UnWholly (Unwind Dystology 2)

“Cam. Moo.”

“Camus! What a splendid name. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Camera!” he finally says. “Milk!” But Roberta isn’t listening anymore. He has sent her to a more exotic place.

“Camus, the existential philosopher! ‘Live to the point of tears.’ Kudos to you, my friend! Kudos!”

He has no idea what she’s talking about, but if it makes her happy, then it makes him happy. It feels good to know that he’s impressed her.

“Your name shall be Camus Composite-Prime,” she says with a grin on her face as wide as the shimmering sea. “Won’t the committee just die!”

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From then on, each of his days begins and ends with therapy. Painful stretching followed by guided exercises and weight lifting that seem specifically designed to cause him the greatest amount of pain.

“The healing agents can only do so much,” says his physical therapist—a deep-voiced bodybuilder with the unlikely name of Kenny. “The rest has to come from you.”

He is convinced this therapist enjoys watching him suffer.

Thanks to Roberta, those who don’t just call him “sir” now call him Camus, but when he thinks of the name, all that comes to mind is a big black-and-white whale.

“That’s Shamu,” Roberta tells him over lunch. “You’re Camus; it rhymes, but has a silent S.”

“Cam,” he tells her, not wanting to sound like a sea mammal. “Make it Cam.”

Roberta raises an eyebrow, considering it. “We can do that. We can most certainly do that. I’ll let everyone know. So how are your thoughts today, Cam? Feeling a bit more cohesive?”

Cam shrugs. “I have clouds in my head.”

Roberta sighs. “Maybe so, but I can see your progress, even if you can’t. Your thoughts are becoming a little clearer each day. You can string together longer strands of meaning, and you understand almost everything I say to you, don’t you?”

Cam nods.

“Comprehension is the first step toward clear communication, Cam.” Roberta hesitates for a second, then says, “Comprends-tu maintenant?”

“Oui, parfaitement,” says Cam, not knowing that something was different about it until the words came out of his mouth. He realizes that yet another door of mystery has opened inside his head.

“Well,” says Roberta, a mischievous smirk on her face, “for the time being, let’s go one language at a time, shall we?”

New activities are added into his day. His afternoon naps are pushed back to make room for hour-long sessions sitting at a table-size computer desktop filled with digital images: a red vehicle, a building, a black-and-white portrait—dozens of pictures.

“Drag to you the images you recognize,” says Roberta on the first day of this ritual, “and say the first word that each image brings to mind.”

Cam feels overwhelmed. “Scantron?”

“No,” Roberta tells him, “it’s not a test, it’s just a mental exercise to find out what you remember and what you still need to learn.”

o;Medusa,” he says. “Crone. Witch. Crooked, rotten teeth.”

She stiffens a bit. “You think I’m ugly?”

“Uuuugly!” he says, savoring the word. “No, not you! Ugly green paisley ugly.”