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"Everything is going to be fine," I said to the bear, to see what the words sounded like.
But he stayed quiet and stared glass-eyed at the ceiling, a million miles away, and it reminded me of my brother.
I closed my eyes against the idea of our telephone ringing, and Tish answering again, and his voice coming all the way from his far and empty home, where there was no family, no company, no fishing, no anything, just confusion and worrying when the leaves began to change.
I thought of the lonely flat I would go home to, if my brother told Tish where he was, under the water.
And then it would be me and the telephone, forever, just me waiting for his voice and-
But no.
This was a time for getting well and positive thinking.
"Everything is going to be fine," I whispered to the bear.
A phone rang, then. It made me jump, just for a second.
But then I realised it was the phone that rang far down the hospital corridor. It was not an omen or a sign.
People ring telephones all the time, in hospitals.
I opened my eyes again.
I shifted so I lay on my back.
The bear and I stared at the ceiling together.
"What do you see?" I said to the bear.
But the bear kept his counsel and we lay there in silence, waiting for tomorrow and for Tish to come again and everything to be fine, as it would be, surely.
The phone rang down the corridor, many times.
And though I jumped each time, it was okay. Bears stay quiet and telephones ring and girls get jumpy.
It's just the nature of things.
It's fine, it really is.
And pressure sometimes builds until you break.
We lay there, staring up at the white of the ceiling all afternoon, and we stared up at the grey as the room turned darker as evening approached.
As night fell we stared at the darkness, lying still, just thinking.
And when the phone rang again and footsteps came down the hall towards my room to give me a message, it wasn't from my brother.
Someone else entirely had sent the message. The nonsense one about fishing and leaves, and water under the bridge.
It wasn't my brother. Of course not.
But the nurse said it was, and left the message on my bedside table.
Bear and I stared at it for most of the night, wondering if the world had gone quite mad.
My flat-mate came to visit the next day.
I found out the most amazing thing: it's catching.
She, it seemed, saw ghosts now too. My parents, my sister-she saw them all.
Oh, the long conversations she'd had with them, face to face.
I told my doctor he should write it up. The second sight is a communicable disease. It would make his name.
We'd be famous. All of us.
She did her best, my flat-mate. But she smiled too much.
I offered her some vodka, she certainly looked like she needed it, but they must have taken my bottle away, because the drawer was empty.
Or, I'd drunk it all.
"I feel like I've downed a whole bottle," I said.
She smiled. Too much.
And then she said: "Your brother rang. He sends his love."
Whoever she was went away, then, and it was me and the bear and a nurse looking jolly and worried, and fuck them all, really, apart from the bear.
He just stays quiet, like people should.
None of this shit about messages. None of this sending of love, which really means: "You really must come and stay with us for Christmas."
But it sounds so cold and far away, where he lives.
So I'll try to hang on. I'll try not to go.
We'll try to hang on together, won't we, bear?
But the furry brute's silent.
And the river is rising and Christmas is coming.
And I guess I really should go.
Sweeney Among the Straight Razors by JoSelle Vanderhooft
(after T. S. Eliot)