I roll the words around in my mouth, trying them for size. Through the open door, a bird picks up the words and begins chirruping, early-onset dementia, early-onset dementia, early-onset dementia.
Matthew’s arms come round me but I remain rigid
with fear. ‘Well, now you know,’ I say, my voice shaky with tears. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Of course not! How could you say that? I’m just sad.
And angry.’
‘That you married me?’
‘No, never that.’
‘If you want to leave me, you can. It’s not as if I don’t have enough money to go into the best home there is.’
He gives me a little shake. ‘Hey, don’t say things like that. I’ve told you before, I have no intention of leaving The Breakdown
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you, ever. And Dr Deakin only wants to refer you for
tests.’
‘But what if it turns out I do have it? I know what it’s going to be like, I know how impossibly frustrating it’s going to be for you.’
‘If that time comes, we’ll face it together. We still have years ahead of us, Cass, and they could be very good years, even if it turns out that you do have dementia.
Anyway, there’ll be medication you can take to slow it down. Please don’t start worrying before there’s something to worry about. I know it’s hard, but you have to stay positive.’
I somehow get through the rest of the evening but I feel so frightened. How can I stay positive when I can’t remember how the microwave or the washing machine works? I remember Mum and the kettle and the hot
tears start all over again. How long will it be before I can no longer remember how to make myself a simple cup of tea? How long will it be before I can no longer dress myself? Matthew, seeing how down I am, tells me that things could be worse, so I ask him what could be worse than losing my mind and when he can’t answer I feel bad for putting him on the spot. I know it’s no good being angry with him when he’s trying his best to remain positive. But it’s that shooting the messenger thing. It’s hard to feel grateful when he’s robbed me of my last bit of hope, that it was something other than dementia that was causing my memory loss.
SUNDAY SEPTEMBER 20th
I stand in the kitchen, slowly stirring the risotto I’ve made for lunch, my eyes on Matthew in the garden pulling weeds from flower beds. I’m not watching him, I’m just using him to focus my eyes while my mind swirls around, a reaction to the weekend and the lack of drugs.
It’s two months since Jane’s murder and I have absolutely no idea where the last few weeks have gone.
Thanks to the pills, they’ve passed in a painless blur.
With difficulty, I count backwards, trying to work out when I received the letter from Dr Deakin referring me for tests, and come up with three weeks ago. Three weeks, and I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that I might have early-onset dementia. Maybe one day I’ll be able to face up to it – my tests are scheduled for the end of next month – but for the moment I don’t want to have to.
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b a paris
Jane floats into my mind. Her face lingers there, her expression as blurred as it was on the day I saw her in the woods and I’m sad that I can barely remember what she looks like. It all seems to have happened so long ago.
My silent caller is still around though. During the week, when I’m home alone, I’m aware of the phone ringing at regular intervals throughout the day. Sometimes, through the fog in my brain, I hear Hannah, or Connie, or John, leaving a message on the answering machine.
But when a call cuts off before it can be picked up, I know that it’s him.
I’m still ordering things from the shopping channel except that I’ve upped my game and am now ordering jewellery instead of kitchen gadgets. On Friday,
Matthew came home from work with another parcel
left by the postman on the doorstep and my heart sank at the thought of playing yet another round of guess the contents.
‘That smells like my favourite dish,’ he’d smiled,
coming over to kiss me while I tried to work out what I’d ordered.
‘I thought it would be a nice start to the weekend.’
‘Lovely.’ He held up the box. ‘Another gadget for the kitchen?’
‘No,’ I said, hoping it wasn’t.
‘What is it then?’
‘A present.’
‘For me?’
‘No, for me.’
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‘Can I look?’
‘If you want.’
He took a pair of scissors and cut open the outer
packaging.
‘Knives?’ he asked, drawing out two black flat leather boxes.
‘Why don’t you open them and see?’ I suggested.
Suddenly, I knew what they were. ‘Pearls,’ I said.
‘They’re pearls.’
He flipped open the lid of one of the boxes. ‘Very
nice.’
‘They’re for Rachel,’ I told him confidently.
‘I thought you’d already bought her some earrings?’
‘These are for Christmas.’
‘We’re only in September, Cass.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in starting early is there?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ He drew out the bill and gave a low whistle. ‘Since when have you spent four hundred pounds on your friends?’