The first and only book my dad gave me was
Gulliver’s Travels when I was six. I think it was on special at the Cash and Carry.
“What’s it about?” I said. But he was on his way out to the hotel.
“I dunno. Midgets, I think,” he called out.
It was a big hardback. The man on the front had his hair pulled back and tied in knots around stakes and I thought the tiny people were trying to help him. My favourite picture was the blonde man in a birdcage floating on the sea. As I learnt to read I’d skip the biggest words and use my dad’s dictionary, kept for cheating at crosswords, to work them out. I was ten before I could read it all.
***
Now it’s my turn.
“I bought you some books, dad. This one’s by Chekhov.” He doesn’t move to take it. I’m an arm’s width away.
“Hmph… Russian!” he says. “What’s it about?”
“Humanity,” I say. “They’re short stories so you can finish each in one go. And this is
The Alchemist,”
“Another bloody foreigner,” he says. I look at the back.
“Brazilian. But it’s sold millions. It will make you realise life’s wonderful.” I put them on the trolley next to us.
“Pass me that drink,” he says.
There’s a carton behind the sweets. I think it’s a kid’s chocolate milkshake but when I put the straw in I notice it’s For Medical Use Only. I know he hasn’t eaten for a month and he’s so weak he can’t stand up. It’s taken the alcohol 62 years to eat away his goodness. 62 years from the time his mother put whiskey in his milk to the last scotch and coke before the ambulance came.
He grabs the carton and sucks. The brown stuff rises and falls. His ears are so big he looks like a skinny, grey rat. He used to have thick blonde hair that curled at his neck and hid his ears. I look down and notice he’s wearing pale green trousers.
“Where are your P.J. bottoms dad?”
“Wet,” he says.
“Why?”
“I pissed ‘em.”
I look around to see who’s heard. The man in the bed behind is asleep and the curtain is drawn next to us. I’m glad we’re at the end of the ward.
“I asked the nurse to come. It’s her fault,” he says.
