MOTHER TONGUE: SPECIAL BOOK EXTRACT
Eric hated Dr. Reyes. But here he was, six weeks after Brynn woke up from her coma, sitting like a schoolboy in Dr. Reyes’ office. The broad mahogany table between them was littered with files and envelopes, X-rays and medical journals. A model of the human brain obscured Dr. Reyes’ face as he held it in front of him, spinning it around absent-mindedly like a coach with a football. When he stopped, his long fingers were splayed around a portion of the model that was painted red, tucked underneath the flesh-colored walnut-looking parts that Eric recognized.
Eric’s disdain for Dr. Reyes surged. He reminded him of his old wrestling opponent, Javier Lopez, and Eric had the unnerving sense that Dr. Reyes might try to get him in a headlock or pin him down on the ground. Eric wondered if he was as qualified as Brynn’s other doctors. He noted the framed photograph on the desk, Dr. Reyes and another man kissing under a wedding altar. And while this made Eric deeply uncomfortable, he’d had enough of Brynn. He needed help – even if it was from this homosexual foreigner. He needed someone to make her stop. He’d come here today hoping that Dr. Reyes could prescribe her something or intervene somehow and restore Brynn to who she’d been before her fall.
‘This,’ Dr. Reyes began, drumming his fingers excitedly, ‘is the cerebellum.’
‘Okay,’ Eric said slowly.
Dr. Reyes cleared his throat. ‘It’s the portion of your wife’s brain that sustained damage.’
‘Is she faking it?’ Eric cut to the chase.
‘How do you mean “faking” it? By all accounts she is speaking fluently, quite beautifully in fact, according to one of the nurses. Of course, she’s from Quebec, and says your wife is speaking a more standard European French, but apparently, it’s quite authentic-sounding, accent-wise.’
‘No, but, is she . . . I mean,’ Eric exhaled loudly, closing his eyes for a long moment, ‘is she doing it on purpose? Like, for attention, maybe?’ Eric was vexed by the attention Brynn was getting, by the interest the local news continued to show in her, the deference people exuded when they passed her in the street. It made him feel sidelined, emasculated. It made him feel like he was the wife.
‘Purpose, Mr. Mitchell, intent – those are rather intangible substances to try to measure. Not my field of expertise. What we do know, indisputably, is that your wife suffered a blow to the back of her head when she slipped down the stairs.’ He raised his eyebrows suspiciously at Eric as if to say, Unless, of course, you pushed her? ‘Do you speak any other languages, Mr. Mitchell?’ Dr. Reyes continued.
‘No,’ Eric said, curling his lip defensively. ‘Why would I need to?’
‘Why, indeed,’ Dr. Reyes said mildly, and Eric didn’t understand what he meant by that, or how he was supposed to respond. Eric stood up and began pacing back and forth, indignant and silent. Finally, Dr. Reyes, still holding the model of the brain, said, ‘You know the expression, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, have you considered learning French? This could be a journey for you, Mr. Mitchell. An opportunity to expand your mind.’
Is this guy fucking with me? Eric thought, and felt his fingers ball into fists.
‘I don’t want to go on a journey,’ he said slowly, his jaw pulsing. ‘I want my family to go back to normal.’
Both men were silent for a few long, uncomfortable seconds before Eric asked, ‘Do you believe in God, Dr. Reyes?’ He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing, ‘Because I do. And there is something demonic about what is happening to Brynn. You know, when people are possessed, sometimes they speak in other languages.’
Dr. Reyes carefully placed the model brain back onto his desk and regarded Eric seriously. ‘Mr. Mitchell,’ Dr. Reyes said, his voice firm, ‘I can assure you that your wife is not possessed by a demon. She is experiencing a well-documented, although rare, neurological phenomenon. And, as you must realize, I am a doctor, not a priest. And this is 2013. If you’re after an exorcism, you’ve come to the wrong place.’ Dr. Reyes leaned against his desk, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.
This is an extract from Mother Tongue, by Naima Brown (Macmillan Australia)