Chambers McLean - The Soul’s Last Host. A novel

I.

II.

III.

IV.

For the great soule which here amongst us now

Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, and brow,

Which, as the Moone the sea, moves us; to heare

Whose story, with long patience you will long;

(For tis the crowne, and last straine of my song)

This soule to whom Luther and Mahomet were

Prisons of flesh; this soule which oft did teare,

And mend the wracks of thEmpire, and late Rome,

And livd when every great change did come,

Had first in paradise, a low but fatall roome.

John Donne

16th century CE

Okay, Bernard, its time for dinner... Youve got some rice, some chicken, some peas...oh, and my favorite, fresh strawberries. Pretty soon well have some out in the garden. I cant wait. Remember, I pointed them out yesterday morning? Over by the forget-me-nots?

Nothing.

Hmm. Right here on the fork, Bernard, I got some peas and rice. You dont want any?

Still nothing.

Well...we dont want your dinner to get cold, but I can wait until youre ready.

Holly marches across the common room. Dear, youll be waitin till Armageddon if you wait till hes ready! And hell have starved before then. And since we really dont want that, Ill show you how its done.

Thank you, Holly.

Bernard! Its dinnertime. Open up!

Voila. Lips part, chin drops, food enters.

See, whatevers going on in there needs you to be clear and forceful. Sometimes we go through it with every single bite. Dont we, Bernard? You think you can handle that?

Yes, thanks again, Holly.

Bernard always gives the new nurses a hard time. The soft and sweet one is Jen. The bossy old fat one is Holly. Im pretty sure Bernard is scared of her, though its only in a vague kind of way. At least its a lot easier to get him to open his yap when shes shouting at him. Like she said, whatevers going on in there needs clear and forceful instruction. And by the way, thats not mewhatevers going on in there. Sure, I live inside Bernards head, which most people would take to mean that I am in fact Bernard. But Im inclined to disagree. Either way, its quite clear that Im entirely useless, because no matter how clearly and forcefullyI demand that he open his big drawbridge of a mouth, it never does any good.

Jen is slowly getting it though. Its all in the tone. Im a little sorry, because she was a lot more pleasant when she wasnt trying to be like Holly. But she cant get him to open up when shes being sweet. Its not that hes not hungry. And its not that hes really trying to be a prick. To be honestand Im not sure how I feel about thisHolly pretty much has him pegged. Bernard just doesnt quite get it. When the new nurses are being all pleasant with him, he feels good, but he cant connect the dots. He vaguely knows what they want him to do, but the thought never makes it to his mouth. Holly seems to have that magic touch. Sometimes I wonder if she couldnt get Bernard to stand up and walk out of this place if she only shouted it forcefully enough. A bit like Jesus casting out demons. I think maybe Bernard finds that funny. In the usual, vague, mashed potato kind of way.

Its been eighteen months, as far as I can tell. I dont remember much before that, even though I get an awful lot of time to try. Life is pretty dull. But heres my favorite thing to do. Watch this.

Jen is feeding Bernard. Bite by bite. Shes putting on her newly acquired forceful voice. Bernard stares vaguely in the direction of her left elbow. Its tricky, but if I concentrate really hardalmost more like some sort of Zen state than concentrationI can feel it comingalmost there Right as shes smiling up at us with that fork in her hand, Bernards eyes flash up and meet hers. Only for an instant, but its enough to make her jump. And thats not even the cool part. Heres the real kickerand I understand that it seems dubious because I live in a mental hospital and talk about myself in the third personbut Im inside her head now. Im looking at Bernard, eyes aimlessly staring at her elbow again. And I can hear, or feel, the awkwardness inside Jens head. Theres some anxiety about what just happened. She asks herself if maybe she was imagining it. She feels a hint of shame for being afraid of a catatonic patient. And then she quickly calms down, and a quiet hum of somewhat random thoughts stream through her mind again. Mostly images and whispers to me. Her thoughts are both clearer and more distant than Bernards. On the one hand, they arent like mashed potatoes. Theyre much more vivid and linear. But on the other hand, I dont know her well enough to make them out. Its like a foreign language, I suppose.

Pretty soon, I start to feel strained and anxious, so I hop back into Bernard. I dont need eye contact for thatkind of like how you dont need directions to get home.

Of course, I realize extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. But I dont have any. Im not even sure what that would look like. Ive made quick little secret journeys into just about all the nurses and doctors heads, but they dont seem to notice. Apparently, its not unheard of for catatonics to make brief eye contact. Like a spark that never ignites.

And I cant ever really hear much. Its mostly obvious stuff and gibberish. And the scarcity of any kind of sanity in this place only makes my story that much more ridiculous. I dont mind.

Well, that wasnt so bad, was it? Now, would you like to go for a stroll in the yard before bedtime and catch the sunset? I bet you would. You would probably call the infinitesimal swell of emotion inside Bernard as we roll out into the hall numbness. For Bernard, thats giddiness.

Whenever we go to the garden, we think of her. She absolutely adored gardening. Bernard doesnt really remember herat least, not the way I do. For him, shes no more than a random face sailing in and out of his mind. But I can taste her. Smell her. Almost touch her. Even with this horribly porous memory, its still her beautiful face I see every night. She was my wife. Heather. I think that was her name. It mightve been Laurel, but Ive settled on Heather.

I could bathe in her memory like the ocean. And its strange...I cant be sure of her name, but I know exactly how she smiled when she thought something simple was funny. Like our old landlords nervous walk. She smiled at it like it was art. And I can see her thin dark hair, and the way it kind of frizzled out in random spots, despite her half-hearted attempts to keep it under control. She used to flash me amorous looks, but only rarely, saving them for hard days. I know she always brushed her top teeth first, that we loved to walk together in the park by our apartment, that she would belt out old jazz tunes in the shower when she thought no one was listening. And I know that every dawn needs to be heralded by one of her enormous lion yawns.

Every time I remember a piece of her, its like finding a lost treasure. I play it over in my head at night, in the silence of our room, and make sure I wont ever forget it again.