Page 395 - A Little Life: A Novel

Colombo to be with him. He did feel sorry that it had been Richard who’d
had to discover him—that was always the part of the plan that had made
him uncomfortable, although at the time he had remembered thinking that

Richard had a high tolerance for blood, having once made sculptures with
it, and so was the least likely among his friends to be traumatized—and had
apologized to Richard, who had stroked the back of his hand and told him it
was fine, it was okay.
Dr. Solomon came every day and tried to talk to him, but he didn’t have
much to say. Most of the time, people didn’t talk to him at all. They came
and sat and did work of their own, or spoke to him without seeming to

expect a reply, which he appreciated. Lucien came often, usually with a gift,
once with a large card that everyone in the office had signed—“I’m sure
this is just the thing to make you feel better,” he’d said, dryly, “but here it
is, anyway”—and Malcolm made him one of his imaginary houses, its
windows crisp vellum, which he placed on his bedside table. Willem called
him every morning and every night. Harold read The Hobbit to him, which

he had never read, and when Harold couldn’t come, Julia came, and picked
up where Harold had left off: those were his favorite visits. Andy arrived
every evening, after visiting hours had ended, and had dinner with him; he
was concerned that he wasn’t eating enough, and brought him a serving of
whatever he was having. He brought him a container of beef barley soup,
but his hands were still too weak to hold the spoon, and Andy had to feed
him, one slow spoonful after the next. Once, this would have embarrassed

him, but now he simply didn’t care: he opened his mouth and accepted the
food, which was flavorless, and chewed and swallowed.
“I want to go home,” he told Andy one evening, as he watched Andy eat
his turkey club sandwich.
Andy finished his bite and looked at him. “Oh, do you?”
“Yes,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I want to

leave.” He thought Andy would say something sarcastic, but he only
nodded, slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll talk to Solomon.” He
grimaced. “Eat your sandwich.”
The next day Dr. Solomon said, “I hear you want to go home.”
“I feel like I’ve been here a long time,” he said.
Dr. Solomon was quiet. “You have been here a little while,” he said. “But
given your history of self-injury and the seriousness of your attempt, your

doctor—Andy—and parents thought it was for the best.”