Mouthing the Words by Camilla Gibb

Author:Camilla Gibb [Gibb, Camilla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-385-68204-6
Publisher: Doubleday Canada
Published: 2013-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Thelma of Distinction

IT IS A week after our exams. I am sure that I have failed. I am convinced I am stupid, have only the vaguest grasp, but I nevertheless drag myself to the law faculty on the day when our names, with pass or fail grades, will be posted.

There is a sea swirling around the board outside the Dean’s office. A sea of rapists and cheerleaders. But I am here because I have a purpose. I am here to read my name under failure and then I can kill myself in peace.

I feel the sea part. There is a strange hush as it parts to let me through. Faces of rapists and cheerleaders stare at me and whisper as I move toward the board. I see my name there. Alone, set apart. I have failed. The only one to fail. But above my name it says, “With Distinction.” Mine is the first name, and I am bewildered. I am perplexed. I run my fingertip over my name, mesmerized. Thelma Ann Barley. That’s me, I think. I am Thelma.

I feel an arm around my shoulder. “You deserve it, Thelma,” says a man’s voice. “Yeah, none of us could ever keep up with you,” says another. “Your dedication is truly inspiring.” I hear the Dean’s voice. But I am confused. That’s me. I am Thelma. I am Thelma of Distinction. I am crying now, confused, and the tears are streaming down my face, but God, they are stinging so much I am wincing and can no longer open my eyes. I hear a female voice, “Yeah, it must be pretty overwhelming,” but all I can do is scream:

“My eyes!”

—

It is a hospital. Evidently. You don’t need to be a lawyer to figure that much out. It is me, waking up in a bed, but I cannot move my hands, because they are strapped down with white canvas to the metal frame of the bed. It is a doctor; no, two; and a nurse, and the Dean of Law, and God forbid, my mother, and some other people who look official.

“And what’s your name?” asks a voice.

“That’s a question from the movies,” I mumble, and I hear my mother say with some embarrassment:

“Oh God. That’s Thelma all right.”

“Mum,” I moan, “just get over it. Things seem to be past the point where we need to be embarrassed.”

“She’s quite lucid,” says another voice.

“It would appear so,” I say. “In which case, what the hell am I doing here? I feel fine.”

“You don’t look fine, sweetheart,” says my mother.

“Well, my eyes hurt a little.”

“We’ve put some drops in them and applied antiseptic cream over the scratches on your cheeks. Your hands are tied down to prevent you from touching your eyes or doing any further damage to your face.”

“What’s wrong with my face?” I ask, scared now. Perhaps I have been in a terrible fire or a car accident and am permanently disfigured. Perhaps my mother has voluntarily offered me up for plastic surgery without my consent.

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