Emmanuel is in his room at Oak to Ocean, in front of his private telly, sitting up in bed with pillows behind his back. His snoring sounds like a pig grunting around a pigpen. It’s making him unwell—by snoring, my husband is lining his breathing passages with deposits of carbon dioxide. His brain is so damaged he can’t control his body. A sleepy old biker who wears leather faded from black to grey, and carries framed pictures of his gang, has stolen Emmanuel’s pudding while Emmanuel snores.
It’s the same routine every Wednesday: I squirt cologne on my man’s pillowy neck, I rub moisturising lotion into his hands, crusty as toast, and I sing in his ear. I guide him to the van and we take him to choir. We sing in hope his brain will wake up. We sing out his sins.
Today, though, I pause.
I’
