‘But it would do you a world of good! You could relax at the hotel while I’m at the conference and we could meet up in the evenings for dinner.’ She takes my hand, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘Please say yes, Cass, we’d have so much fun! And I’m taking a few days off after so we could spend those together.’
For one tiny moment, I feel as excited as her, I feel as if I could really do it. Then reality comes crashing in and I know that I’ll never be able to.
The Breakdown
245
‘I can’t,’ I say quietly.
She looks at me determinedly ‘You know very well
that there’s no such word.’
‘I’m sorry, Rachel, I really can’t. Another time,
maybe.’
I close the door behind her, feeling even more miserable than I usually do. Not so long ago, I would have jumped at the chance of a week in New York with Rachel. Now, the thought of getting on a plane, of
leaving the house even, is overwhelming.
Craving oblivion, I go to the kitchen and take another pill. It wipes me out so quickly that I only wake up when I hear Matthew calling my name.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble, mortified that he’s found me coma-tose on the sofa. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Shall I make a start on dinner while you have a shower to wake yourself up?’
‘Good idea.’
Getting groggily to my feet, I go upstairs, have a cold shower, throw on some clothes and go back down to the kitchen.
‘You smell nice,’ he says, looking up from where he’s unloading the dishwasher.
‘Sorry I didn’t get round to doing that.’
‘It’s fine. But did you put the washing machine on? I need my white shirt for tomorrow.’
I turn quickly. ‘I’ll go and do it now.’
‘Having a lazy day, were we?’ he teases.
‘A bit,’ I admit.
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I go through to the utility room, sort the shirts from the rest of the laundry and load them into the machine.
But as I go to switch it on I find my fingers hovering uncertainly over the row of buttons trying to remember which ones to press because, frighteningly, it has gone from my mind.
‘You may as well put this one in as well.’ Startled, I whip round and see Matthew standing bare-chested, his shirt in his hand. ‘Sorry, did I scare you?’
‘Not really,’ I say, flustered.
‘You looked as if you were miles away.’
‘I’m fine.’
I take the shirt from him and add it to the machine.
I close the door and stand there, my mind a blank.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘No,’ I say, my voice tight.
‘Is it what I said about you having a lazy day?’ he says, contrite. ‘I was only joking.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What then?’
My face burns. ‘I can’t remember how to turn on
the machine.’
The silence only lasts a few seconds but it seems
longer. ‘It’s fine, I’ll do it,’ he says quickly, reaching around me. ‘There, no harm done.’
‘Of course there’s harm done!’ I cry, incensed. ‘If I can no longer remember how to turn on the washing machine, it means my brain’s not working properly!’
The Breakdown
247
‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘It’s all right.’ He tries to put his arms around me but I shake him off.
‘No!’ I cry. ‘I’m fed-up of pretending that everything’s all right when it’s not!’
I push past him, march through the kitchen and out
to the garden. The cool air calms me but the increasingly rapid disintegration of my memory is terrifying.
Matthew gives me a while, then follows me out and
sits down next to me.
‘You need to read the letter from Dr Deakin,’ he says quietly.
I go cold. ‘What letter from Dr Deakin?’
‘The one that came last week.’
‘I didn’t see it.’ Even as I speak I have a vague recol-lection of seeing a letter with the stamp of the surgery on the envelope.
‘You must have – it was lying on the side with all the others you haven’t opened yet.’
I think of the pile of letters addressed to me that have accumulated over the past couple of weeks because I can’t be bothered to deal with them.
‘I’ll sort through them tomorrow,’ I say, suddenly
scared.
‘That’s what you said a couple of days ago when I
asked you about them. The thing is—’ He stops, looking awkward.
‘What?’
‘I opened the one from the surgery.’
My mouth drops open. ‘You opened my mail?’
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‘Only the one from the surgery,’ he says quickly.
‘And only because you didn’t seem to be dealing with it. I thought it might be important, that maybe Dr Deakin wanted to see you, or change your medication or something.’
‘You had no right,’ I say glaring at him. ‘Where is it?’
‘Where you left it.’ Hiding the fear I feel with anger, I march into the kitchen and go through the pile of letters until I find it. My fingers shake as I take the single sheet of paper from the already opened envelope and unfold it. The words dance before my eyes: ‘ spoken to a specialist about your symptoms’; ‘ like to refer you for tests’; ‘ early-onset dementia’; ‘ Please make an appointment as soon as possible. ’
The letter falls from my hands. Early-onset dementia.