get up.
“Just stay there. I’l get them to send up the ladder.”
“No!” he says urgently. I see the look on his face. He doesn’t want to be brought down in the blaze of TV lights, with reporters asking questions.
“OK. I’l come to you.” I’m amazed at how brave that sounds. I start to slide sideways in a bum shuffle— too frightened to stand. I haven’t forgotten about the safety harness, but I’m stil convinced that nobody has bothered to tie it off.
As I edge along the gutter, my head fil s with images of what could go wrong. If this were a Hol ywood movie Malcolm would slip at the last moment and I’d dive and pluck him out of midair. Either that or I’d fal and he’d rescue me.
On the other hand— because this is real life— we might both perish, or Malcolm could live and I’d be the plucky rescuer who plunges to his death.
Although he hasn’t moved, I can see a new emotion in his eyes. A few minutes ago he was ready to step off the roof without a moment’s hesitation. Now he wants to live and the void beneath his feet has become an abyss.
The American philosopher Wil iam James (a closet phobic) wrote an article in 1884 pondering the nature of fear. He used an example of a person encountering a bear. Does he run because he feels afraid, or does he feel afraid after he has already started running? In other words, does a person have time to think something is frightening, or does the reaction precede the thought?
Ever since then scientists and psychologists have been locked in a kind of chicken-and-egg debate. What comes first— the conscious awareness of fear or the pounding heart and surging adrenaline that motivates us to fight or flight?
I know the answer now, but I’m so frightened I’ve forgotten the question.
I’m only a few feet away from Malcolm. His cheeks are tinged with blue and he’s stopped shivering. Pressing my back against the wal , I push one leg beneath me and lever my body upward until I’m standing.
Malcolm looks at my outstretched hand for a moment and then reaches slowly toward me. I grab him by the wrist and pul him upward until my arm slips around his thin waist. His skin feels like ice.
The front of the safety harness unclasps and I can lengthen the straps. I pass them around his waist and back through the buckle, until the two of us are tethered together. His woolen hat feels rough against my cheek.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, in a croaky voice.
“You can pray the other end of this is tied on to something.”
2
I was probably safer on the roof of the Marsden than at home with Julianne. I can’t remember exactly what she cal ed me, but I seem to recal her using words like irresponsible, negligent, careless, immature and unfit to be a parent. This was after she hit me with a copy of Marie Claire and made me promise never to do anything so stupid again.
Charlie, on the other hand, won’t leave me alone. She keeps bouncing on the bed in her pajamas, asking me questions about how high up it was, whether I was scared and did the firemen have a big net ready to catch me.
“At last I have something exciting to tel for news,” she says, punching me on the arm. I’m glad Julianne doesn’t hear her.
Each morning when I drag myself out of bed I go through a little ritual. When I lean down to tie my shoes I get a good idea of what sort of day I’m going to have. If it’s early in the week and I’m rested, I wil have just a little trouble getting the fingers of my left hand to cooperate. Buttons wil find buttonholes, belts wil find belt loops and I can even tie a Windsor knot. On my bad days, such as this one, it is a different story. The man I see in the mirror wil need two hands to shave and wil arrive at the breakfast table with bits of toilet paper stuck to his neck and chin. On these mornings Julianne wil say to me, “You have a brand-new electric shaver in the bathroom.”
“I don’t like electric shavers.”
“Why
“Just stay there. I’l get them to send up the ladder.”
“No!” he says urgently. I see the look on his face. He doesn’t want to be brought down in the blaze of TV lights, with reporters asking questions.
“OK. I’l come to you.” I’m amazed at how brave that sounds. I start to slide sideways in a bum shuffle— too frightened to stand. I haven’t forgotten about the safety harness, but I’m stil convinced that nobody has bothered to tie it off.
As I edge along the gutter, my head fil s with images of what could go wrong. If this were a Hol ywood movie Malcolm would slip at the last moment and I’d dive and pluck him out of midair. Either that or I’d fal and he’d rescue me.
On the other hand— because this is real life— we might both perish, or Malcolm could live and I’d be the plucky rescuer who plunges to his death.
Although he hasn’t moved, I can see a new emotion in his eyes. A few minutes ago he was ready to step off the roof without a moment’s hesitation. Now he wants to live and the void beneath his feet has become an abyss.
The American philosopher Wil iam James (a closet phobic) wrote an article in 1884 pondering the nature of fear. He used an example of a person encountering a bear. Does he run because he feels afraid, or does he feel afraid after he has already started running? In other words, does a person have time to think something is frightening, or does the reaction precede the thought?
Ever since then scientists and psychologists have been locked in a kind of chicken-and-egg debate. What comes first— the conscious awareness of fear or the pounding heart and surging adrenaline that motivates us to fight or flight?
I know the answer now, but I’m so frightened I’ve forgotten the question.
I’m only a few feet away from Malcolm. His cheeks are tinged with blue and he’s stopped shivering. Pressing my back against the wal , I push one leg beneath me and lever my body upward until I’m standing.
Malcolm looks at my outstretched hand for a moment and then reaches slowly toward me. I grab him by the wrist and pul him upward until my arm slips around his thin waist. His skin feels like ice.
The front of the safety harness unclasps and I can lengthen the straps. I pass them around his waist and back through the buckle, until the two of us are tethered together. His woolen hat feels rough against my cheek.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, in a croaky voice.
“You can pray the other end of this is tied on to something.”
2
I was probably safer on the roof of the Marsden than at home with Julianne. I can’t remember exactly what she cal ed me, but I seem to recal her using words like irresponsible, negligent, careless, immature and unfit to be a parent. This was after she hit me with a copy of Marie Claire and made me promise never to do anything so stupid again.
Charlie, on the other hand, won’t leave me alone. She keeps bouncing on the bed in her pajamas, asking me questions about how high up it was, whether I was scared and did the firemen have a big net ready to catch me.
“At last I have something exciting to tel for news,” she says, punching me on the arm. I’m glad Julianne doesn’t hear her.
Each morning when I drag myself out of bed I go through a little ritual. When I lean down to tie my shoes I get a good idea of what sort of day I’m going to have. If it’s early in the week and I’m rested, I wil have just a little trouble getting the fingers of my left hand to cooperate. Buttons wil find buttonholes, belts wil find belt loops and I can even tie a Windsor knot. On my bad days, such as this one, it is a different story. The man I see in the mirror wil need two hands to shave and wil arrive at the breakfast table with bits of toilet paper stuck to his neck and chin. On these mornings Julianne wil say to me, “You have a brand-new electric shaver in the bathroom.”
“I don’t like electric shavers.”
“Why
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