Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [48]
But this other atmosphere that reached him now, of decent, good-hearted young women, relaxed and cheerful as they ended their day’s work and went to their well-earned supper—such a thing had never entered his life before, and it called to him now with the appeal of the rare and exotic.
He felt a yearning to see them and cast hopeful eyes up at the barred window. It was not impossibly high and he felt his determination giving him strength. He edged slowly off the bed and, using his left hand, pulled the chair over to the window. Reaching up he was able to grasp one of the lower bars, and use it to haul himself upward. From this perch he had a good view of that part of the hospital that formed an L-shape to the building he was in.
Most of the corridors were well-lit, and along them trickled a thin stream of girls in uniforms, going off duty. Now and then slightly older women could be seen coming in the other direction. Their faces were serious and purposeful as they prepared to take up their duties for the night. Sometimes they’d stop and engage some of the departing girls in conversation. Merrick’s hand tightened on the bar he was holding as he fought to keep his perch as long as possible.
To his enchanted eyes every girl was pretty. Every normal, properly proportioned face gleamed with youth and health; every smile, however tired, was radiant. Now and then laughter floated up to him like music from another planet.
He longed to to stay there forever, watching, unseen. It was so rare that his view of the world could be unclouded by its own violent reaction to himself. He told himself that he must be seeing pretty girls as they appeared to other men, their faces serene and untroubled, not distorted by horror or hardened by the effort to control it.
But the strain of holding himself up to the window was becoming intolerable. As the lights began to dim in the corridors he edged backward and began to grope for a way to lower himself to the floor. For a dreadful moment he feared he would lose his balance, fall back, and break his neck, but he managed to steady himself against the wall until first one foot, then the other, touched the floor. Almost at once he fell onto the bed. He was breathing hard but his eyes were triumphant.
He crawled into the comfort of the corner and nestled against the pillows. He felt as close to happiness as he ever had in his life. Treves was kind to him, Treves had promised that he should not be sent back to Bytes, and the other man—Mr. Carr-Gomm—the one Treves treated as important—had said he agreed. Merrick did not believe them; it was so long ago that he had lost hope. But he savored the words, and wondered how long he would be allowed to stay here.
The hospital was growing quiet around him. A distant, hollow clang announced the closing of the iron door that barred the rear. It was almost dark, but there was still enough light for him to do what he did every night when he knew himself securely alone. He strained his ears in the silence, and when he was sure no footsteps were approaching, slipped his left hand into the pockets of the baggy trousers, and brought out a small object he found there.
It was a photograph, battered and creased, but still discernible as the picture of a young woman of extraordinary beauty. From its style it had obviously been taken many years ago. Merrick held it propped against his drawn up knees and stared desperately at the face of the woman he knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, to be his mother.
How he knew with such certainty was lost deep within him. The memories of his babyhood, vague and confused to begin with had, over the years, hardened into sharpness. Now they never varied. There was always the woman with the beautiful face, cradling her baby gently against her, loving him the more for his deformity, having to part with him (he never understood why, but he knew it was for a good reason), promising to return and claim him soon. And the picture that he had possessed as long as he could remember anything, his only pledge of that long-ago promise.