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Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
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"It's functional."
"It's largely organic with functional complications now."
"He isn't deaf but may not be able to hear."
"At least he's alive."
"The prognosis is good."
"For what?"
"The prognosis is bad."
"It would not be possible to offer a prognosis at this time."
Not one of them ever had the candor, the courage, the common sense, the character to say:
"Jesus — I really don't know."
It began with:
"You're making too much of it."
And moved to:
"He will never speak."
"He probably will not surpass a mental age of five, if he attains that. His coordination and muscular control will never be good. It will require tremendous patience."
We hate them all, the ones who were wrong and the ones who were right. After awhile, that made no difference. The cause didn't matter. The prognosis was absolute. The cause did matter. It was organic (ceramic. The transistors are there). It just doesn't work the way others do. (A radio will not work like a television set.) There was no malfunction. It worked the way it was built to (worked perfectly, if looked at their way). The architecture's finished. The circuits can't be changed. Nothing is broken; there's nothing they can find to be fixed.
"Why can't they do it with surgery?" my wife's asked me.
"They wouldn't know where to cut and stitch."
He's a simulacrum.
"If only we hadn't had him," my wife used to lament. "He'd be so much better off if he'd never been born."
"Let's kill the kid," I used to joke jauntily when I thought he was just innately fractious (I used to carry color snapshots of all three of my children in my wallet. Now I carry none), before I began to guess there might be something drastically wrong.
I don't say that anymore.
(Poor damaged little tyke. No one's on your side.)
He is a product of my imagination. I swear to Christ I imagined him into existence.
We do feel guilty. We do blame ourselves. We're sorry we have him. We're sorry people know we do. We feel we have plenty to be ashamed of. We have him.
My head is a cauldron.
My mind is an independent metropolis teeming with flashes, shadows, and figures, with tiny playlets and dapper gnomes, day and night. My days are more lucid. I never think of Derek in danger; I only think of my boy or myself.
"It's functional."
"It's largely organic with functional complications now."
"He isn't deaf but may not be able to hear."
"At least he's alive."
"The prognosis is good."
"For what?"
"The prognosis is bad."
"It would not be possible to offer a prognosis at this time."
Not one of them ever had the candor, the courage, the common sense, the character to say:
"Jesus — I really don't know."
It began with:
"You're making too much of it."
And moved to:
"He will never speak."
"He probably will not surpass a mental age of five, if he attains that. His coordination and muscular control will never be good. It will require tremendous patience."
We hate them all, the ones who were wrong and the ones who were right. After awhile, that made no difference. The cause didn't matter. The prognosis was absolute. The cause did matter. It was organic (ceramic. The transistors are there). It just doesn't work the way others do. (A radio will not work like a television set.) There was no malfunction. It worked the way it was built to (worked perfectly, if looked at their way). The architecture's finished. The circuits can't be changed. Nothing is broken; there's nothing they can find to be fixed.
"Why can't they do it with surgery?" my wife's asked me.
"They wouldn't know where to cut and stitch."
He's a simulacrum.
"If only we hadn't had him," my wife used to lament. "He'd be so much better off if he'd never been born."
"Let's kill the kid," I used to joke jauntily when I thought he was just innately fractious (I used to carry color snapshots of all three of my children in my wallet. Now I carry none), before I began to guess there might be something drastically wrong.
I don't say that anymore.
(Poor damaged little tyke. No one's on your side.)
He is a product of my imagination. I swear to Christ I imagined him into existence.
We do feel guilty. We do blame ourselves. We're sorry we have him. We're sorry people know we do. We feel we have plenty to be ashamed of. We have him.
My head is a cauldron.
My mind is an independent metropolis teeming with flashes, shadows, and figures, with tiny playlets and dapper gnomes, day and night. My days are more lucid. I never think of Derek in danger; I only think of my boy or myself.