The Memory Book (28 page)

‘I am sorry,’ I say, and he looks up at me, scrutinising my face as though he’s trying to check it’s really me. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. The last thing I want is to hurt you. You are such a nice person, and a great father. And you are really very kind to me. If I were you, I’d have packed my bags and legged it by now.’

‘That’s the one thing that I can’t do,’ Greg says. ‘I can’t ever leave you, Claire.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, and I smile, for him. The disease cuts bits of me off, or suffocates them, but I am still me. I still
know what is right and what should be done. I want to be the best wife I can be before I go, even if that means learning to be polite again.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes. Book the appointment and we will go together. You never know, it might help.’

‘Thank you.’ He is careful to be calm, to keep his emotions in check. ‘Thank you. Well, I’d better get off to work. What will you do today?’

‘Well, my jailor has got me on full lockdown, so I’ll probably hang out with Esther and write in my book a bit more. I’m hoping Caitlin will be in touch on the talker, and tell me how she is. I’m sure she will when she is ready.’

‘I’m sure she will too,’ Greg says. ‘Right, then. I’ll see you tonight.’

‘I will almost certainly be here,’ I say.

A few moments, or a few hours, after he has gone, Esther brings me a book.

‘Read to me,’ she says, and I open the pages as she climbs on to my lap. But the words still aren’t coming, and this time the pictures don’t mean anything, either. I close my eyes and try to make up a story, but Esther knows this book off by heart, it seems, and she won’t put up with my efforts to make something up. Nor will she tell me the story herself. She is angry and disappointed with me.

‘I want you to read to me, Mummy, like you used to! What wrongs with you?’

‘This book,’ I say, throwing it hard across the room. It
pounds into the wall with a loud bang, and Esther cries. I try to put my arms around her, but she fights me off, running upstairs, sobbing her heart out. Esther hardly ever cries like that, those awful shoulder-shaking sobs punctuated by long drawn-in breaths of silence. Esther is such a sunny child, and I have made her cry.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Mum comes into the room. She has been somewhere deep in the house, cleaning something that she invariably cleaned yesterday, and the day before. I have come to realise this is a way for her to be with me and yet not be with me at the same time. She hides away, scrubbing at something that is already spotless, so she doesn’t have to look at me failing.

‘I can’t read to Esther,’ I say. ‘She is angry with me, and I am angry with me. I threw a book.’

Mum looks sad. She sits down on the edge of the sofa, holding a duster.

‘I’m not very good at this, am I?’ I ask her. ‘It would have been far better if I’d have got cancer, then at least I could have read to Esther, been in love with my husband. Been allowed out on my own.’

‘You don’t have to be good at it,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s so like my over-achieving daughter to want to be good at having Alzheimer’s.’

‘Well, I blame you for that,’ I say. ‘You always told me the key to success is being happy, and I decided quite early on that it was actually the other way round. And now …’

I stop, because I get the feeling that the thought that’s popped into my head isn’t one that anyone else will like.

‘And now?’ Mum prompts me anyway.

‘Now I wonder what happiness is anyway,’ I say. ‘I wonder what emotions
are
, really, if they can be so altered and changed by plaque in my brain or the little emboli. Are they even real?’

‘I think they are real,’ Mum says. ‘I love you more than I have ever loved anyone – even your father, and I loved him very much. And Greg loves you, and that is real, much more real than I thought, I’ll admit. Esther and Caitlin love you. A lot of people love you. And all of the feelings they have for you are real. I think it’s love that lasts. It’s love that remembers us. It’s love that is left, when we are gone. I think those feelings are more real than our bodies and all the things that can go wrong with them. This’ – she pinches her forearm – ‘is just the packaging.’

Her words move me in a way I didn’t expect: somehow, she has made me feel hopeful, not for a cure, but for some sort of peace in my head. My poor, busy, never restful, dying brain.

‘You’d better go and see Esther,’ Mum says. ‘There are other things you can do together, apart from read. Get her paints out, or play in the garden?’

I nod and trudge up the stairs to find Esther sitting on her bedroom floor, looking out of the window. It’s a blustery, cold day outside, but at least it’s not raining, for once.

‘I’m sorry I threw the pages,’ I say.

‘It’s a book,’ Esther says.

‘I’m sorry I threw it,’ I say again. ‘I got cross. I’ve forgotten how to read the words.’

‘I forget sometimes which is my letter,’ Esther says. ‘I know it is an “Eh” but I’d like it to be a “Ja”. They look much nicer, and I want to be called Jennifer.’

‘Jennifer is a very pretty name,’ I say, venturing on to the floor next to her. ‘But you are much prettier than that.’

‘Don’t worry, Mummy,’ Esther says. ‘We can learn to read together at the same time. Sames.’

‘What else would you like to do, instead?’

‘Chocolate fountain and marshmallows?’ Esther says with a big smile.

‘Or painting?’

‘Or park?’

‘Or garden?’

‘OK,’ Esther concedes. ‘The garden, then. What shall we do in the garden?’

I think of anything that can be done in our very small, square garden, so I say the only thing I can think of.

‘We’re going to dig an enormous hole.’

We haven’t been digging for very long when Esther gets bored and puts down her trowel and goes to the gate. She rattles at the latch, and I realise that the poor child is sharing much of my confinement.

‘Shall we go to the shop and get buttons?’ she asks me hopefully.

‘We could ask Granny if she’s got some?’ I say. I can see Mum in the kitchen, washing up, even though we have a contraption that does it, as an excuse to keep an eye on us.

‘No, I want to walk to the shop, and see the trees,’ Esther says so plaintively that I also miss the trees on her behalf.

‘I have to ask Granny,’ I say. ‘See if she can come with us.’

‘Granny makes me eat apples,’ Esther says darkly. ‘And I want a magazine with a thingy on.’

Esther means any type of comic or magazine aimed at children with any sort of free gift attached to the front. There is something about the joy of getting something free on the front of something else that cannot be rivalled, in her book. She does not care what the object is, and it’s usually broken or forgotten by the next day, but the thrill of acquiring it is often enough for her. Greg and I joked once that her next Christmas stocking should be made up of freebies from magazines. I start as I remember the moment … Standing in the newsagents while Esther hopefully brought us a pile of six or so magazines … He put his arm around me, and kissed me on the cheek. I remember how it felt. I was happy. I’m happy now thinking about it.

‘The shop is at the end of the road, isn’t it?’ I say to Esther, wondering if I am remembering a real shop, or the shop of my childhood where Mum used to send me to buy pints of milk in glass bottles when I was about seven years old.

‘Yes,’ Esther says confidently, although I am sure she would answer the same way, even if I were asking for directions to Disney World.

‘This is what we will do,’ I say, feeling emboldened by my memory of feelings. I sense that I am in a moment that is free from symptoms, and that I should do something with it. ‘We will walk to the end of the street, but if it’s not there, then we will have to turn around and come right back, OK? Because we can’t worry Granny again. It isn’t fair.’

‘OK!’ Esther jumps up and down excitedly. ‘Let’s take a biscuit!’

‘A biscuit?’ I say.

‘Like Hansel and Gretel,’ she says. ‘So we will find our way back.’

‘We won’t need a biscuit,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got a good feeling.’

I can’t see Esther, and the panic rises and rises in my chest. How many minutes has it been since I last saw her? How many hours? I walk outside the shop and look around. This is not the end of my road, or at least not the road I last remember living on. I am sure I came out with Esther, and now I can’t see her. The traffic goes by very quickly. It’s almost dark. I go back into the shop.

‘Did I come in with a little girl?’ I ask the man behind the counter. He ignores me.

‘Did I come in with a little girl?’ I repeat. He shrugs and
reads his paper. ‘Esther!’ I shout her name very loudly. ‘Esther!’

But she is not in the shop. Oh God, oh God. We left the house, out of the back gate, we turned right, and we were just going to walk to the end of the street. What happened? Where is Esther? Oh God, oh God. I take the calling thing and look at it. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know how to make it connect with someone. I stumble out into the street and see a woman walking towards me, her head down because of the cold, and I grab her, making her start and pull away.

‘Please, help me,’ I say. ‘I’ve lost my little girl and I don’t know how to make this work!’ I’m shouting. I’m scared and confused. She shakes her head and marches on.

‘Someone help me!’ I shout at the top of my voice, in the middle of the street, as the sunlight dies and the headlights glare. ‘Someone help me. I’ve lost my little girl! I’ve lost my Esther. Where is she?’

‘Don’t worry.’ The shopkeeper appears in the doorway, and beckons me over. ‘Come inside, madam, come inside. I’ll phone people for you.’

‘My little girl.’ I cling on to him. ‘I should never have taken her out. I’m not capable of looking after her on my own any more. I can’t even read, and I’ve lost her, I’ve lost her. She is all alone.’

The man takes my phone. ‘Tell me a name,’ he says.

‘Mum.’ I sob the word as I look around for any sign of her. ‘Esther, Esther.’

‘Hello?’ The man speaks. ‘I think I have your daughter with me. She is very upset. She says she has lost her little girl? OK, OK. Yes. One moment, please. Madam?’ I cling on to the counter. ‘It’s OK, your little girl is safe. She is at home with her grandmother. Here, here. Talk to her.’

‘Mum?’ I press it against my ear. ‘What have I done? I’ve lost Esther! I took her out, even though I knew that I mustn’t, and now she’s gone, Mum. She’s gone.’

‘She’s not.’ I hear Mum’s voice. ‘Esther is here with me, darling. Mrs Harrison from three doors up found her in her garden talking to the cat. She’s here, and she’s safe. Esther said you were going to the shop, but that she stopped to talk to the cat and you didn’t. Mrs Harrison went to the shop to look, but you weren’t there. Do you know where you are?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’

‘Let me talk to that man again.’

Numb, frightened and still shaking, I hand the thing back to the shopkeeper.

‘I told your mum where we are,’ he says. ‘So no need to worry. She’s coming to get you. Would you like a cup of tea?’

I nod, and seeing a magazine covered in cellophane with some bright-yellow and pink plastic toy behind it, I pick it up. But as I pat my coat pockets, I realise that I don’t have any way of paying for it.

‘For your daughter?’ he asks me. I nod, mutely.

‘It’s OK, you can keep it,’ he says. ‘On me. Now, you sit
down here on this stool, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. You’ll be home soon, no need to be afraid.’

‘It’s OK.’ Mum helps me into the warm water in the bath, and holds my hand as I sit down. ‘It’s OK.’

I ask her to leave the door open, because downstairs I can hear Esther singing and talking with Greg.

‘It’s not,’ I say. ‘It’s not OK any more. I’m not her mummy any more. I’ve stopped knowing how to read to her, how to keep her safe. I had no idea where I was, Mum, or how I even got there. I can’t be trusted any more, not even with my own little girl.’

‘It was my fault,’ Mum says. ‘I just nipped to the loo, and when I came back …’

‘I’m not a toddler,’ I say. ‘And you are in your sixties. You shouldn’t have to be checking whether or not I’ve drowned myself in a puddle. You shouldn’t have to go through this, Mum. I need to go back to see the doctor. We need a better plan. A care plan.’

‘Lean forward.’

I hug my knees and Mum squeezes hot water from the sponge over my back, gently rubbing it.

‘Lie back.’

I lie very still and let her wash me – my arms, my breasts, my stomach, my legs.

‘We can manage,’ she says after a while. The steam from the bath is making her cheeks damp.

‘I don’t want you to manage,’ I say to her. ‘I don’t want you to. This is your life, and you were happy, with your friends and the singing and the
Daily Mail
. You were happy, Mum. You’d done the hard stuff, and now you were getting to have contentment. I don’t want you here, wondering what terrible, dreadful, stupid thing I’m going to do next. I want you to be free of me. Not washing me like I am a baby.’

Mum bows her head as she kneels by the side of the bath. ‘Don’t you see?’ she says, without looking up. ‘I could no more go back to the house and the things I do back there than I could cut off my arm. You
are
my baby, my daughter, my little girl. No matter how big or old you get, you are mine, my precious child. I won’t ever leave you, Claire. Not while there is a breath in my body.’

‘Mum.’ I reach out and touch her cheek, and she covers her face with her hands. I lean over the edge of the bath and put my arms around her.

‘You are the best mum,’ I say. ‘The most amazingly wonderful mum that there is.’

‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘You are, and I’m going to help you to keep being that for as long as I possibly can. We’re not there yet, Claire. We are not at the end yet. There’s so much more to do – psychotherapy maybe. Your counsellor – you’ve not really taken her seriously yet, except for keeping up with your book. And we’ll go back to that Mr Rajapaske and talk about drugs. And I won’t try to keep you in so much. We’ll arrange things for you to do, safe things. It’s my fault. I want to wrap
you up, and protect you. I want to stop this awful thing from happening to you. I think … I think maybe I thought I could keep you in the house like Sleeping Beauty, then nothing would ever change.’