Page 393 - A Little Life: A Novel

The third and fourth and fifth and sixth memories weren’t really
memories at all: they were people’s faces, their hands, their voices, leaning
into his face, holding his hand, talking to him—they were Harold and Julia

and Richard and Lucien. Same for the seventh and eighth: Malcolm, JB.
The ninth memory was Willem again, sitting next to him, telling him he
was so sorry, but he had to leave. Just for a little while, and then he’d be
back. He was crying, and he wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t seem so unusual
—they all cried, they cried and apologized to him, which he found
perplexing, as none of them had done anything wrong: he knew that much,
at least. He tried to tell Willem not to cry, that he was fine, but his tongue

was so thick in his mouth, a great useless slab, and he couldn’t make it
operate. Willem was already holding one of his hands, but he didn’t have
the energy to lift the other so he could put it on Willem’s arm and reassure
him, and finally he had given up.
In the tenth memory, he was still in the hospital, but in a different room,
and he was still so tired. His arms ached. He had two foam balls, one

cupped in each palm, and he was supposed to squeeze them for five seconds
and then release them for five. Then squeeze them for five, and release
them for five. He couldn’t remember who had told him this, or who had
given him the balls, but he did so anyway, although whenever he did, his
arms hurt more, a burning, raw pain, and he couldn’t do more than three or
four repetitions before he was exhausted and had to stop.
And then one night he had awoken, swimming up through layers of

dreams he couldn’t remember, and had realized where he was, and why. He
had gone back to sleep then, but the next day he turned his head and saw a
man sitting in a chair next to his bed: he didn’t know who the man was, but
he had seen him before. He would come and sit and stare at him and
sometimes he would talk to him, but he could never concentrate on what the
man was saying, and would eventually close his eyes.

“I’m in a mental institution,” he told the man now, and his voice sounded
wrong to him, reedy and hoarse.
The man smiled. “You’re in the psychiatric wing of a hospital, yes,” he
said. “Do you remember me?”
“No,” he said, “but I recognize you.”
“I’m Dr. Solomon. I’m a psychiatrist here at the hospital.” There was a
silence. “Do you know why you’re here?”