never gave us the address. I’d gotten so used to always being able to reach her that I suppose I thought we were somehow permanently connected, and could always be in touch within moments. But that was when I was still able to use the object that I don’t know the name for any more – and when she used to compulsively respond to it.
Something is wrong – more wrong than hurt feelings and anger.
‘It feels like too long a time.’ I dig my feet into the carpet. I don’t know exactly how long it has been. One of the fears I have when I wake up every day is that time might have vanished while I wasn’t concentrating. She might have been gone a day, a week, a year or a decade. Have I lost years in the fog? Is she older now with her own children, and I’ve missed a lifetime, lying unconscious in my own sleepy hollow?
‘Two weeks and a bit,’ he says, staring at his hands clasped between his knees. ‘It’s not that long, really.’
‘It’s not long at all when you are twenty and living it up at university.’ My mum appears, standing in the doorway, her arms folded. She looks like she is on the point of telling me to tidy up after myself, even though this is Caitlin’s room. ‘Remember when you went inter-railing or whatever it was with that girl? What was her name?’
‘Laura Bolsover,’ I say, at once picturing Laura’s face, round and shiny, dimples in her cheeks, her left eyebrow pierced several times. Names from the distant past come freakishly easily, because quite often I feel as though I am there, and this
here
, this
now
, is simply an intermission from reality. I met her at a party when I was seventeen. We instantly became inseparable friends and remained so for about a year, until our lives took us in separate directions, and the promises we’d made to always stay in touch were forgotten within days, possibly hours.
‘Yes.’ Mum nods. ‘That was her. Cocky little thing, she was, always grinning like she was in on some joke. Anyway, you went off with her, across Europe, and for the best part of three months I never heard from you. Every day I was worried sick about you, but what could I do? I had to trust that you would turn up again, and you did. Like a bad penny.’
‘Well, that was before …’ I gesture at the thing, lying maddeningly dormant on the bed. ‘It was harder then to be in touch. Now there’s calling and emails.’ I remember emails.I smile, feeling quite proud of the way I’ve remembered emailing, and spoken about it. I’ve tried that too – or had Mum and Greg do it for me, at least, standing over the word book, telling them what to say. Still no reply.
Mum looks around at Caitlin’s room, the tiny-pink-rosebud paper all but obliterated by posters of depressed-looking rock bands. ‘Two weeks isn’t that long.’
‘Two weeks and a bit,’ I say, trying to highlight that piece of information in my mind, to stick it down somewhere so it will stay. ‘That is long for Caitlin. She’s never done this before. We always talk, every few days.’
‘Her life has never been like
this
before,’ Mum says. ‘She’s facing all this too, your …’ She gestures in a way that I am assuming is meant to mean Alzheimer’s Disease, because she doesn’t like to say the words out loud. ‘And she’s just found out she was fathered by a man who never knew of her existence. It’s no wonder she feels like she needs to escape.’
‘Yes, but I am not
you
,’ I hear myself say. ‘Caitlin doesn’t feel the need to try and escape from
me
.’
Mum stands in the doorway for a moment longer, and then turns on her heel. I have been cruel again. I suppose everybody knows that the reason I am cruel is because the AD makes me stop knowing what and how to say things, and also because a lot of the time I feel scared. I suppose everyone knows that, but it doesn’t stop them being hurt by me – and beginning to be wary of me, and I think perhaps even to resent me – and why should it?
Something is wrong – more wrong than hurt feelings and anger.
‘It feels like too long a time.’ I dig my feet into the carpet. I don’t know exactly how long it has been. One of the fears I have when I wake up every day is that time might have vanished while I wasn’t concentrating. She might have been gone a day, a week, a year or a decade. Have I lost years in the fog? Is she older now with her own children, and I’ve missed a lifetime, lying unconscious in my own sleepy hollow?
‘Two weeks and a bit,’ he says, staring at his hands clasped between his knees. ‘It’s not that long, really.’
‘It’s not long at all when you are twenty and living it up at university.’ My mum appears, standing in the doorway, her arms folded. She looks like she is on the point of telling me to tidy up after myself, even though this is Caitlin’s room. ‘Remember when you went inter-railing or whatever it was with that girl? What was her name?’
‘Laura Bolsover,’ I say, at once picturing Laura’s face, round and shiny, dimples in her cheeks, her left eyebrow pierced several times. Names from the distant past come freakishly easily, because quite often I feel as though I am there, and this
here
, this
now
, is simply an intermission from reality. I met her at a party when I was seventeen. We instantly became inseparable friends and remained so for about a year, until our lives took us in separate directions, and the promises we’d made to always stay in touch were forgotten within days, possibly hours.
‘Yes.’ Mum nods. ‘That was her. Cocky little thing, she was, always grinning like she was in on some joke. Anyway, you went off with her, across Europe, and for the best part of three months I never heard from you. Every day I was worried sick about you, but what could I do? I had to trust that you would turn up again, and you did. Like a bad penny.’
‘Well, that was before …’ I gesture at the thing, lying maddeningly dormant on the bed. ‘It was harder then to be in touch. Now there’s calling and emails.’ I remember emails.I smile, feeling quite proud of the way I’ve remembered emailing, and spoken about it. I’ve tried that too – or had Mum and Greg do it for me, at least, standing over the word book, telling them what to say. Still no reply.
Mum looks around at Caitlin’s room, the tiny-pink-rosebud paper all but obliterated by posters of depressed-looking rock bands. ‘Two weeks isn’t that long.’
‘Two weeks and a bit,’ I say, trying to highlight that piece of information in my mind, to stick it down somewhere so it will stay. ‘That is long for Caitlin. She’s never done this before. We always talk, every few days.’
‘Her life has never been like
this
before,’ Mum says. ‘She’s facing all this too, your …’ She gestures in a way that I am assuming is meant to mean Alzheimer’s Disease, because she doesn’t like to say the words out loud. ‘And she’s just found out she was fathered by a man who never knew of her existence. It’s no wonder she feels like she needs to escape.’
‘Yes, but I am not
you
,’ I hear myself say. ‘Caitlin doesn’t feel the need to try and escape from
me
.’
Mum stands in the doorway for a moment longer, and then turns on her heel. I have been cruel again. I suppose everybody knows that the reason I am cruel is because the AD makes me stop knowing what and how to say things, and also because a lot of the time I feel scared. I suppose everyone knows that, but it doesn’t stop them being hurt by me – and beginning to be wary of me, and I think perhaps even to resent me – and why should it?
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