The Wolf Who Cried Boy

4. Thomas

By the next morning I was feeling only slightly less irritated as I made my way to breakfast. Still, I tried to behave dramatically to prompt someone to ask me why. I snapped answers to the simplest of questions, slammed everything down on the kitchen table and counters and generally behaved a bit like a spoilt brat. But whether no one noticed or they simply allowed me to take these liberties, I couldn’t quite tell.

But, my overacting turned from dramatic to slightly more real when Paul came stalking in. "Come along, boy," Mr Valise snapped in much the same way as I had done. "Grab a bowl and get some breakfast, if you want some. Stop dawdling." I watched with a mixture of pity, anger and helplessness as Paul began to look around in a state of confusion. I knew he was looking the bowl his father had told him to grab but had no idea where to find it. Yet, as Mrs Valise had her eyes glued to me, I couldn't even offer to help him.

I continued to watch helplessly as Paul attempted to copy his father in pouring a cup of coffee from the coffee machine. He fumbled after his father watching him take a mug and trying to do the same. He then took hold of the knob on the coffee machine, as his father had done, and attempted to pour coffee. But, he didn't realise where his mug was supposed. With one flick, steaming coffee spilled out onto the counter. It hissed dangerously. "What are you doing, stupid boy?" His father boomed from a short distance away. "You're messing coffee all over the place. Stop it. Stop it."

The hissing stopped and Paul was left standing with a pool of coffee steaming on the counter in front of him. "Look at the mess you've made now," his father roared. "Clean it up."

Paul began to fumble for something to mop up the spill. But, in his state, he grabbed the nearest thing at hand which happened to be the tea cloth and was attempting to mop up the spill.

Mrs Valise turned around. "For goodness sake," she ejaculated. "Let me do that. L, let me do that." She had flung herself up from her chair and was now wrestling the tea cloth from Paul's grasp. With a huff of irritation, she ripped the tea cloth away and reached for a dish cloth. "Since you're intent on being an invalid," she hissed under her breath.

"How long is this little helpless charade going to last anyway?" Mr Valise asked coldly as he handed he poured coffee into another mug and thrust it into his son's hand.

The question made my blood feel as though it was as hot as the steaming coffee. That "helpless charade" as Mr Valise had put it was his son's amnesia that had been caused by a serious accident that had nearly cost Paul his life. Why was I the only one who seemed to care?

Everyone else in the room seemed to be looking for anything else to discuss, except Paul. "Oh dear," Mrs Knight addressed me as though looking to cause a distraction. "I've been meaning to ask. What microscope do you use for animal cells? Do you prefer a light microscope or an electron microscope?" I didn't answer. But, Mrs Knight kept talking. I didn't want to be distracted. I wanted to keep watching Paul – to keep my eye on him.

For ten minutes Mrs Knight tried to hold my attention with talk on the merits of light microscopes. "Well, obviously in your field having living cells is preferable to dehydrated ones." But, though I pretended to listen and answered her questions, I was watching Paul navigate the amnesiac maze that was the kitchen.

After ten minutes, Paul left and conversation shifted to more general topics that didn't need my opinion. After a few seconds, I stood up to leave the table. "Ah Pumpkin," Dad addressed me as I pushed my chair back into position. "We were thinking of taking a trip into Harrismith today for an outing."

"They've got a winter market on for a few days and there's apparently a special antiques auction," Mum added, a grin spreading across her face.

"Do you remember how we used to head over there the week before Christmas and grab ice cream floats and you'd run to the playground to play on the swing?" Mrs Valise chuckled as she reminisced.

I smiled too as I remembered laughing at the holidaymakers with their pasty white legs sticking out from under a pair of shorts that they didn't seem comfortable wearing but felt they must because they were going to the beach. Paul would always sit beside me as we made up stories about the people as they passed. And we'd both wind up in fits of giggles as thee stories got more ludicrous.

"Hey, maybe we can take Paul along," I suggested, suddenly getting an idea. "It might help his memory.

I had expected my comment to be met with some reluctance but Paul mother's reaction shocked me. "That snake doesn't deserve an outing," she snapped as she slammed the cup down on the table.

"You just don't worry that boy, Rosie," Mr Valise added. "He can look after himself."

For some reason, Mrs Valise's outburst and Mr Valise's remark made me furious again. I felt a heat rising in my cheek until they burned and my whole body shook slightly with rage.

Mum stood up and looked at me curiously. "Actually, maybe we shouldn't go." She addressed her comment to my father. "Rosie doesn't look at all well." She stroked my cheek. "You're all flushed, darling."

I turned and looked at her, wanting to say something but not knowing how. She placed her hand on my forehead. "You don't feel feverish."

My Valise made a slight coughing sound and I turned to look at her. As I did, it felt like someone had just poured boiling water inside me. The violent heat that had subsided somewhat rose up again.

"Really, she does look flushed. I don't think she should be going out in the cold."

"Actually, you know," I said pulling away from Mum as she tried to stroke my cheek again. "I have been feeling a bit cold. Maybe I should just stay in today and keep warm."

Everyone around the table nodded as though agreeing with me. "Alright, Pumpkin," Dad responded. If I suppose we can always go another day."

"Don't let me spoil it for the rest of you, though," I said quickly. "You go, if you want. I'll be fine on my own." The others looked at me as though unconvinced. "Really. I'll be alright," I urged. I'll just take it easy in the warmth."

Eventually, everyone decided to go to the market, though each one walked reluctantly out the door, glancing back over their shoulder as I waved to them from the kitchen doorway. When the last to walk out, Mrs Knight, had shut the front door behind her, I dashed out the kitchen add headed straight for Paul bedroom.

I knocked gently. But, a great crashing sound like objects falling over and breaking was the only response I received. I knocked again, listening at the door. "Wh... who's there?" I heard Paul stammering voice.

"It's me, Paul." I answered. "May I come in?" I heard another crashing sound but no response so I gently pulled down on the handle and pushed the door open.

Paul was still in his pajamas and his bathrobe as he lay face-down and completely outstretched and sprawled-eagled on his crooked quilt. The lamp on his side table was on its side and his digital alarm clock was dangling off the side of the table, only held in place by the cord. And the curtains hung half open and lopsided as though they had been torn from the plumets. In all, the room looked a bit like a war zone. "Oh, hello Olive," Paul greeted me with the casualness his room lacked. "Just trying to make my bed.”

In spite of myself, I couldn't help but laugh at what I saw. It seemed a bit like one of those old cartoons where the character turns the light off and then back on and the room goes from being tidy to being destroyed. It was almost unbelievable.

But, laughing quelled the anger that had been bubbling just below the surface ever since the decision to go to the market was made. And I walked into Paul room feeling more cheery than I had done before.

"Let me do that," I said as Paul got up and tried to straighten the quilt. "You go get in the bath and get dressed." I handed Paul a pair of trousers, a white shirt and his last clean jersey and Paul stalked off towards the bathroom.

I waited and listened to hear the bath-water running – Paul couldn't shower yet because he was still wearing a bandage around his head – before I turned back to Paul's unmade bed. I made short work of repairing the damage Paul had inflicted on his crooked quilt.

I was just about finished making the bed with just the pillows left to arrange when my eye caught Paul's gold cellphone lying on his bedside table. At first, my mind didn't register the phone as I placed a decorative pillow on the bed, thinking about repairing the curtains. Then gradually my eye drifted again and again to the phone. And I began to wonder. I had known little of Paul's recent life in the past eight years. With us not keeping in touch, I knew none of his friends and knew nothing of any of his recent adventures. But, perhaps a friend could help him and that friend's name and number could be sitting in his phonebook.

I looked down at the phone just lying there. Should I invade Paul's privacy by reading his contact list? My hand hovered over the phone as I thought about picking it up. I tensed into a fist. Was it an invasion of privacy when you were just trying to help someone remember? I opened my hand again, still hovering over the phone. Would Paul mind if I looked? I lifted the phone up, feeling, somehow, like I was breaking some sort of law. Should I wait until Paul comes back and suggest that he checks the phone for contacts? I raised the phone to my line of sight. I was breathing heavily now. Was I doing the right thing? I pushed a button and the screen lit up.

"I have absolutely no idea how that thing works." Paul's voice startled me so that I nearly dropped his phone.

I took a deep breath and willed my heart-rate to stabilize. "I was just thinking that maybe one of your contacts could help us with your memory loss. Do you mind if I check your phone?" I tried to act nonchalant as I held Paul's phone aloft.

Paul shrugged. "If you can work that thing, go ahead. I have no idea how to use it." He then headed back into the bathroom.

With Paul's permission, I lit up the screen again and then plunged into his contact list. No contacts. I checked his messages. Nothing. I went into his gallery. Not a single photo. I sat down on the bed. There was nothing on this phone.

"Any luck?" Paul's voice came from the doorway to the bathroom.

I looked over at him and shook my head. "I got into your phone, alright," I said battling to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "But, it seems like you've never been able to work this phone. I was trying to find someone or something that might jog your memory. But there are no names on here. No pictures of anyone either." Paul walked over, his jersey the only thing he had still to put on, and I handed back his phone. "We'll just have to find some other way of helping you remember."

It was as I came to this dispondent conclusion that the door bell rang. With a certain listlessness, I got up and left Paul's room to go and answer the ring. "Who's here now," I muttered as I reached for the door knob and twisted it open.

A man stood in front of me. He was a young man, a little older, perhaps, than Paul but not by much. He wore a pair of blue denim jeans and a blue shirt that he'd avoided tucking in. He carried a blue plastic envelope in one hand. He looked cold standing outside as his dark hair blew slightly in the icy breeze. "May I help you?" I said eager to get out of the cold and let him do the same.

"I'm here to see Mr Valise. I'm Mr Thomas." The man looked at me expectantly, as though he thought I knew who he was."

"Oh," I said, feeling slightly awkward at not knowing who he is. "Um, you'd better come in."

I stepped aside and allowed Mr Thomas to walk through the doorway into the warmth. Mr Thomas stepped over to the couches but didn't sit down. "Where is Mr Valise?" he asked as I shut the cold out.

"Oh um, he's here," I said walking over to stand opposite him. "But, before I call him, there's something I need to tell you." I held out an arm gesturing him to sit. He sat down in an armchair with the plastic envelope in his lap and I took the couch nearby. He looked at me expectantly, as though he thought this conversation would be something that would soon be over.

"Um," I mumbled again, "About Pau, ah, Mr Valise. I'm afraid he might not remember you." I paused. "See, he has, well, he has amnesia." And after that I launched into the whole sorry story of Paul’s accident and his loss of memory. I watched as I spoke how Mr Thomas kept nodding and yet I was not sure he grasped the full extent of the situation. "So, you see," I ended off, "Mr Valise may not remember you."

I sat back, watching Mr Thomas. He had been alternating between sitting back and sitting forward as I spoke. Now he sat forward again. "I am sorry, Miss. But I don't quite understand. What does all this have to do with me?"

I felt my brow furrow in consternation. "Well, Pau, Mr Valise may not remember you." I repeated. "Or any business you had with him."

The effect was immediately. It was as though someone had opened a tap and all the colour in Mr Thomas' face drained out of him until he was grey as a concrete statue. He stood up and began to pace in front of the TV, the plastic envelope clutched behind his back. "This is a problem. This is a real problem," he muttered to himself as I watched him.

"Daliah!"

The call came from the passage and in a few short seconds Paul came around the corner. "There you are. I was starting to think - but, who's this?" He'd come into the room full of animation and had only just seen Mr Thomas staring ash-faced at him.

"Mr Valise," Mr Thomas said, extending his hand as he stepped up tentatively to Paul. He looked almost nervous to be in Paul's presence. "I'm Mr Thomas."

Paul grasped Mr Thomas' hand. But, his gaze lingered on me as though he wanted me to explain what was going on.

I took the hint as best I could. Turning to Mr Thomas, I said, "Could you tell us why you're here."

"Oh," Mr Thomas responded giving his head a shake, as if he'd forgotten. "Well, this is a bit difficult. I'm, well, I'm here because Mr Valise just sold me his house."

Though I'd heard what Mr Thomas had said, for a moment, my brain refused to register. "Excuse me," I responded, wondering if I'd misheard.

"I just bought Mr Valise house," Mr Thomas tried a different tack. Then he lifted the plastic envelope and I realised why he'd been clutching it all this time. He pulled out a document, neatly bound on one side. " I have this contract. We both signed it a few weeks ago. I just came to pick up the keys really."

For a moment, Mr Thomas wavered between giving the contract to me or handing it to Paul. But Paul was looking at me in such a state of confusion that Mr Thomas handed me the contract. I took it and read the first few lines of text. "And where exactly is this address?" I asked Mr Thomas, pointing at a line of text which stated the address of the property.

"Ah, it's in Sandton." Mr Thomas seemed almost embarrassed as he answered as though he considered it foolish to be telling a man where his own house was. I suddenly felt a slight twinge of jealousy. For the last few years, I'd been living in a grotty little flat just outside of Fourways while Paul had been "living it large" in Sandton. But my jealousy was overshadowed by a feeling of pity. What was it like for Paul to be told he lived in a fancy place like Sandton but to not be able to remember it?

Bringing myself back to the present, I flipped over to the last page. It was definitely a formal document signing over property to Mr Thomas. I noticed the strategically placed initialing and Paul and Mr Thomas had both signed the contract in the presence of witnesses. And the date had been only a day before the accident - the day I had arrived at Chateau Cherise.

"It all looks very official," I told Paul as I handed the document back to Mr Thomas, who quickly tucked it back in the plastic envelope. "It seems you've really sold your house."

Paul’s brow furrowed in confusion once more but I thought I saw a touch of alarm in his big eyes. "But, I, where do I live then?" Paul's question was addressed to the room as he sat down in an armchair.

I turned back to Mr Thomas. "Do you happen to know where Pau, ah, Mr Valise was intending to move to?" I asked feeling only slightly hopeful.

Mr Thomas shook his head. "I have no idea. He didn't say," Mr Thomas said stiffly. I felt a wave of dispondence wash over me, as I hung my head. "But," Mr Thomas continued and I looked up again. "I got the impression that he was going overseas."

"Overseas?" I questioned, suddenly feeling a small amount of hope, which was tempered with another feeling I couldn't place. Mr Thomas nodded. "Did he say where?"

Mr Thomas cleared his throat nervously. "It was more about what he didn't say really." My favourite must have betrayed my confusion. "It kept talking about my bond - I needed to find a bank to give me a bond and make sure I could pay it off - but Mr Valise never mentioned a bond ever. It was as though he wasn’t planning to buy a new house right away or something."

Mr Thomas had taken the armchair again by now and sat in it nervously. An awkward silence clung in the air, Mr Thomas had said his piece and had nothing more to say while Paul and I sat in silent astonishment, having no words.

It took me a few moments to recollect myself before I came back to the present. "You came to fetch keys, didn't you?" I asked Mr Thomas suddenly realising that while we were dealing with a crisis, Mr Thomas must have found himself in a predicament too. All he really wanted was to collect his keys and move into his new home but Paul's amnesia had thrown a serious spanner in the works. Mr Thomas nodded a little pathetically and I suddenly felt obliged to help him since Paul couldn't.

"I'll be right back," I called leaping out of my seat and hurrying to the passage, leaving Paul and Mr Thomas to awkward conversation. I decided as I hurried that I'd done a good thing leaving them for a moment. Besides the fact that, with my mind unhampered by amnesia, I was in a better position to search for keys, an awkward conversation with Mr Thomas might benefit Paul's memory.

Still, I felt an overwhelming sense of urgency as I hurtling into Paul's room.. I wasn't sure how I was going to find the right set of keys. If I had to be honest, I hadn't seen keys anywhere in Paul's belongings before. Opening draws and checking Paul’s coat – that had come out in one piece after the accident – I search for keys, any keys I could find. Rattling, I told myself, I need to hear rattling. I began getting frantic and started checking Paul's pants pockets, stuck my hands in the duffel bag to see if I could feel anything. Rattling. Rattling.

I gasped.

It had suddenly dawned on me. I'd heard rattling before. The day I had unpacked Paul's bag. There had been a little bag that rattled.

Yanking open Paul's bedside draw, I saw the little bag. Grabbing it, I still heard it rattle. I tipped it's contents on the bed. Aside from a small piece of plastic, the only thing that came out of the bag was a set of gleaming gold and silver keys. I snatched them off the bed. Not daring to breathe, I examined them. A little white tag was wrapped around them with writing on it. I gasped again. Mr Thomas.

I sprinted out of Paul's room, not bothering to tidy the mess. I rushed through the passage. "I found the keys," I declared holding them over my head triumphantly as I arrived in the TV room. Paul and Mr Thomas it seemed had run out of conversation as they both sat quietly staring at the floor. "I've found your keys, Mr Thomas." I said, trying to break the tension a little. Paul and Mr Thomas stood up at once and both came to check the keys. I pointed at the tag on the keys and stated triumphantly, "It seems Paul had anticipated your arrival. He's already tagged the keys with your name.”

Mr Thomas looked genuinely relieved as he shook my hand and Paul's and left the house. In the interim, Paul had become more morose as each event unfolded. When I had shut the door behind Mr Thomas and turned back to Paul, he sighed deeply and looked up imploringly at me. "What am I going to do now? I don't know where I live." I could hear the whine of desperation in his voice.

I sat down again next to Paul and ran my hands through my hair anxiously.What could I do to help Paul? There had to be something I could do. But the only suggestion I had – which I knew was the worst suggestion I could have come up with – was: "Maybe you can ask your parents if they know where you're supposed to be moving to."

Paul didn't answer. He simply sat with his hands clasped together, his knees apart and his head down in a dejected manner. I sat opposite him wracking my brain for some way, any way, to help Paul out of this predicament. If only I could jog his memory.

The click of the opening front door made snapped me out of my thoughts. "We're back," Mrs. Knight called out from the open door. The whole group came shuffling in looking rather cold. The morning's confusion and trouble had quelled my temper but I still felt a wicked justice had been done to the group who only this morning had been so emotionally cold towards the one person who deserved their sympathy the most. Now their cold bodies matched their cold hearts. I shook this feeling telling myself that I shouldn't stoop to their level.

"Do you need any help?" I asked, jumping to my feet and hurrying to take the bags out of someone's hand.

"Oh no, Dear," Mr Valise responded. "Actually we came back to help you." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "We felt so bad about leaving you with the burden of Paul again that we just had to come back." Mr Valise smiled and gently patted my cheek as everyone made their way to the kitchen.

I still couldn't understand why everyone was fussing around me so. They hardly let me lift a finger as I was sat down in a chair at the kitchen table and offered tea while everyone else started preparing lunch. Why were they treating me like I was the one who'd been in an accident and was suffering from amnesia? It was Paul who needed their sympathy, Paul who needed to be fussed over.

But, I was left again helplessly watching Paul head down the passage with a face full of anxious confusion as Mrs Valise shot questions at me about how I liked my tea, whether I preferred hot or cold drinks generally and what vegetables I enjoyed.

When lunch was served, Paul didn't join us. I kept looking to the doorway of the kitchen, hoping that Paul might be creeping round the corner. But, I didn't see Paul and no one bothered to speak of him. It was as though the topic of Paul was a sore spot that everyone chose to ignore.

As the dishwasher was being packed, I made my break for freedom. Mr Knight had spent most of lunch on the gory topic of blood diseases repeatedly asking me if animals were also susceptible. Still feeling slightly nauseous after our tomato soup, I head in the direction of Paul's room.

I knocked. The door opened and Paul's head popped out through the gap. "Hey," I said trying to sound casual. "how come you didn't come to lunch? We missed you." I avoided telling Paul that no one had mentioned him once during lunch.

"Oh, sorry, Lavender," Paul responded, getting my name wrong again. (I'd lost count of how many different names Paul had tried on me.) "I just, I just needed to be alone for a while." His head drooped slightly. "I'm really not sure what to do. I can't remember my life. I can't even remember where I live or that I moved. I'm a real mess.”

I felt a small ache in my heart as Paul expressed his problem. He seemed so lost and alone in all this. But, I felt as though I could do little more. I hadn't known Paul's adult life. I couldn't answer his questions. And had no way of finding the answers out without a few more clues.

"You really should talk to your parents," I told Paul. "I don't know if they can tell you everything you want to know but, at the very least, they might be able to give you a clue or two about your old life.”

Paul sighed. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled. "I'll talk to them." And with that, he closed the door to his room and I headed back to my own.

My mind didn't even register that Paul hadn't invited me into his room, that he seemed to be keeping the door closed as though hiding something. It simply all seemed normal.

That afternoon, I found myself preferring to be by myself. Turning on my laptop again while sitting alone in my bedroom, I searched for Paul's painting once more. But no results seemed to match Paul's mysterious painting. For a while I thought of checking to see whether Paul had booked a flight to another country. But there were so many airlines to choose from and I had no clue about dates that I gave up before I started.

Heading for my bed, I began to wonder how I would feel if I'd lost my memory. It was almost impossible to think about. How can you even begin to imagine not remembering?

I must have fallen asleep because when I checked the time on my clock the next time, it read five o'clock. I sat up and yawned before realizing what had woken me from what must have been a heavy sleep. I heard shouting.

Still drowsy, I staggered to where the noise was coming from and heard the Mrs Valise shouting in her shrill voice. "Honestly Boy, if this is a trick to try and get out of some trouble you're in you're wasting your time!" Her tone was far from it's usual placid almost whisper.

I stopped myself before I entered the kitchen and their conversation. Part of me wanted to go in and run interference while the other part of me held back – hoping Paul and his parents could work things out quickly.

But, my worry for Paul continued when I heard him squeak out, "I just wanted to know if you could tell me where I might have moved to." His voice shook as he spoke.

"How are we supposed to know!" Mr Valise's booming voice held more accusation that inquiry as he responded. "You never contact us unless you want something."

I stayed close to the wall feeling for Paul. His parents probably had a few axes to grind with his behaviour before the accident. And, yes, Paul had certainly made many mistakes. Even I knew that. He'd loaned money from them more times than I'd been paid a salary and Mrs Valise always looked hurt when she spoke of Paul over tea with my mother. But, how could his parents turn a simple question from an amnesiac into a chance to gripe about all his past misdemeanours – things he probably didn’t even remember doing?

The kitchen suddenly went ominously quiet. I breathed. Now was my chance to go into the kitchen. I could bail Paul out of his situation.. But, before I'd taken my first step towards the doorway, a whirlwind brushed past me and disappeared into Paul's room. I just saw the heel of Paul's sole as it disappeared through the doorway before the door slammed shut. Losing all courage, I turned tail and headed back to my room to conjure up another plan.

A couple of hours later when supper was served, I came out of my room again hoping to catch Paul in the passage. But, his bedroom door was closed as before and he was nowhere in sight. I walked slowly towards the dining area and even took my time taking a seat, but Paul was still absent, even as supper began.

Mr and Mrs. Valise, it seemed, had cooled off since the afternoon and were now both in a jovial mood as the talked and laughed about the goodolddays. "Oh, remember that year at our Boxing Day picnic when I used you all as guinea pigs for that lemon dessert I wanted to try?" Mrs Valise laughed as she reminisced. I remembered the picnic well. The experiment had been a disaster as Mrs Valise had added too much lemon and too little sugar which resulted in the funniest faces on her "guinea pigs".

But, I didn't laugh or reminisce with them. Instead, I sat quietly brooding as a pushed my chicken around my plate. My mind was still on Paul as I wondered whether he would come looking for food. I felt guilty, sitting there eating chicken while Paul missed another meal. Surely, he was starving by now. Only I sat quietly eating my chicken and wondering if Paul would come out searching for food.

As the women at the table began to place their knives and forks together on their empty plates and I heard the satisfied smacking of lips from Mr Valise direction, I gathered up enough courage and said in my meekest and most casual voice, "Maybe we should take something for Paul. He must be hungry by now."

I was horrified at the response. At my words, Mr. Valise's face changed instantly to an ugly maroon colour and it seemed as if puffs of steam would billow through his ears or he would explode like a volcano from the top of his head. "If that boy's hungry, he should come out here and get food. Hell! I'm not going to waste my energy taking food to him." Mr. Valise's index finger nearly went straight through the table as he banged it down in emphasis. Everyone seemed to be nodding or making declarations of agreement. I took a deep breath and tried not to lose my temper. But Mr. Valise hadn't finished. "Instead, he's in his room pretending to be the invalid."

As the word "invalid" penetrated my consciousness, I suddenly couldn't control my anger. Everything about that heinous word screamed unjust. Paul was no invalid. He had just lost his memory and was trying desperately to regain it. He just needed help to remember. How could his parents, my parents, the Knights and the Sauvages be so unreasonable as to refuse to help him? My anger boiled over; I forced myself away from the table, knocking my chair over in my haste, growled at the company and marched out of the room toward my own.

I was still fuming as I stepped into the passage when I heard a sound which made me slow down my stomping footsteps. I quietly walked towards Paul's door and the sound grew louder. I heard the sound of crying. Paul was crying! I couldn't believe my ears. I had never heard Paul cry – not in all the years I had known him. It might, in other men, have prompted me to scorn him. But, the whimpering I heard didn't fill me with contempt. It filled me with sympathy. What had Paul's parents reduced him to?

I quietly stepped away from the door and headed for the kitchen. All my anger had dissolved in that instant and I decided to dish a plate of food up for Paul. When I returned to Paul's door, I could no longer hear the sound of crying. The room was still. I knocked purposefully loudly and waited to hear a reply. I only heard the noises of bumping and crashing. "Paul," I called out to the door. "Can I come in?" Paul weakly replied in the affirmative and I pushed my way into Paul's rooms.

Paul was sitting on the edge of his bed. There was still the slightest trace of his earlier melt-down on his face as white marks showed his tears' journey. He sat as he had done earlier, with his hands clasped together, his knees apart and his head down in a dejected manner. But as I entered he raised his head slightly. "I thought you could do with a bite to eat," I almost sang as I entered. I felt slightly foolish for sounding overly jubilant when I was actually just trying to cheer Paul up.

"Thanks," Paul said taking the tray out of my hands as I sat beside him on the bed. He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry I didn’t come to supper." He looked down at the food he was holding. "I just couldn't face it." He was silent for a moment. "What have I done wrong? Why do my parents keep yelling at me? What have I done to make them think I'm so terrible? Why am I terrible?"

My heart bled for poor Paul. He was riddled with confusion and self-doubt. But, I didn't know what to do, how to help. "I think you just need to be their son." I tried to explain, to provide Paul with a little relief from that self-doubt. "I don't know why they are upset but I think it may just be that they miss having you around. You haven't really been around much for the last few years."

"It seems like they don't want me around," Paul responded morosely.

I nodded. "It may seem that way but I think they're just feeling a little confused too. You've been away a long time. They don't know how to respond now that you're back." I turned to Paul to see if my really bad attempt at an explanation was doing anything. He seemed to be taking it all in. "My advice will be just to lay low and try to take part as best you can. They're confused and uncomfortable now but the more time they spend with you, the easier they'll become."

Paul nodded. "I think you're right. I just need to take part a bit more." He stopped for a moment again and looked thoughtful. "Thanks." He smiled at me. "Through all this, you've been really kind to me. You’re the only one who's been trying to help me, to remind me. I don't think I would have made it this far without you." His face reminded me of a child's face: small, helpless, and fearful.

At that point, a lump caught in my throat and I felt the first stinging of salt-water in the corners of my eyes. I turned away and made to leave. "I think I should leave you to your supper. And, I should really go to bed," I said getting back onto my feet.

As I reached the door, Paul's voice made me turn around. "Do you think maybe I should apologise to my parents tomorrow? Tell them that I don't mean to make them feel bad?"

I smile at Paul. "I think that's a great idea," I said trying to force the lump down. "I think they'll come around if they know you're sincere." I gave Paul a last smile over my shoulder. "Well, good night, Paul," I said and opened the door.

"Good night, Willow," Paul responded.

I didn't have the heart to correct him as I left the room and headed to my own. I was still concerned that since waking up from his coma, Paul had called me by more names than we have official languages. But, I couldn't correct him when he was looking hopeful once more. The prospect of getting his parents on his side and the hope that they would help him regain his memory seemed to please him and I couldn't break that bubble.

Long after saying good-night, I thought about Paul's last question. How could his parents possibly still hate him after he apologized to them? It would be like a peace-offering – the peace-offering of a child who craves his parents' affection again.

I awoke, the next morning, in a confident mood and headed to the kitchen just as Paul was also heading into the kitchen. "Here I go," he whispered to me as he passed me on the threshold with both thumbs in the air. I watched him enter and then was struck with a sudden horror.