Where the Memories Lie
By: Sibel Hodge
Durdle Door was a natural limestone arch formed on a beach near Lulworth, about a thirty-minute drive from Mountain View. It had always been one of Tom’s favourite places to walk his dogs in his younger years, but it seemed to take on greater significance for him in the later stages of his Alzheimer’s, and driving him for a trip out there always seemed to lift his mood. He couldn’t manage to go all the way down from the top to the beach these days, but he was content to walk along the chalky white path on the cliffs above, where he could still enjoy the amazing views and refreshing, salty sea air.
‘I don’t have time to go there and back today, Tom. Next time I visit, I’ll take you out along the cliffs. I promise.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Let’s go in the garden, then.’
‘Do you want a wheelchair?’
‘No. I want to walk. I’m not dead yet.’
I smiled.
Tom shuffled slowly along the corridor that led to the commu-nal lounge/TV room and then through the large glass doors onto the patio.
I hooked my arm through his to steady him and we took a tour of the grounds.
‘Ethan sends his love.’
‘Ethan?’
‘Your son.’
‘Ethan,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t think I know him.’
‘He’ll come and see you at the weekend. He’s working in York again this week.’
‘I don’t want him here. She’ll be here.’
‘Who?’
‘Georgia. She doesn’t leave me alone. I want to be left in peace.’
He stopped walking, turned to me and clutched my forearm with his bony hand. ‘It’s my fault.’
16
Where the Memories Lie ‘I don’t understand, Tom. What’s your fault?’
His eyes watered and he averted them from mine, staring into the distance blankly as if in some kind of trance. ‘I killed her, Olivia.
I killed her.’
17
Chapter Two
I drove home with Tom’s words echoing in my head.
I killed her.
After he’d uttered them, he became so agitated I couldn’t get anything else out of him. It took half an hour to get him back inside. He’d thought I was trying to take him to an abattoir to chop his head off. Eventually, with the help of one of the male nurses, a wheelchair and a strong sedative, he was resting back in bed again.
What the hell did he mean he’d killed her? Killed who? Who was Georgia?
It couldn’t be true, though. Absolutely not. Confusion was a perfectly normal symptom of the disease. Maybe he’d seen a TV programme about someone called Georgia who was killed, although quite frankly, I didn’t think they should be letting the residents watch stuff like that. Or maybe he’d been chatting to one of the other patients whose daughter called Georgia had gone missing.
Yes, that was it. That was absolutely it. I’d never heard Tom mention anyone called Georgia before.
When I got home I made myself lunch and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels to find something to distract me. I ate Where the Memories Lie a cheese and ham sandwich that I didn’t even taste, swallowing it down with water to get it past my dry throat. I couldn’t even tell you what programme I watched.
After letting Poppy out into the garden to do her business, I walked the ten minutes to work.
I was chock-a-block with patients from 1 p.m. until 6 p.m.
when the nurses’ appointments finished. I thought maybe dressing changes and assisting with smear tests and blood pressure checks would keep me occupied. Usually, I would have a great time chatting with the patients, putting them at ease, finding out what they’d been up to ? I’ve always been pretty nosy and love talking ? except I couldn’t get it out of my mind: the look of guilt on Tom’s face. The desperation in his eyes. The fear.
When I walked back in the front door, Poppy greeted me, wag-ging her tail so hard with excitement her whole backside shook.
I praised her, flapped her ears a bit, which she loved, and kicked off my shoes by the bottom of the stairs next to Anna’s.
‘You OK, darling?’ I called out.