The Things That Stay

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In which Simon once more evades mortality and picks a few locks. 

When it came to death, Simon Dalaigh never really knew what to expect, for the books he read often gave him contradictory results that varied from pearly gates to pits of fire to simply dead, which he honestly didn’t fancy. Since he was often confined to the cramped quarters of the hospital, his forays into the world of bookstores were usually through his grandmother, who had always gone to town for him gladly when once he had consumed the contents of her own collection of literature. Simon would also convince sympathetic nurses to pay visits to the library for him, for when he was a child, they would often return with an armful of books and candies and comics and toys for him—the perks of dying, he supposed. Now they usually just brought him the books and, of course, pudding, which was quite obviously fine by him.

In any case, the novels didn’t always have to be about death: Simon was keen on just about anything. He had obtained quite a stash of manuscripts that he kept in various trunks near his bed, and would spend hours reading and re-reading them when he was well enough. Technically, he would read them regardless of his health, but if any hospital staff caught him “exerting himself” when in a more critical condition than usual, the book was often confiscated until further notice. It was a good thing Simon kept a spare hidden beneath both his mattress and pillow.

The funny thing about Simon was that he had not been born with the natural intelligence that some children have—he possessed only a precocious determination and a need to be superior at something besides dying. If it hadn’t been for his sickness and his need for both stimulation and an escape from his isolation, he would have surely been a person of average intellect and below-average imagination. But once acquired, books became like a drug—they consumed him and enthralled him and gave him access to hundreds of worlds and lives that he could never hope to live except through the words of others. He read books about orphans who rose above their pasts and did wonderful things, he read about invalids who became heroes. And once he had been hooked, he would read anything he could get his hands on: medical journals, newspapers, Bibles, magazines, biographies, the labels on candy-bars. But when he first encountered death in the pages of a book, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know more or remain in as much blissful ignorance as he could manage.

Still, on the evening of the fifth of February, Simon thought himself at least familiar with his possibly ensuing death. He was quite incredulous about it, of course, but familiar all the same, though he had hoped the result of it wouldn’t be reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno. So one can imagine his bewilderment when he found himself in his hospital bed once more, surrounded by the usual machines with that goddamned tube down his throat again. This perturbed him greatly. He felt ripped-off. Bamboozled. Dr. Purefoy had told him that he might die—even called in someone to help Simon do just that, and now here he was, feeling no different than he did before. Still, he was alive. –And Miss Abby had brought him chocolates again, which was a welcome surprise, even though he had grown to expect them at least once a week.

Simon shifted slightly in his bed, grimacing with discomfort as his breathing tube moved with him. What a stupid thing—hardly did any good, in his opinion. It obstructed his usual flow of chatter and made his jaw sore. However, he was admonished whenever he took it out himself, so now he simply bore its cumbersome presence with an aggravated sort of obedience. Upon achieving more permanent consciousness, Simon surveyed his surroundings: the room appeared dim and empty at first. This was how he liked it, for the presence of any more bodies in the tiny space made it feel immediately overcrowded. The room was of the nondescript variety often found in hospitals: white linoleum floor, a ceiling that mimicked the texture of cottage cheese and a small wicker chair and bed stand idling nearby. All that was Simon Dalaigh was encapsulated in his book collection, his grandmother’s typewriter and the box next to it that was filled with letters he had written to his friend Petal. The characterless aspects of his dwelling irritated him terribly, for he figured that if he would be staying in a place for such an extended period of time, then he should at least be able to hang a damn poster on the wall or purchase a record player.