50 | April• 2018
CAN’T ANYONE HEAR ME?
ichardMarshawakenedtotherhythmicbeepingof
amachine.Somethingwaslodgedinhisthroat.He
couldn’t cough. He couldn’t sit up. He couldn’t move.
What’s going on?
Hetriedtomovehislegs,armsandingers.Evenhiseyeballs,herealised,wouldn’tbudge.Hefeltsomeoneputdrops
in them to keep them moist, but he couldn’t make out who it was.
What’s wrong with me?
Hecouldonlystareinonedirec-
tion–straightahead.
Withhisperipheralvision,Rich-
ardcouldseehiswifeoftohisright.
He heard her talking to a man next
toher,amanwhoseemedtobein
surgical scrubs.
“It doesn’t look good,” the man
said.
What doesn’t look good?
“His chance of survival is very
small.”
hey’re talking about me.
Richardwilledhisbodytore-
spond:withhisvoice,hiseyes,his
hand. Nothing.
“Youneedtopreparefortheworst,”
the man in scrubs told Richard’s wife,
LilianaGarcia.houghsombre,she
didn’tcry.Aregisterednurseata
hospicecentre,shequicklyturned
professional,askingthedoctorclini-
calquestionsasifthemaninthebed
were just another patient, not the love
of her life.
I’minhere.
And then his world faded to black.
H
EHADN’TFELTwell two
mornings before. Liliana no-
ticedhelookedalittlepale.
But Richard didn’t want her hover-
ing and fussing over him as if he were
herpatient.Hesaidhe’dbeineand
insistedshegotowork.hatwashis
way. Once alone, Richard relaxed on
thecouchbeforehehadtoleavefor
school.Hetaughtforensicscience
and economics near his home in
Napa,California,andhewasconsid-
ered one of the high school’s popular
teachers.
Hestoodup,readytoleavefor
work,whenhefeltasifhewereon
thedeckofasmallboatinchoppy
seas.Hegrabbedtheedgeofatable
and made his way to the telephone.
Hecalledhiswife’soiceandlefta
messageforhertocallhim.
Richardsatbackinachairathis
desk. Something was wrong with
him. He rarely drank, never smoked
and really was in great shape. At
60 years old, he stood 1.8 metres
tall and weighed 98 kilograms. He
pumped iron at the g ym, a habit ILLUSTRATION: JONATHAN BART; HAND LETTERING: JOEL HOLLAND