with some of them in the pub that night. But I’ve been away on business a lot over the last few years and
lost touch with most of my contacts in England. “But there must be someone else, a family member?” they asked and I wracked my brains. And then I said no, as matter of fact, there
isn’t! “But your girlfriend,” they said. “The one who came to visit, surely she wants to help. Surely she would give up a little time to sort you out, just until you
adjust.” I asked them who they meant, and they said, “The small, dark, wavy-haired girl,” and I asked when you had come, and they said the day after the accident.’
He was looking at me intently through his blue eyes, as if seeking reassurance. It must be terrifying to be so lost, without memories to help you navigate.
‘So that’s when I rang you, when I realised you were the one – if anyone – who would be there for me.’
The sun sinking outside shone directly through the window, colouring everything amber.
‘Retrograde amnesia, they called it,’ he went on. ‘I can remember, you see, bits and pieces before and after my accident. And I can form new memories. But there are bits around
the accident that have gone. Just gone. So when you came, I didn’t remember you! But it’s OK because they reminded me. And I thought, I have a beautiful girlfriend to get better for.
Nothing’s going to stop me performing the way I used to for her!’ He twinkled.
It was warm and quiet beside his bed, and it occurred to me how very isolated from the outside world we were, how cocooned in this ward from my real life. There seemed no point in worrying any
longer about what part I had in his accident. I was here now. I had to follow it through.
I thought of Fay, my yoga teacher, telling us to stay in the moment.
‘I do remember now that we had planned a weekend sailing in Southwold when all that stuff happened in the pub. That it was going to be our first full weekend together. I think. Is that
right?’
All that mattered was here, now. I wouldn’t think either about what I had done, or about where this was taking me. I would just do whatever I could to help him.
‘You’re the biggest incentive I have to get up and get going,’ he said. ‘But I can see it’s a pretty big ask for you to be patient with me. For you to wait while I
learn to walk again, when you’re so busy with – you see, I’ve forgotten. What’s your work again?’
‘I’m a painter,’ I told him, ‘an artist. And a primary school teacher.’ The New York commission seemed a superficial and paltry thing next to what Patrick was
having to confront, so I didn’t mention it.
‘I have to teach on Mondays and Fridays. But I wouldn’t put anything before your walking,’ I said. ‘I
will
be here for you.’
‘Pull the curtains round my bed,’ he said. I did as he asked.
‘Come closer.’
It was as though I had been hypnotised.
‘I need you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been starved of touch in here all this time.’
How long, I wondered, did he think he’d been here? It was only four days. Poor man, to be so confused.
‘Here, closer again. Next to me.’
‘Won’t it hurt you? Is it allowed?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
And I was doing as he asked.
I lay down on the hospital bed, leaving a gap of just centimetres between his body and mine. This man I barely knew looked at me, as if he was reminding himself of who I was, examining me from
the top of my head and every millimetre of my face, my eyes, my nose, and then his eyes came to a stop at my lips.
He didn’t move.
This
was
the right thing to do. I’d heard somewhere that if a person was deluded, say, with dementia, it’s much better to play along than to shatter their fantasy.
I was applying this notion to this man, since I no longer had the faintest idea what else I could do.
I ignored other thoughts that were pushing against my consciousness. Vague jumbled anxieties about who the woman he believed I was
lost touch with most of my contacts in England. “But there must be someone else, a family member?” they asked and I wracked my brains. And then I said no, as matter of fact, there
isn’t! “But your girlfriend,” they said. “The one who came to visit, surely she wants to help. Surely she would give up a little time to sort you out, just until you
adjust.” I asked them who they meant, and they said, “The small, dark, wavy-haired girl,” and I asked when you had come, and they said the day after the accident.’
He was looking at me intently through his blue eyes, as if seeking reassurance. It must be terrifying to be so lost, without memories to help you navigate.
‘So that’s when I rang you, when I realised you were the one – if anyone – who would be there for me.’
The sun sinking outside shone directly through the window, colouring everything amber.
‘Retrograde amnesia, they called it,’ he went on. ‘I can remember, you see, bits and pieces before and after my accident. And I can form new memories. But there are bits around
the accident that have gone. Just gone. So when you came, I didn’t remember you! But it’s OK because they reminded me. And I thought, I have a beautiful girlfriend to get better for.
Nothing’s going to stop me performing the way I used to for her!’ He twinkled.
It was warm and quiet beside his bed, and it occurred to me how very isolated from the outside world we were, how cocooned in this ward from my real life. There seemed no point in worrying any
longer about what part I had in his accident. I was here now. I had to follow it through.
I thought of Fay, my yoga teacher, telling us to stay in the moment.
‘I do remember now that we had planned a weekend sailing in Southwold when all that stuff happened in the pub. That it was going to be our first full weekend together. I think. Is that
right?’
All that mattered was here, now. I wouldn’t think either about what I had done, or about where this was taking me. I would just do whatever I could to help him.
‘You’re the biggest incentive I have to get up and get going,’ he said. ‘But I can see it’s a pretty big ask for you to be patient with me. For you to wait while I
learn to walk again, when you’re so busy with – you see, I’ve forgotten. What’s your work again?’
‘I’m a painter,’ I told him, ‘an artist. And a primary school teacher.’ The New York commission seemed a superficial and paltry thing next to what Patrick was
having to confront, so I didn’t mention it.
‘I have to teach on Mondays and Fridays. But I wouldn’t put anything before your walking,’ I said. ‘I
will
be here for you.’
‘Pull the curtains round my bed,’ he said. I did as he asked.
‘Come closer.’
It was as though I had been hypnotised.
‘I need you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been starved of touch in here all this time.’
How long, I wondered, did he think he’d been here? It was only four days. Poor man, to be so confused.
‘Here, closer again. Next to me.’
‘Won’t it hurt you? Is it allowed?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
And I was doing as he asked.
I lay down on the hospital bed, leaving a gap of just centimetres between his body and mine. This man I barely knew looked at me, as if he was reminding himself of who I was, examining me from
the top of my head and every millimetre of my face, my eyes, my nose, and then his eyes came to a stop at my lips.
He didn’t move.
This
was
the right thing to do. I’d heard somewhere that if a person was deluded, say, with dementia, it’s much better to play along than to shatter their fantasy.
I was applying this notion to this man, since I no longer had the faintest idea what else I could do.
I ignored other thoughts that were pushing against my consciousness. Vague jumbled anxieties about who the woman he believed I was
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