Page 13 of The Meaning Of You

Nick didn’t seem perturbed. He simply shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Davis doesn’t do much of anything, nothing conscious at least. He’s in what they call a persistent vegetative state.”

I was only vaguely familiar with the term, something about a US court case. “A coma?”

Nick gave another sad shake of his head. “No. In a coma, a person is unconscious and can’t be woken. In Davis’s case, he actually woke from the induced coma they put him in, butthat was as far as it went. His eyes opened and he breathed on his own when they extubated him. In a vegetative state, a person has some level of consciousness, although just how much varies a lot. Davis has sleep-wake cycles. He occasionally tracks movement with his eyes, which is super creepy even when you know it’s not indicative of anything at all. He can cough, grunt, grind his teeth, and sometimes even appear to laugh or cry. But none of it is conscious or voluntary or related to what is going on around him. It’s part of what they call non-cognitive upper brainstem function.”

I frowned. “Non-cognitive—what?”

Nick huffed, “Yeah, you learn a lot in eighteen months. Google wasn’t always my friend, but it did help me understand what I was seeing and stop the emotional rollercoaster. Non-cortical is a fancy way of saying that none of those things require any actual thinking on Davis’s part. They’re just the bare essentials of the brain doing their thing. Davis has no communication, thinking, or purposeful movement. Those are all cognitive functions, and expert medical opinion is that after eighteen months, there’s pretty much zero chance anything will change in that arena. It’s doubtful he even knows that I’m there, although we never assume that and talk to him all the time.”

Jesus.

Nick shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped back, the lengthening shadows hiding his expression. “And just why I’m telling you all this, I have no idea. I’m sorry—” He gave another of those wry smiles that made him look much younger than his fifty-something years. “—again. Seems it’s my day for apologies. So now that’s done, I’ll let you get on your way.” He walked backward a couple of steps, then turned to leave.

“Wait.” I pushed off the car and crossed the distance between us.

Nick turned, his expression hard to read. Curious, maybe, but also hollow, like I’d caught him before he’d secured that tough-guy mask back into place.

“Thank you,” I began, “for the apologyand for the explanation, which was really none of my business. I’m really sorry for what you’re both going through. I can’t imagine how hard it is. I wish I had something more insightful to say, but I don’t, and the usual platitudes seem pretty ignorant.”

Nick nodded. “Tell me about it. Honestly, some of the things people say—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Let’s just say there are times it’s all I can do not to lose my shit completely.” He sucked in a deep breath. “And thank you for including Davis in what you said. I have no idea what he’s capable of understanding inside or what’s left of his brain. Mostly, I pray it’s not too much. That sounds horrible, I know, but it’s a fucking awful way to live... for all of us.”

We locked eyes for a long minute, then I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Madigan Church. Book conservator, introverted social disaster, bibliophile, and reasonably nice guy, I’m told, all things considered.”

Nick snorted and wrapped my hand in his. “Nice to meet you, Madigan Church. I’m Nick Fisher. Forensic accountant, ditto the social-disaster part but for very different reasons, current emotional mess, and according to the few friends—who for reasons known only to themselves have stuck around my cranky arse—nota reasonably nice guy and definitely a work in progress.”

My turn to laugh. “It’s a pleasure, Nick.”

He stood for a second with our hands clasped and we stared into each other’s eyes. Then Nick dropped my hand and stepped away. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, although hopefully not in a literal sense next time.”

I chuckled. “Good night, Nick.”

He raised his hand in a short wave. “Nite, Madigan. Drive safely, please.”

I watched him jog toward the far corner of the car park, his parting words echoing in my head.Drive safely, please. I wasn’t sure if he even realised what he’d said, but I knew I’dnever say those words again without remembering Davis Fisher.

CHAPTER THREE

Six weeks later

Madigan

I droppedmy glasses on my workbench and pinched the bridge of my nose. It took a minute to refocus my eyes after a day of intensely close work securing a spine, but once the studio finally settled into view, I downed the dregs of my cold coffee and checked the antique grandfather clock standing beside the door to the interior of the house.

Myhouse.

My home. My sanctuary.

It was 3:00 p.m. Almost time to call it a day.

The delight in having my own studio attached to my home never got old. When I’d first seen the gorgeous two-hectare property ten years earlier, I’d fallen in love with the clean lines and open feel of the modern house sitting at its heart. The single-storey white structure had an airy barn conversion feel but with all the benefits of contemporary living. Loads of glass drenched the interior in natural light, and although it didn’t have a view,most of the land was covered in native bush, giving it a sense of seclusion that was worth far more to someone like me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the outside world, but most days it could just go fuck right off.

I’d converted the huge four-car garage into my studio, which was accessed through an interior hall that ran alongside it. Three airy bedrooms, plus a bathroom and laundry ran off the same hall. Beyond the bedrooms sat an airy open-plan living space with huge raked ceilings, a tiled fireplace that soared six metres, and a black-and-white cook’s kitchen to die for. Natural stone tiles made up the kitchen and dining floors, while bleached wood covered the remainder of the living area. The entire house was decorated in a soft palette of greys, creams, and sandy browns, which I’d tried to balance with some colourful artwork.

I loved every centimetre of the place, but I especially loved having a studio set up tomyspecifications. After covering the windows to stop ultraviolet damage, I’d barred them for security and then added a ton of specialised lighting along with fume hoods, ventilation, climate control, an alarm system, a wash-up area, a secure safe for valuable items, storage facilities for chemicals, workbenches, seating, and space for all the equipment I’d collected over the years. The laundry list was long, but when it was finally ready, I cried with pleasure.

My own studio.

Nothing had ever felt better.

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