Ghost Boy Read online

  “What is it?” Mum asks as she and Dad sit down beside me. “Has something happened?”

  I’ve prepared something to say, and they watch as I press a button and bring up the message on the screen.

  “There’s something I want to tell you, and I hope you will be happy,” they read.

  Neither of them says a word as they read what I want to tell them.

  “As you know, Joanna and I are very much in love, but there is something else you need to know.

  “When she arrives here in December, I’m going to ask Joanna to marry me, and after Christmas we are planning to go back to the UK together.

  “We have been talking about it for months, and I know this is the right thing for me to do. I hope you will be happy for me.”

  I put my hand into my pocket and pull out the ring I’ve had made for Joanna. My parents stare at it, and neither of them speaks for a moment.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mum says eventually. “Oh, Martin! It’s beautiful.”

  She starts to laugh and my father does too. Relief floods over me.

  “Congratulations, boy!” Dad says as he puts his arm around me. “It’s wonderful news.”

  He leans towards me.

  “We’re so proud of you,” he says.

  My parents are happy. They understand the time has come to let me go.

  60 UP, UP, AND AWAY

  It’s dark outside as I wait for Joanna to get dressed, but it will soon be sunrise. I’ve told her we are doing something special, but she doesn’t know what it is. All I’ve said is that she must wear light cotton clothes because it’ll soon be hot. It’s December, and the days can be scorching. Joanna has just arrived for Christmas, and we’re spending a couple of nights together at a farm in the bush. It’s been four months since we last saw each other, and I know she’s as thankful as I am that we’ll never have to say goodbye again. On Boxing Day—six days short of a year since we were first introduced—we’ll fly back to the UK to start our new life.

  The ring I’ve had made for Joanna is hidden in my pocket, secured to my waistband by cotton thread so that it will be safe even if my shaking hands drop it when I ask her to marry me. I can hardly believe I’m sitting here about to propose to her. Is it possible? Could my life really have changed so much, or is this a dream like the ones I used to lose myself in for weeks at a time when I was a ghost boy? I dare not pinch myself because I might wake up, and I never want that to happen.

  All I know is that God has led me to the person who makes me whole. As Joanna and I have talked, we’ve realized that we so nearly met each other many times and finally did despite everything that was stacked against our meeting. Surely this can only have happened by God’s hand. Joanna is another of my prayers that He has answered, just as He has always done. Maybe it wasn’t always in the exact way or time that I asked Him to. But I look back now and know that God has given me what I need and give thanks that He has brought me Joanna.

  She arrived three days ago and, after meeting my parents, took me to see her mother on the farm where she lives. I’d been writing to Joanna’s mother for several months, knowing that I would one day ask her for her daughter’s hand, and now I handed her a final letter.

  “I would like to ask Joanna to marry me,” it said. “But first I would like to ask you for your blessing.”

  For the longest moment, her mother said nothing before she smiled at me. She is a generous woman who can recognize love when she sees it—even if it comes in a form that some people can’t appreciate.

  I look up and smile as Joanna walks into the room.

  “I’m ready,” she says as she walks towards me.

  She is silhouetted against a white wall in the half-light. My heart skips a beat. She is so beautiful.

  We go outside into the cool morning air and get into the car we’ve hired. I tell Joanna which way to go, but as we drive further into the bush, she doesn’t ask where we are going anymore. Does she know what I’m planning, or does she think this is just another of the everyday surprises that I often give her?

  As we drive up a dusty dirt road towards a clearing in the savannah, I see the carcass of a hot air balloon lying on the ground ahead of us. Joanna has always wanted to see the earth from the sky, and she laughs as she realizes what is waiting for her.

  “I can’t believe you’ve done this!” she says as she turns and kisses me.

  The two of us get out of the car. The balloonist in charge of our trip is waiting in the gray morning light, and soon the orange fires of the balloon’s burner start to illuminate the darkness as slivers of light appear on the horizon. The sun is rising, and soon we’ll see it from the clouds. Joanna and I watch as the balloon slowly ascends from where it has been lying before we get into the basket when it’s ready. I sit on a high stool so that I’m level with Joanna and hold on to the edge of the basket as she climbs in after me.

  The balloon pilot smiles to let us know that we are about to take off, and the basket lifts silently off the ground. I watch Joanna’s face as we begin to float upwards. She is smiling as she stares at the bush disappearing below us. We rise up higher, and I look out at the horizon. It’s getting lighter now. The sky is pink, and the muted colors of the bush below us are slowly being illuminated green and brown. The earth rushes away as I listen to the silence. It’s so quiet up here that all we can hear is the rush of the balloon’s burner and the occasional birdcall.

  Joanna and I put our arms around each other as the sun rises higher in the sky—bright white behind gray clouds, then pink lightening the darkness with flashes of orange. The horizon that was black in front of us is gradually turning golden in the sun, and we can see the earth beneath us: a river, trees, and a waterfall falling into a valley; zebra galloping, wildebeest and warthog drinking at a waterhole, giraffe feeding from tree branches.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Joanna tells me.

  It’s time now. I put my hand into my pocket and pull out my mobile phone. I’ve recorded a message on it, words that I want Joanna to hear. She looks at me as I hand her some tiny earphones, and she puts them into her ears before I press a button.

  “There are no words in any language that will ever truly capture what I feel for you,” I tell her. “You came into my life and gave meaning to it. You flooded my otherwise gray world with vivid color, and I feel like I’ve known you forever.

  “It’s like time stops when we are together. You give my heart not just a reason to beat but to sing and rejoice.”

  She smiles as she looks at me, and I squeeze her hand.

  “With every passing day my love for you gets stronger and deeper, richer and more profound because you are beautiful inside and out,” I say. “And while life is not all milk and roses—and sometimes we eat a little salt too—what I do know is that I don’t work without you, and I don’t want to spend a moment of my life without you.

  “You are my soulmate, my best friend, my companion, my lover, my rock and strength, my soft place to fall in this crazy world.

  “And that is why I want to hold you, cherish you, take care of you, protect you, and love you with everything I have.

  “So will you do me the honor, the enormous privilege, of sharing the rest of my life with me and becoming my wife?”

  I push my hand into my pocket and pull out the ring. There are tears in Joanna’s eyes as I hold it up to her—a pool of gold hanging by a thread that glints in the early morning light. She bends towards me.

  “Yes, my liefie,” she says. “I will be proud to be your wife.”

  She kisses me for the longest moment before pulling away. I wrap my arms around her as we look out to the horizon. It stretches out endlessly in front of us.

  Groom Martin—9 June 2009

  Joanna (Joan) and Martin getting married—June 2009

  Joanna (Joan) and Martin just married—June 2009

  Joanna (Joan) and Martin just married—June 2009

  Joanna (Joan) and Martin just married—June 2009
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  Martin and Joanna newly married couple

  Joanna (Joan) and Martin just married—June 2009

  61 SAYING GOODBYE

  The cardboard box sits on the other side of the room, but I’m not sure I want to see what’s inside it. The box is full of the Legos that I loved so much as a child. But do I have the strength to invoke the phantom of the ghost boy again and see his withered limbs and empty eyes rise up in front of me? I’ve seen him so many times over recent days, I’m not sure I can confront him again.

  Joanna and I are packing up as I prepare to leave for England. As well as everyday belongings, we’ve been sorting through the boxes my parents have kept over the years, and I’ve learned that much of what happened to me has been captured in dispiriting mementos of my past: old X-rays and medical records packed side by side with the hand splints that once kept my fingers from curling into claws; an old cushion for my wheelchair stacked on top of the bibs that once caught my drool. While for me each object makes a memory resurface, it’s vividly brought my story to life for Joanna for the first time. She’s only known me since I’ve grown so much stronger, but now she can see all that I once was and the extent of my parents’ vain hopes captured forever in spoons with oversized handles that they once thought I would learn to grip again.

  At times I’ve felt shocked by what I’ve seen because as I rushed forward into life, I’d almost forgotten how sick I was. Although I’ve sensed how hard it’s been for Joanna, I also know there is no one else on earth I could have done this with. I would have felt ashamed for anyone else to see this and uncomfortable to have had so many bad memories dragged up again in front of them. But with Joanna here, the only feeling that’s filled me as I’ve watched the ghost boy come back to life is sadness that his existence was so wretched.

  Yesterday my mother told me there was another stash of boxes in the garage, but both she and my father seemed reluctant to get them for me. I realized why when Joanna and I found them. While Kim and David’s boxes were stuffed with the belongings of a teenager’s life—music tapes and study files, old posters and clothes—mine, piled in a corner of the garage, yellowed with age and covered with dust, contained only a child’s toys. It was as if a boy had died, and his life had been hurriedly packed away—then I remembered he had.

  “Look at this!” Joanna said, after dragging some of the boxes inside and opening one.

  In her hand was a multicoloured cuddly toy.

  “His name was Popple,” my mother said quietly.

  I looked up to see her standing in the doorway, as if afraid to step into the room and see the rest of what we were unpacking.

  “He was Martin’s favorite,” she said.

  I looked at the toy, trying to remember a time when an orange cuddly dog with lime green hair, red ears, a purple nose, and blue paws was my favorite thing in the world. I wanted to remember so much. I long to have the kind of memories other people do and know what it feels like to be a child who loves a toy so much that he can’t let it go. But however hard I’ve searched, I’ve never been able to find even a glimmer of a memory inside me. There is nothing there—not even a shred of an image that I can cling onto.

  But it was comforting for me to see a link to a past I’d sometimes wondered existed at all, even though I knew that it was a painful reminder of loss for my parents. As Mum stood by me while Joanna unpacked more boxes—a wooden horse GD had made for me, the telegram announcing my birth, and schoolbooks—I could feel her distress. Mum said nothing when Joanna found a single piece of ruled notepaper in the bottom of one box. On it was written a letter I’d sent to Father Christmas when I was eight years old, the words almost painfully neat on the page. I read it slowly, trying to hear myself in the words I’d written so long before.

  Dear Father Christmas,

  Thank you for our presents last year. They were just the presents I wanted. Here are some of the things I would like for this Christmas: a speedometer, a skateboard, Meccano, space Legos, water bottle for my bike, a solar cell, a radio-controlled car.

  Father Christmas, I’ll ask my father to leave the Christmas tree lights on. Father Christmas, in my list I mention Meccano. If you decide to give me Meccano could you give me electronic Meccano?

  Your loyal present receiver,

  Martin Pistorius

  PS I will leave a glass with some things to drink in it if I can and some things to eat. I will ask my father if we can leave the Christmas tree lights on. We will leave our stockings where the tree is.

  PPS Also a walkie-talkie set.

  I felt both sadness and joy when I looked at that letter—sadness that I couldn’t remember being that happy little boy and joy that I was once him. Then I looked at my mother and saw that her face had frozen as she’d listened to his words. None of us spoke as Joanna put the note carefully back into the box and closed the lid.

  “Shall we stop for today?” she said.

  Now we are back in the room with the boxes once again, and I’m looking at the one that contains my Legos. When Joanna opens it, I see a mass of pieces: some tiny, some large, some broken, and others covered in dirt. There are so many of them that the box is almost full to the brim, and I know there are at least another two like this.

  “It was always your favorite,” Mum says. “You so loved playing with them. You would spend hours in here building. Those Legos were your favorite things in the world. You were such a bright little boy.”

  Her voice is full of sadness. Tears are barely contained within it.

  “I should never have let David have it,” she says. “He asked me again and again, and I always said no until one day I finally agreed. He was never as careful as you with his toys.”

  As she stares at the box, I know she is seeing a happy, healthy little boy who once smiled in delight as he pieced together brightly colored plastic blocks.

  “I gave it to your brother because I thought you weren’t going to want it again,” Mum says quietly. “I didn’t think you would ever come back to me.”

  As my mother looks at me and admits that she stopped believing in hope, I know the wounds of the past are in some ways still as fresh for her today as they ever were. While the child who loved Legos is just a stranger to me, he is all too real for my parents. He is the child they loved and lost.

  62 LETTING GO

  I’m sitting on a bed at the farm where Joanna’s mother lives. In a few days we will return to England. Joanna has just packed up the last of my Legos after washing them. Although I’ll be taking them to the UK with me, I don’t feel content that my past has been neatly sorted through and repacked. Instead I’ve felt a sadness lying in the pit of my stomach ever since I left my parents’ house, and it’s getting heavier and heavier as the days pass.

  I keep remembering my mother’s face as she looked at my Legos. She seemed so lost, so wounded, and I’m sure my father is suffering as well even though he hides his feelings better. I can’t stop thinking about them, about me and the happy child I found hidden in those boxes. I’d never truly understood what he was like until I opened them up and found a boy who loved electronics and Meccano, who wrote politely to Father Christmas and adored his parents. I can’t stop thinking of him now.

  My tears come slowly at first, running silently down my cheeks as Joanna looks up.

  “Martin?” she exclaims.

  She gets up from the floor and puts her arms around me. My breath comes in heavy gasps, and my shoulders heave as I think about all that my parents, brother, sister, and I have lost. Guilt fills me as I think about the pain I’ve caused and wish I could take it back. If only I could give my family the simple, happy life they deserved. Then confusion swells up as I wonder why my parents took so long to rescue me. Why didn’t they see that I’d come back to them and protect me from harm? Finally I cry for all the love they gave to a child who slowly sickened, for the devotion they’ve shown me ever since, and for the little boy I’ve only just met but will never truly know however much I might wish to.
All I have of him are scraps of paper and old toys, and I know he will never seem real to me. He’ll be a sprite, a memory captured in fading photographs of someone I’ll never know.

  Joanna hugs me even tighter as tears flood out of me. I cry and cry, unable to stop myself from grieving for all that has been lost for so many people. But as she holds me, I know that Joanna never will have to comfort me like this again. A dam has been broken inside as I’ve confronted the past. Now I’m mourning it. One day soon I hope to say a final goodbye.

  63 A NEW LIFE

  Our flat in the UK is so small that my electric wheelchair is too big to fit into it, I can only move freely up and down one small strip of corridor in my manual chair, and I’ve burned myself repeatedly trying to master the kettle and the toaster. I’ve set a dishcloth on fire and used furniture polish to clean the kitchen tiles. But for me the two-meter sweep of floor that I can negotiate is my very own Hollywood Boulevard, the garden I see outside the window is Alhambra, and the tiny kitchen where I try to cook is the finest Parisian restaurant. I was wrong to think for so long that the only worthwhile challenges were to be found at work or in my studies when there are so many in everyday life.