the moment my father looked at her and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and she held him and said, ‘He’s come back to us, my darling. No sorry.’

Charlie let go of my hand and motioned me forward.

‘Hi,’ I said.

He turned round and smiled, looked exactly the same; more rested, perhaps, but no bruising, just the same.

‘You’re Elly?’ he said, and put his hand to his mouth, started to bite his nails; a gesture that made him, him. ‘My sister.’

‘Yeah.’

I went towards him, went to hold him, but he held out his hand instead and I took it and it felt cold. I pointed to his mouth.

‘You did that playing rugby, by the way.’

‘Ah, I wondered,’ he said.

I hadn’t seen the gap in years, since he broke the crown on a rogue piece of crab shell. I wondered if I should tell him. I didn’t.

He looked at Grace and shrugged. ‘Rugby,’ he said.

‘See, I says you were no fighter, Joe.’

She said ‘Joe’ as if it were a new word.

We had to go slow. The doctors said that. He was a blank photo album. I wanted to replace all the pictures, but the doctors told me it was important for him to create new ones. Go slow, they said. My parents entrusted Charlie and me to bring him home. But not just yet, the doctors said. Go slow. Work backwards. Allow him to unravel by himself. Go slow.

I saw her in the corridor as I was speaking to my parents. She was relacing her sensible black shoes, styled for comfort, not for fashion. What would I do with fashion? I could hear her say. My parents made me put her on the line, thanked her, invited her to Cornwall, to stay as long as she wanted; ‘For ever,’ my babbling father shouted, and he meant it, of course. Grace Mary Goodfield, who smelled so wondrously of Chanel and hope. I will know you for the rest of my life.

Charlie and I had already said our goodbyes, and we sat on the bed and waited.

‘Well, Mr Joe,’ said Grace. ‘This is it.’

‘I know.’

She reached for him as he moved towards her.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

And he whispered something neither of us could hear.

‘You keep in touch now. Get that aunt of yours to send some signed photos for us all. Item of clothing for the raffle would be nice,’ she added, laughing.

‘We’ll send her over in person. Get her on a few ward rounds,’ I said.

‘Do her good,’ said Charlie.

‘Even better,’ said Grace.

Awkward silence.

‘And don’t forget – Louisiana – always nice in spring.’

‘Spring it is then,’ we said.

‘I’ll never forget you,’ said Joe.

‘Told you, you were no fighter,’ she said, pointing to his mouth.