They kept us in hospital for two weeks, the scent of chlorine strong on our bodies. Every night, I held my right hand under the hot tap, watched the water flow off my palm. I wandered the hospital, its still, concrete hallways like a drained pool. For the hour I was allowed, I visited my sister’s bedside, pressed my warm palm to her forehead. She didn’t smile or speak, but I wanted her to know I was there. Just once she sat up and said, ‘Tell our mother you love her.’

‘Our mother’s gone.’

I thought maybe she had forgotten. There was bruising on her face and neck.

‘Tell her anyway.’

*

The microphone was turned off, the sound extinguished, and I always went back to the hotel.

*

In the last hotel room, in the final city, my phone froze. I had been talking to my sister. I wanted to know how that doctor worked. I wanted to be in the treatment room. Was it gently psychological or did he apply shocks to her body? Was it electricity? What was the process? Was it painful?

My sister answered my questions abruptly.

‘I wanted to have this baby,’ she said.

‘Was it painful?’ I asked again, insistent.

The screen flashed bright then black.

I took the lift to the hotel bar. I had a drink. I wanted to use the phone but when I saw the barman, suited, assured, giving no indication that he was dying, or that anyone in his family was dying, or forgetting their lives, or losing something day by day, I was so angry that I was speechless. I thought of all the people who cared about him and how they would continue to care about him. So what I said instead was, ‘I think this hotel is trash.’

He blew out his cheeks.

‘It’s not a personal thing,’ I explained. ‘I’ve decided all hotels are trash.’

‘That’s okay, ma’am.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a longish trip.’

‘Did you enjoy your breakfast?’

‘I did.’

‘Good.’

There was a prolonged silence.

‘May I use the phone?’ I asked.

He placed a black, old-fashioned telephone on the counter and shuffled away. I made to call my sister but, in a resigned and desperate move I was familiar with, I called my friend. He answered. Ten years ago, meeting him, hearing his voice, felt like the start of my life. I wasn’t a child anymore. Why couldn’t I say it? What would it sound like?

‘Would you forget me if you could?’ I asked.

I hadn’t moved on. I don’t know how anybody moves on from anything.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I wouldn’t.’

*