the following Friday

According to the last living will and testament of James Ross, his body — which, like a thick, clumsy parka, has been gratefully shrugged off and left behind in the cab of life — is cremated and his ashes are to be brought home. There is some debate about whether Jim would prefer to be kept in a container or to have his ashes scattered outside. And if outside, then where? In Berry and Berenice's Spruce Street backyard, which is now clean of spiritual clutter? Or, outside the Scarborough house Berry grew up in? But that house will be sold, also according to the instructions in the will, so that might not be a good resting place.

These decisions can wait, Berry and Berenice decide.

Berry is still in the hospital, his brain and collarbone healing. These few days in the hospital are a glorious reprieve from all responsibility.

Berry is enjoying his time here. The nurses are kind and careful with him. Berenice brings the girls in after school each day and they stay until bedtime. They eat cafeteria food together over his tray table. Berenice comes in the morning too. She drops the girls off at school, picks up coffee and comes to sit with him before her classes start. These coffee mornings feel just like the cheap dates they used to have as students, sitting on park benches with takeout cups before class. Only now they share a family, a house, a dog. She shows him pictures of Waffles who, she tells him, is enjoying his temporary life at Simon's.

For his part, Simon is enjoying the dog's company, but he is enjoying Rod's even more. The young, handsome waiter has taken a parental interest in training the formerly obstinate animal. When Simon returns from work each day, Rod is eager to show him some new obedience he's taught Waffles. Waffles has an entire repertoire of tricks now that he's happy to perform so long as adequate payment in treats is proffered.

He still has terrible gas.

But back to Berry. Between Berenice's twice-daily visits, he spends time with Jim. With Jim's tapes, to be clear. Not with the ghost of Jim or any further visions of Jim. He hasn't seen anything not-of-this-realm since waking up from what he calls his "big sleep-in."

Today, he is listening to the final tape in his Dad's box. He is wearing the gargantuan noise-cancelling headphones Berenice bought him for this purpose. If he ever goes back to work, which he isn't thinking about right now, he'll fit right in with the Millenials at Quantum Coffee. Otto would get a good laugh out of him sitting here in his gray hoodie and pyjama bottoms listening to an old man's dictaphone tapes in the state of the art headphones. Otto is the only thing he misses about work.

Anyway, the tapes.

The last recording begins with tinny radio static. Everything on his Dad's tapes is tinny to some degree — this is hardly high fidelity technology that Jim opted for. There is always a clunk which signals the depression of the recording button, then the sound of a needle being dropped on the record player. Then the gift of the unknown. So far, the music has been a sort of alphabetical tour of the greatest masterpieces of rock from the 60s through the 80s. Apparently, his father, like most people, could find nothing to love about music that was made after 1989.

There were songs by the Beatles, LedZepplin, Joy Division, Fleetwood Mac, Bowie... the only thread that connected them was that they were each, in some way, important to Jim, and Jim had wanted to share them with his son. Often, he narrated over top of the music. Just as often, he simply let the song play. In the later tapes, Berry could sometimes hear his Dad chuckling to himself. Like an old pothead, he thought fondly.

This last tape was the most special, because, of course, it was the last. So, here it is:

First, the clunk of the record button. The needle drop. The song begins.

There is the sound of tinny radio static, a dial being turned across stations. Indecipherable English accents. A snippet of Tchaikovsky's Fourth Symphony cuts in and then, arguably, the most iconic first lines of guitar music ever written.

Jim's voice: Those voices. A radio teleplay. Gilmour recorded them on his car's radio at random. But is anything really random? Remember, he chose to press record at that moment. He made the decision to use the recording in his song.

(The song continues, acoustic now. Haunting. Gilmour's voice enters.)

So...
So you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell
Blue skies from rain

Jim's voice: What I love about this song, Berry, is that it perfectly describes our time on earth. We do battle with ourselves from the moment we're born until the day we die — a struggle between our will and our apathy. I like to think, though, that just before the end, we sort out some kind of truce.

Did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

Jim's voice: Berry, son, I suspect this will be my last bit of advice and I hope you'll take it. Quit that awful job. Find something you love to do and do it. Better to risk everything on that battlefield than stay safely locked in a cage of your own making. When I'm gone, there's going to be enough money to take care of your family for a while. I want you to use it to find out who you really want to be.

We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fishbowl
Year after year
Running over the same old ground
What have we found?
The same old fears.

Wish you were here.

Berry blinks and his nose tingles, signalling the onslaught of a fresh round of tears. He doesn't mind. He's become a swinging door of free-rolling emotions since waking up. He swings inward and outward with equal ease, brimming with tears, then grinning with real pleasure.

He is alive. And being alive is marvellous.

***

Dr. Yan enters Berry's room looking uncharacteristically serious.

"Mr. Ross, can I have a word?" the doctor says.

Berry waves him in and removes his ridiculous headphones.

"Mneh... What's up, Doc?" Berry smiles. Their usual patter. But Dr. Yan doesn't want to do the Bugs Bunny routine this time. Uh oh. This would be worrying if Berry was of the mind to worry. Which he isn't.

"Mr. Ross, I have your scan results here. You'll remember, we wanted one last look at your brain to make sure the swelling was down."

Berry nods. Yes, he spent a delightful two hours this morning chatting with a woman in the MRI waiting area. Her name was Janice and she had two grandsons, a dead husband and a torn ACL.

"So," continues Dr. Yan. "Everything looks absolutely fine in the old noggin."

"That sounds like good news," smiles Berry.

"It would be, yes, except that, according to your wife, you appear to be ... experiencing life differently than is normal for you. She tells me there is a definite personality shift. This is something we tend to see as a sign that things haven't quite gone back to normal."

"I feel great," Berry assures Dr. Yan.

"Well, it sounds like that's the problem, Berry. You aren't normally quite so happy."

Berry considers this. No, he supposes he wasn't. In fact, he was pretty miserable most of the time. How did Berenice stand him?

"There is a phenomenon with traumatic brain injury," explains Dr. Yan. "wherein the brain chemistry can be changed. Normally, when this happens, we see formerly happy patients suddenly sink into depression and anxiety. Completely treatable with anti-depression therapies. But in your case—"

"—I'm not at all depressed." supplies Berry.

"That's right. So we might have a change in brain chemistry on our hands here. But I'm at a loss as to how to treat it. There are no anti-happiness therapies. Unless you count living with my mother-in-law," the doctor jokes.

Berry shrugs. Then, almost alarmed, adds, "Wait. Can a change in brain chemistry be permanent? Or will I have to go back to being awful?"

It's the doctor's turn to shrug. "We have no way of knowing, Mr. Ross. Could be yes, could be no. Either way, I'm ready to discharge you this afternoon. Let your wife know, you'll be able to attend that ceremony she's been worrying about."

Something distant chimes through Berry's murky memory. Right. An important ritual. The remains they found in the yard.

He was looking forward to it.