The Universe Versus Alex Woods (31 page)

‘So I think Kurt Vonnegut knew the value of free will as well as anyone, but he also understood its limitations – how and where it could suddenly be taken away. And I’d like to conclude with the sentence that best sums up this position, which is Vonnegut’s citation of the Serenity Prayer, in
Slaughterhouse-Five
. Of course, there were quotes from
Timequake
I could have chosen instead, but none, I think, that hits the nail so precisely on the head. And it’s another one that, coming from an atheist, sounds a whole lot more facetious than it actually is:

‘“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom always to tell the difference.”

‘Amen.’

There was a moment of silence. I held my breath. I was waiting for the announcement that never came. Instead, Mr Peterson cleared his throat, and then said: ‘On just as important a note, I’d like to thank Alex for setting this thing up. If anyone’s still got the impression that I had anything to with organizing this group, rest assured, I did not. I thought the idea was completely crazy. I told him no one would come. That’s the only reason I agreed to host it.’

There was a smattering of laughter. I thought Mr Peterson was probably warming to his role as speech-maker.

‘Seriously, though,’ he continued. ‘Thank you, Alex. This has meant a lot to me, and I’m sure I’m not alone in that.’

And there may have been more as well, but if there was, I was unable to hear it. I had gone the colour of the inside of a watermelon. Then I felt my eyes starting to burn.

‘I need to excuse myself for a moment,’ I said.

In the bathroom, I started to cry. I washed my face thoroughly before rejoining the group.

It was an hour or so later, after everyone else had left, that Mr Peterson reiterated what he’d said earlier, as if once wasn’t sufficient. ‘I meant it,’ he repeated gravely. ‘I’m very grateful for the past fourteen months. I want you to remember that in the future.’

I knew it was the kind of sentence that required a sincere, meaningful response, but I thought if I talked at any length, I’d start crying again.

‘Okay,’ I said.

It was very inadequate.

And it was this, and only this, that made me return later on. As I’ve said, I had a general feeling that something was off-kilter that day, but nothing that would have motivated me to check up on Mr Peterson or anything like that. If anything, I had been somewhat reassured by the last part of his Kurt Vonnegut speech. It told me that he was finally prepared to face the future. He was asking for the serenity to accept the things he could not change. That was how I misinterpreted him. I focussed on the wrong part. It was pure chance that I happened to go back that evening.

I wasn’t planning to stay for more than two minutes. I thought all I needed to do was turn up at the door and say the things I should have said earlier: that the past fourteen months had meant a lot to me too, and whatever happened next, he didn’t have to face it alone. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could wait until the next day.

But when I knocked at the front door, there was no answer. I wasn’t that surprised or worried. Mr Peterson didn’t always come to the door straight away, especially when he’d been smoking, as was normal at this time of the evening, and had fallen into a doze.

I knocked again, then tried the door. It was unlocked. The hallway smelled of marijuana. That
was
unusual. To my knowledge, Mr Peterson only ever smoked outside, or on the porch if it was raining. Mrs Peterson had not liked the smell of the weed, not when it got into the upholstery, anyway, and Mr Peterson always said that old habits die hard. But, really, I think it was a habit he’d chosen to stick to.

I called his name, but there was no response. I figured he’d fallen asleep in the chair, and when I entered the living room, I saw that I was right. He was slumped slightly to one side, with a blanket draped across his legs. The ashtray was next to him on the side table. Next to the ashtray was an almost empty glass of water, and next to that was an open notepad. This is what he’d written on the notepad, in large black letters: ‘
Please do not resuscitate
.’

I slapped his face. There was no response, but his cheek was warm, and I thought that he was still breathing. It took me only a few seconds to find the empty packaging for the pills he had taken: diazepam, paracetamol and codeine. I knew this would be important information.

I ripped his note from the notepad, shoved it in my pocket, and called 999.

His suicide note arrived two days later, in the post. This is what it said:

I had no real point of comparison, but still, I thought it was a pretty lousy note, all things considered. I filed it all the same.

It had been posted second class to ensure a sufficient delay in its arrival. He had posted another letter, marked
URGENT
, directly through the letterbox of the doctors’ surgery, informing his GP of his intentions and asking that an ambulance be sent to recover his body asap. He also requested that my mother be informed so that she could be the one to tell me. That seemed like the best way of doing things. My mother could break it to me gently when I got home from school, by which time the ambulance would have had at least seven hours to take him to the morgue. He’d planned it so there was zero chance of my being the one who discovered his corpse. I thought that was considerate of him.

Of course, when he awoke, he was furious.

The ambulance had taken us to Yeovil Hospital. It was a repeat of the trip I’d made some five and a third years earlier, after the meteor. At that time, as you know, I was unconscious for two weeks, and when I woke up, I thought I was in heaven. Mr Peterson was only unconscious for one night, and when he woke up, he knew straight away that something had gone wrong. Even though he was extremely out of it, he had no delusion that Yeovil Hospital was the hereafter. It smelled too much of starch.

By the time he was briefly awake, I had been sent home with my mother, and the following afternoon, when we returned, he was asleep again. One of his nurses told us it was very unlikely that he’d be lucid enough to talk before visiting hours ended because they’d given him quite a lot of morphine. I’m not sure this was one hundred per cent orthodox in terms of approved medical procedure, but I could understand why they’d done it. He’d started complaining the moment he woke up. He said that this was like the worst hangover anyone anywhere had ever had to endure, which wasn’t that surprising. He’d managed to poison himself quite severely before the doctors pumped his stomach. He kept buzzing the nurse to tell her that this experience was worse than Vietnam, and if they weren’t going to let him die, they should at least put him to sleep for a while. Eventually, a doctor was called in, and he agreed that they couldn’t just leave Mr Peterson as he was. It wasn’t fair – not on the staff, and certainly not on the other patients in the ward. But unfortunately, because of the recent abuse Mr Peterson’s liver and kidneys had suffered, administering any standard tranquillizer was out of the question. Instead, they shot him up, and repeated this procedure every four to six hours for the next twenty-four.

Consequently, there was little point us visiting that day.

I told my mother that if it was okay with her, I’d be taking the rest of the week off school. She agreed this was a sensible plan.

Ellie took me in the next day, and insisted on accompanying me up to the ward. I thought my mother had probably asked her to do this, but I wasn’t sure. Equally, it could have been morbid curiosity. It was hard to tell with Ellie. Either way, I was glad of the lift.

Mr Peterson was thin, unshaven and scowling. He looked quite ghoulish, to be honest with you, like he’d returned from the dead – which I suppose shouldn’t have been all that surprising. His expression didn’t change as we seated ourselves on one side of the bed.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

His voice matched his face.

‘This is Ellie. She gave me a lift in. I hope you don’t mind her being here? She just wanted to stay long enough to make sure I’m okay.’

‘I’m not crazy about
either
of you being here,’ Mr Peterson said. ‘But I doubt I’ll get much say in that either.’

I ignored this.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘How do you
think
I’m feeling?’

‘I think you’re probably feeling terrible.’

‘I’m feeling terrible. You know, they’re not gonna let me leave this place. Not for the foreseeable future. It’s official. I’ve been sectioned. If I try to leave, they’ll forcibly detain me under the Mental Health Act of 1842, or some such horseshit. It’s barbaric! I hope you’re pleased.’

‘I’m pleased that you’re alive,’ I admitted.

‘Great. So that makes one of us, at least.’

I looked at Ellie. She rolled her eyes at me. For some reason, Ellie’s demeanour hadn’t changed one iota in the past two days. Either she’d decided that it was best to act normally with me, or she wasn’t acting, and attempted suicide was just one more thing on the long list of things that didn’t faze her in the slightest.

‘You had no right to do what you did,’ Mr Peterson continued. ‘It wasn’t your choice to make!’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘And what would
you
have done if our positions had been reversed?’

‘I would have respected your wishes. I would have let you die.’

I ignored this too. ‘I’ve brought you some things from home,’ I said, gesturing at the bag on the floor. ‘Some clothes and books – things like that.’

‘Books – great! That’ll make things easier. You know I can’t read worth a damn right now!’

‘There’s also some music. Schubert’s fifth, Mendelssohn’s third, Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, Mahler’s fourth—’

‘I would have preferred his sixth.’

‘You’re not well enough for his sixth.’

‘What about Bach?’

‘I’ll bring Bach next time.’

‘The cello suites?’

‘Anything
but
the cello suites.’

‘Jesus, kid! I don’t even get to decide what I listen to?’

‘There’s a time and a place for Bach’s cello suites, and we both know it’s not while you’re recovering in hospital. I’m trying to help you.’

‘You want to help me?’

‘Yes, of course I want to help you.’

‘Fine. Then bring me something else.’

‘I’ll bring you whatever you want – within reason.’

‘Bring me some pot.’

‘I’m not bringing you pot.’

‘I’m gonna go nuts in here.’

‘It’s ludicrous. Where are you planning on smoking it? The bathroom?’

‘If I have to.’

‘They’re not going to release you any sooner if they catch you smoking pot.’

‘They’ve had me on fuckin’ heroin for the last twenty-four hours!’

‘I’m not bringing you pot.’

Mr Peterson turned to Ellie. ‘What about you, girl? Will you bring me some pot?’

Ellie regarded him frankly for a few seconds. ‘I hardly think pot’ll make you
less
suicidal. Do you?’

Mr Peterson snorted. ‘I appreciate your concern – and your tact – but that’s not something you need to worry about.’

Ellie shrugged. ‘It’s just my opinion. As far as I can see, you’d be better off taking some stimulants.’

Mr Peterson turned back to me. ‘Jesus! Is she for real?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Possibly.’

‘She has a name!’ Ellie pointed out.

‘Young lady,’ Mr Peterson said, ‘it’s too late for me to worry about learning new names. My brain’s turning to mush – as I’m sure Alex has told you. It’s not a pleasant thing to have to face, and the pot makes it just that little bit easier. Maybe you can appreciate that?’

‘Tell me my name and I’ll bring you some pot. How’s that for a deal?’

‘Sally.’

‘
Ellie
.’

‘No one’s going to bring you any pot,’ I said. ‘Ellie’s right. It’s not going to help you.’

‘You know, I’m gettin’ pretty goddamn sick of people telling me what’s
not
gonna help me.’

‘Even if it did help you, the nurses are going to confiscate it within about ten seconds of you lighting up. Can’t you see how ridiculous you’re being?’

‘This whole situation’s ridiculous! And it’s your fault.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘If you’re not willing to help me, I’d like you to leave.’

‘You’re acting like a child.’

‘Just go.’

‘Fine. I’ll be back later with your Bach.’

‘If I were you, I wouldn’t bother.’

‘If you keep on like this, I might not.’

‘Right now, that would suit me just fine. You’ve taken away the only choice I had left to me. I only hope
you
never have to find out what that feels like.’

I left without looking back.

Ellie caught up with me a few moments later at the Coke machine. ‘Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was expecting,’ she said. ‘You know, Woods, the deeper you delve, the weirder your life gets. Is he always like that?’