The Weight of Snow. Christian Guay-Poliquin

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      A little later, the veterinarian and the pharmacist came into the room. They sat down next to the bed. The veterinarian lit her headlamp and cut off the bandages that girded my legs. I watched her from the corner of my eye. Her face was familiar. Her features hardened when she saw how bad my injuries were. She turned to the pharmacist. He nodded his head. As she was putting on her mask and gloves, the veterinarian looked at me and I knew she had recognized me too. The pharmacist put a sponge over my mouth and nose, and she told me to count to ten. Her voice. Yes, her voice reminded me of something. Her voice echoed back to me, but I could not remember her name. The beam of her lamp swept the room. Then everything went black.

      When I came to, I had no idea where I was. Luckily my aunts were at my bedside. I heard them discussing in low voices. I lifted my head and saw that my legs were tightly held in solid wooden splints. When my aunts realized I was awake, they rushed to comfort me.

      Don’t worry. The operation was a success. You’ll be fine. You’ll make it out of here. Here, drink some water. You need to rest. You have to get your strength back. Yes, rest up.

      A few moments later, I was exhausted. I lapsed back into nightmares of chase, a famished beast, a labyrinth. They pursued one another in a single incoherent dream.

      The next day or the day after, I’m not sure, the watchman returned to see me. Finally he took off my handcuffs. He brought me water, a piece of bread, and a can of tuna. He used the opportunity to ask questions, too. When he saw I was not answering, he kept quiet for a while, then changed his strategy.

      Even if the electricity ends up coming back, things won’t be the same. You know, everything that happened since the blackout has disfigured our lives. Here we’re probably getting along better than in the city, but it’s still not easy. At first people stuck together, then some of them panicked, a few left the village, and others tried to take advantage of the situation. Since then calm has been restored. We distribute food and make our rounds and keep an eye on things. But we have to be vigilant. Everything could go wrong at any time.

      The veterinarian and the pharmacist arrived and interrupted the watchman.

      How is he doing?

      Not too bad.

      The veterinarian examined my legs while the pharmacist had me swallow a handful of pills.

      He doesn’t have a fever, the veterinarian said after she took my temperature.

      That’s because of what I’m giving him, the pharmacist told her. That, and only that.

      The veterinarian came to me and said my legs were fractured in several places. She had operated in a similar way in the past several times, but only on cows, horses, and dogs.

      I looked at her and smiled.

      She ran her hand through my hair.

      You’ll make it all right.

      Then the two of them, along with the watchman, went into the room next door. I heard the pharmacist’s voice through the wall.

      He survived the accident and reacted well to the operation, but sooner or later his wounds are going to get infected. It’s inevitable. He will need a lot of antibiotics and analgesics, and our stocks are limited.

      They wondered who was going to take care of me. My aunts and uncles, no doubt. With the blackout, everyone was overworked. There was too much to do. Who else would have time to look after a gravely injured man? Care for him, feed him, wash him?

      Then their voices dropped and I lost the thread of the conversation.

      A few days later, my legs were swollen and my wounds were so painful I could hardly breathe. I was shivering and sweating. I needed help for everything. People came and went by my bedside. They covered their ears to keep from hearing my feverish lamentations.

      Twice a day, Maria came and gave me a shot. That allowed me a few hours’ respite before the pain returned to blur my vision.

      I knew it, the pharmacist sighed. I knew we would end up giving him all the medication we have.

      With the pills and shots, I managed to sleep a little. But when I opened my eyes, I had no idea whether I had slept a few minutes, a few hours, or a few days. Often I dreamed I was pinned to the ground and that someone was cutting off my legs with an axe. It wasn’t a nightmare. I felt a sudden liberation.

      My aunts and uncles came to visit me frequently. Even if everything around me was a theatre of shadows, I could hear them talking, telling stories, making jokes. Then, one day, they explained they couldn’t wait anymore. It was hunting season. A number of families had already taken to the woods. The electricity was not coming back and food had to be put up before winter.

      We’re going to the hunting camp, they announced. We’ll be back in a few weeks with meat, a lot of meat. We wish you could come with us, but that wouldn’t work. In the meantime, don’t worry, you’re in good hands. We were promised they would take good care of you. You have to do your part and work on getting better.

      They each said their goodbyes, then they left. I wished I could have made them stay.

      Some time later a group came into my room. The watchman, the veterinarian, and the pharmacist were there. Someone began speaking, telling me it was out of the question for me to stay here, in this house. I felt their eyes running along the walls, slipping to the floor, and disappearing into the cracks between the planks. No one wanted the extra burden. Maybe they should have left me to my fate under the car. Then the veterinarian broke the silence and offered to take care of me until my family returned. The pharmacist cut her off immediately.

      That makes no sense, we can’t have him in our house. We did what we could. We have other patients to look after.

      The watchman stepped forward as if he wanted to make a suggestion. But he kept his mouth shut.

      I can solve the problem, the pharmacist went on, in a way that will ease the burden on everyone. You can see how much pain he’s in.

      The veterinarian stared at the watchman, who was standing in the middle of the room. And that’s when, if I remember rightly, he mentioned the old man who had come to live in the house at the top of the hill.

      You know, the old guy who showed up at the beginning of the summer. He had car trouble, he was looking for a mechanic. Then the power went off and he couldn’t leave. He started living in the house on the hill. Sometimes we see him when he comes down to the village. He’s always saying he needs to get back to the city, and that the woman next door to where he lived is going to come for him one of these days. But she never showed up. Nobody believes his story, but everyone knows he always accepts the rations we give him. I came across him the other day near the church. We talked. He’s old, that’s for sure. But he looks in good shape. And he’s a lot more lucid than people like to think.

      Him? the pharmacist said, surprised. He tried to steal a pickup truck a while back. I caught him just as he was breaking into it. He pretended nothing was up, as usual. He’s a wily old bastard. But why not? We could fob off our injury case on him.

      FORTY-FIVE

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