Clifford's Spiral: Chapter 10

Chapters are serialized here for paid subscribers.About This Novel

In Clifford's Spiral, the stroke survivor’s past is blurry, and his memories are in pieces. He asks himself:

Who was Clifford Olmstead Klovis?

Stroke sufferer Clifford Klovis tries to piece together the colorful fragments of his memories. Is it possible in his situation to say life is good?

Chapter 10

It was a warm, sunny morning after a weeklong spring thaw. The ground was freshly muddy and not yet green. The funky straw of last season’s Kentucky bluegrass would be mulch for the new sprouts. The air was ripe with rot that would feed the next generation of plants and animals. It was the smell of defrosted dog shit sinking into piles of damp, moldy leaves. It was the smell of death morphing into new life.

Clifford took a deep breath and smiled. Myra had wheeled him out on the veranda and turned his wheelchair to face the glaring sun. Mind you, he didn’t need a wheelchair. He was still ambulatory. He could still cross a room on his own, although unsteadily. But, to prevent injuries from falling, mandatory policy in the place was to wheel patients around when the destination was anywhere outside of their rooms.

It was glorious. The staff had only a vague notion of his quality of life. It probably came down to something like survival with the absence of pain. They used drugs in various forms — injections, drips, and pills — to deal with both. Well, he had survived, and he had no pain to speak of (that is, if he could or would speak of anything). He’d attained the next layer on a human’s hierarchy of needs — namely, a comfort zone. He had shelter and warmth, a bed that was clean and dry (most of the time), recurring hot meals, and — thanks to Myra’s diligence today — the sun on his face. There are exquisitely spoiled family dogs who don’t get as much. Those dutiful animals no doubt fret about their jobs — or their perceived lack of a job: “Am I supposed to guard the baby or the back door? Do I alert the household of all strangers in uniform? What about those shiftless people on the sidewalk who smell bad? Is this some kind of trial period or a long-term gig? If you leave, will you return? Will I eat tonight? Tomorrow?”

As she set the brake on his wheelchair, Myra sat down stiffly in the lawn chair opposite him and leaned in very close. She spoke in a low tone, even though no one else was near enough to hear: “Clifford, I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to give me an eye blink to let me know you know I’m telling you something.”

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