Books have been printed. They arrive to the room in Westmead where we start our day, via Susanna’s suitcase, neatly packaged into a big, white box.
I clutch C.’s book on my way to find her. There’s only half an hour before dinner – half an hour to share it; I worry our meeting will be rushed. I also worry about whether the words, read back, will be validating, reinforcing or render the conversation mute. C is quiet, reserved, not a big talker. When she’s done she says ‘I think I’ll have a rest now’ – I still haven’t found a way back from that point.
On the cover of the book is a photo of a drawing hanging in C.’s room, made for her by her family. I also worry I led her to choose it for her book, that the choice was not entirely her own.
I take a deep breath before I go in. I slowly introduce the book, obsessing over the fingerprints I left on the cover.
C. takes one look at it and her face turns into the biggest smile she’s let me see yet. She knows that drawing. She trusts it, and because it’s on the cover of the book, she trusts the book too.
Suddenly, 30 minutes are not enough for everything C. wants to tell me. I hear stories about her entire family, the country where she is from, the singer whose picture is also on the wall, the card on her chest of drawers. She brags about her child and grandchild; she shows me a cassette with the music she loves; she asks me to explain how I managed to get the drawing onto another piece of paper. The book has opened a door somewhere, and it’s all pouring out. When I read the words back she nods, stops me half way to offer more words; when I leave I also leave the book behind, on her bedside.
The naturally suspicious me goes awol when I go to Westmead. I figured I would have to work on that, but it came naturally; I’ve always had inherent trust in the process. Every time I held on to it for dear life things were ok; every time I crumbled under pressures I lost my bearings. And so there we were: C., the book and me – and the process, still working away.
It’s always one day at the time – no, it’s one hour, one conversation at the time. I’ll take this half an hour though – but I promise not to run away with it.
Bojana Jankovic