The Universe Versus Alex Woods (22 page)

While I buried myself in quiet study, Ellie, in contrast, continued to get into trouble at least three or four times every single week. First, of course, there was her ill-fated eyebrow scheme. As I’d foreseen, no amount of hairspray could conceal the truth indefinitely. In actual fact, I think it was within a few days of our first speaking that Ellie’s eyebrow bar was found, seized and consigned to landfill. Ellie’s mother then visited every jeweller and tattooist in a ten-mile radius, handing out A4-sized photographs of her daughter. Above the photo was Ellie’s date of birth and home phone number, and below – in case anyone missed the point – there was the following caption:
Do NOT pierce this child!!
In addition to the capitals and double exclamation mark, Mrs Fitzmaurice also used red ink. Mrs Fitzmaurice didn’t trust the jewellers and tattooists of Glastonbury one little bit.

Then there was a second (equally humiliating) cataclysm a few months later, when Ellie’s parents finally discovered that their daughter was not working at Topshop as they’d been led to believe. I had the misfortune to witness the altercation that followed. Mr Fitzmaurice came round to our house to make it quite clear that he did
not
approve of my mother’s shop and would not allow his daughter to work in such an environment. This led to my mother delivering a rather long and extremely tedious doorstep lecture on the fundamentals of witchcraft: spiritual growth, communing with nature, the harmony of the inner and outer elements, astral projection, the seven realms of knowing and being . . . ‘Black magic’, she pointed out, was just a small piece of the overall picture, and much misunderstood by the layman. For the most part, it was no scarier than the miracles attributed to Jesus: walking on water and coming back from the dead and so on. At this point, Mr Fitzmaurice threatened to call his lawyer, and eventually, my mother conceded that she couldn’t continue to employ Ellie in the face of such obstinate opposition.

Sadly, this was only a temporary setback. Ellie returned to my mother’s employment as soon as she turned sixteen, shortly after her GCSE results (which were never to be spoken of in polite conversation); and soon after that (having decided that life with her parents was unbearable), she moved into the flat above the shop. By that time, of course, Sam had moved out and Justine had gone to India to ‘find herself’.

As I’d predicted, being around Ellie – in those early days – was rarely stress-free. Not only did you have to contend with the thick cloud of world-weariness that characteristically enveloped her, but beyond this there was also the gentle or not-so-gentle teasing, the perpetual eye-rolling, the overbearing sarcasm and mascara. And then, every so often, and completely out of the blue, she’d get all sweet and sisterly – with soft little smiles and playful pokes and punches. That was even worse. At least with the sarcastic, scowling Ellie I had a clear picture of where I stood. Smiley Ellie confused me. Several times it was only patient meditation in the stockroom that saved me from a seizure.

It was around this time that I started to get a much better handle on my condition. I was still having biannual appointments with Dr Enderby, and after I turned fourteen, my mother reluctantly agreed that I should be allowed to attend these appointments alone. It was, after all, somewhat awkward having to take time off work on a Saturday to drive me to Bristol, and Dr Enderby had said that there was no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to come to the hospital on my own. He thought it was a very positive decision because it meant that I was ‘taking charge’ of the situation. I caught the 376 bus, which ran hourly from Glastonbury High Street and took me all the way to Bristol Central, which was only five minutes’ walk from the hospital.

When I first started attending my appointments alone, I was averaging one or two generalized seizures a month, and Dr Enderby doubted that increasing my medication would lower this base rate to any significant degree. Since we’d already established that my seizures tended to have clear and predictable triggers – stress, anxiety and sleep deprivation – we agreed that it would make more sense if I continued to work on my strategies for ‘coping with adversity’, cognitive behavioural therapy and so forth. In particular, Dr Enderby was concerned that I was applying my meditation exercises too irregularly and too late – that I was relying on these techniques as ‘crisis control’ when ideally they should be seen as long-term preventative exercises. He gave me an analogy to explain what was going wrong.

‘It’s like you’re trying to bail water out of a leaky boat in the middle of a storm,’ Dr Enderby informed me. ‘There’s water coming in from every direction – from the leaks and the waves and the rain – and at the same time, you’re having to contend with half a dozen other distractions: the thunder, the wind, the floor rocking beneath you. In these circumstances, staying afloat is almost impossible. What you need to do is ensure that your boat’s always in a good state of repair: then when the storm hits, you’ll be ready for it. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ I told him. ‘My brain’s the unseaworthy boat, and the storm’s stress or adversity. And I guess my meditation exercises are the hammer and nails and planks and tar, et cetera, that I’m going to use to fix all the leaks before I go sailing.’

Dr Enderby smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right – although I wouldn’t describe your brain as unseaworthy. Not exactly. But you get the general idea: you need to practise your exercises regularly – every day if you can – to give yourself the best possible chance of staying afloat.’

So that’s when my meditation regime really began in earnest – and it’s a regime that’s continued ever since; in the past four years, there have only been one or two occasions when I haven’t started the day with a half-hour meditation. It was apparent from the outset that early mornings worked best, as this was the time when my head was clear and free from distractions. Generally, I’d rise between half six and seven and begin my practice as soon as I was fully awake. On Dr Enderby’s advice, I built a small ‘shrine’ in the corner of my room. This contained a soft mat and cushions, a table lamp with three brightness settings, and a small space reserved for books and CDs. I never listened to music during my meditation as this was much too distracting, but afterwards, I often liked to spend fifteen minutes listening to one of the classical albums that I’d borrowed from the library or Mr Peterson. In terms of relaxation, I found that Chopin’s nocturnes took some beating.

In the privacy of my own head, for reasons that will now be obvious, I labelled my new regime ‘working on my boat’, and this metaphor proved so compelling that I’d soon found a way to incorporate it into my meditations in the form of a visualization exercise. I’d start by picturing my boat in its idealized form – a small but sturdy vessel with a shallow draught and its name (
Serenity
) painted on the side in turquoise lettering – and I’d imagine it floating high on a flat sea under an overcast sky. Slowly, I’d introduce some small waves into the scene, then wind and rain and lightning, increasing the power of each until a full, howling thunderstorm was in progress. My boat would rise and fall amidst this tempest, being rocked and whipped and battered by the waves, but nevertheless enduring – its integrity unbreachable. Then, eventually, the sea would become silent. The wind would drop, the waves would settle, the clouds would disperse, and at last everything would be blue and tranquil. I’d see my boat at the centre of a sparkling, sunlit ocean, a perfectly flat horizon stretching out in every direction.

This was the image I’d return to whenever my serenity was threatened (by my mother, by Ellie), and soon I found that I was coping much better with day-to-day stresses. I was sleeping better. I was having fewer seizures. My mind felt generally clearer. But I had yet to face any serious test.

Until the day I’m now going to describe to you, I had no way of knowing how much stronger my boat had become.

It happened not far from the post office. I forget the precise date, but it must have been early summer 2008. It was a Saturday, shortly after lunch – maybe two or three o’clock.

We’d just rejoined the main road from a bridle path, which was why Kurt wasn’t on his lead. Another minute, another thirty seconds, and I’m sure he would have been safely restrained once more. As with all accidents, it was the chance confluence of any number of circumstances, and if any of these had been just a little bit different, it would never have happened.

I dimly recall Mrs Griffith’s Golf approaching as Mr Peterson and I passed the tall privet hedge that bordered Mr Lloyd’s front garden. She couldn’t have been driving very quickly – certainly no more than thirty miles per hour – but at the time I was slow to recognize her. Mr Peterson saw her first, and was first to raise his hand as her car drew closer. Mrs Griffith, I should tell you, was one of the few people in the village to whom Mr Peterson spoke on a semi-regular basis (on account of all the stamps he had to buy each month). Nevertheless, I think that both of our waves were mostly mechanical that day. I suppose we were talking at the time, and so were partially distracted from our surroundings. Not that this would have made much difference. There was no time to react – it was all over in the same instant it registered.

The noise, we later found out, was the firing to life of a chainsaw. Mr Lloyd had chosen that afternoon to straighten out his hedge. But at the time, since he was concealed from view, there was no way of knowing this, and no chance to prepare. There was simply an explosion of sound a little to our right, and in the same moment Kurt bolted instinctively in the opposite direction – onto the road and straight into the path of Mrs Griffith’s oncoming car. She had no time to react, and by the time she’d hit the brakes, the impact had already happened. There was a dull thud, a metallic screech, the smell of burnt rubber. Mrs Griffith’s car came to a halt about twenty metres or so down the road, and a second later, everything was still and silent. The chainsaw, evidently, had been shut off at the sound of the accident.

Kurt was lying motionless a metre from the far kerb, and blood was already beginning to pool at his hind legs. It was only when we got to him that it was apparent he was still breathing.

When Mrs Griffith joined us in the street she was shaking and her face was white as chalk. She had her fingertips held to her lips and just kept stammering the same two sentences again and again: ‘I didn’t s-s-see him! He just ran out in front of me!’

Mr Lloyd, by this time, was standing at the end of his driveway with his mouth agape, still in a thick pair of gardening gloves and looking as helpless and incongruous as a freshly landed fish; and for some long moments, I was about as much use as he was. I didn’t know what to do or say. My mind had turned to solid ice. Mr Peterson, meanwhile, was trying to tend to Kurt and comfort Mrs Griffith at the same time.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he told her, ‘but we need to get him to a vet – right now. Can you drive us?’

Mrs Griffith didn’t appear to understand the question. Mr Peterson had to repeat himself twice before she started nodding, and then once more to get her moving. He turned to me as she was reversing the car parallel to us. ‘I’m gonna need some help liftin’ him, kid. Can you help me?’

I tried to speak but no words came. The bleeding from Kurt’s injured leg seemed to be getting worse, and the haunch was twitching every few seconds. I hadn’t ever seen that much blood before. But Mr Peterson, I suppose, had seen injuries far worse. He stayed completely calm and focussed.

‘It’s okay, kid,’ he said. ‘You’ll be okay. We just have to get him to the car. We’ll do it together.’

He took off his jacket and wrapped it round Kurt’s hindquarters. Then he gestured to me. ‘All I need you to do is support his head and front legs. We’ll lift on three.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ I blurted.

‘Yes, you can. You’ll be okay. It’ll all be over in a half-minute. I just need you to be with me for that time. Okay?’

I closed my eyes and took several ragged breaths.

‘Alex? Open your eyes. Stay with me.’

I opened my eyes.

‘You’re gonna be okay. Just hold it together for a couple more minutes. On three . . .’

Kurt whimpered loudly as we lifted him, and for a second, my blood ran cold. But then he was silent, and the worst was over. He was awkward to manoeuvre, but he didn’t weigh much, and within a minute, we had him laid across the back seat of Mrs Griffith’s Golf. Mr Peterson got in the back with him, and I got into the front passenger seat, and fifteen minutes later, we had arrived at the vet’s surgery.

After Kurt had been sedated and one of his back legs had been bandaged, the vet called us back into the treatment room. Kurt was still stretched out on the stainless-steel table in the centre of the room. He looked very peaceful, like he was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

‘The bleeding’s not as serious as it first appeared,’ the vet told us solemnly, ‘but the leg’s broken in two places. I’m afraid when the sedative wears off he’s going to be in quite a lot of pain.’

‘But he’s going to be okay?’ I asked. ‘I mean, he’s going to live?’

The vet looked at Mr Peterson and something seemed to pass between them. ‘All his injuries are treatable,’ she said. ‘But you have to understand that Kurt’s a very old dog. The chances of him making a
full
recovery are slim. Even in the best scenario, it’s doubtful that he’ll ever be able to walk on that leg again – not without considerable pain.’

Mr Peterson nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘But he’s going to live?’ I persisted.

The vet looked at me, then glanced back at Mr Peterson. ‘Would you like me to give you a few minutes?’

‘Yes, if you would,’ said Mr Peterson.

‘A few minutes for what?’ I asked, and at that point, I genuinely didn’t know the answer. I’d never been exposed to circumstances like these before. Outside of the rather unusual environment of my mother’s shop, I had no experience of how people spoke – or didn’t speak – about death.

Mrs Griffith had taken a tissue from her bag and was dabbing her eyes again. Mr Peterson looked very grim and determined. ‘Kid, I’m sorry. The vet’s going to put Kurt to sleep. There’s nothing else we can do.’