(Maybe I am. Why don’t you believe in it, Boss?)
(Uh. . . do you?)
(No. I mean I didn’t believe in it, even though most of our friends did. I couldn’t see any reason to believe either way, so I kept —my mouth shut. But, Boss, it gives one a different viewpoint to have been killed…and then turn out not to stay dead. Dearest Boss—you think I’m a figment of your imagination, don’t you?)
Johann did not answer. The voice went on: (Don’t be afraid to admit it, Boss; you won’t offend me. I know I’m me. I don’t need proof. But you do. You need to know. Admit it, darling. Be open with me.)
She sighed again. (Eunice, I do need to know. But—if I’m crazy—if you are just my own mind talking back to me—I’d rather not know it. Darling, forgive me. . . but I was relieved when you told me that you didn’t want us to try to find your baby.)
(I knew you were relieved. . . and I knew why. Boss, don’t be so right-now. We have all the time in the world, so relax and be happy. Proof will turn up—something I know and that you couldn’t possibly know except through me. And that will be that, and you will be as certain as I am.)
She nodded to herself. (That makes sense, Eunice—and it sounds like the scoldings you used to give me when I got fretful. You used to mother me.)
(I’m going to go right on mothering you, and scolding you when you need it—and loving you all the time, Boss. But there is one thing there is some hurry about.)
(What?)
(That bedpan. Unless you want us to have a childish accident.)
(Oh, damn!)
(Relax, Boss. Get used to it.)
(Damnation, I do not want to be placed on a bedpan by a nurse like a baby being put on a potty. You know what’ll happen? Nothing! I’ll clamp down and not be able to do it. Eunice, there’s my bathroom through that door—can’t we ask to be helped into there…and left in private?)
(Boss, you know what would happen. You ring for the nurse and tell her. She’ll try to argue you out of it. Then she’ll go find Dr. Garcia. He’ll show up and argue, too. If you’re stubborn, he’ll get Jake. By the time Jake shows up, we’ve wet the bed.)
(Eunice, you’re infuriating. All right, let’s ring for that goddam pan.)
(Hold it, Boss. Can we get this side rail down?)
(Huh?)
(If we can, what’s stopping us from going to the bathroom without asking?)
(But, Eunice-—I haven’t walked in more than a year!)
(That was before you got this secondhand, good-as-new, factory-reconditioned, female body, Boss.)
(You think we can walk?)
(Let’s find out. If standing up makes us dizzy, we can hang onto the bed and ease down to the floor. I’m certain we can crawl, Boss.)
(Let’s do it!)
(Let’s see how this side rail works.)
Johann found the guard rails baffling. There seemed to be no way for a person in the bed to let them down. Not surprising, she told herself; if these bars were meant to protect a befuddled patient, then proper design called for it to be impossible for a patient to remove them. (Eunice, we’re going to have to ring for the nurse. Damn!) (Don’t give up, Boss. Maybe it’s a button on the console. If we scrooch around till our head is at the foot, I think we can reach the console.)
So Johann pulled up her knees and twisted and switched ends—and was surprised and delighted at how limber her new body was. Then she stretched her right arm through the bars at the foot of the bed, could not quite reach the console—~-and cussed, and then discovered how the side rails locked—two simple catches, one for each side, at the foot of the bed below the springs, out of reach (no doubt the designer thought) of any patient ill enough to need the side rails.
She thumbed open the leftside catch; the rail, counterweighted, pushed down easily. She giggled. (How’re we doing, partner?) (Fine so far, Boss. Hang onto the end of the bed while we get our feet down. Keel over and they’ll put us in a wet pack—so hang on!)