Hello from the Gillespies (27 page)

Angela could hear something.

People’s voices and the clattering of cups. As if she were in a cafe or a restaurant. But she was lying down. In a bed. She could feel a sheet under her hand. Was she in her bedroom? Who would be in her bedroom, clattering cups, talking? So many at once, too. It wasn’t Will. It wasn’t Lexie either. These voices sounded different. They sounded . . . yes, Australian.

How very odd.

Still, there were so many Australians working in London these days. Maybe it was the radio coming from the kitchen, a sort of documentary. She tried to open her eyes again. It just felt too hard. It felt like they had been stuck somehow. She felt sore on her left side too. This really was all so strange. She tried calling out for her husband. He didn’t answer but someone else did. Someone standing close to her.

‘Angela? Can you hear me?’

She was no longer seeing the words on her eyelids. She could hear them loud and clear. Had she just heard someone say something about getting a nurse? Was she in hospital? Good heavens. It really did sound like that. She hadn’t been in hospital since . . . since Lexie was born, surely? How long ago was that? Nearly thirty years? What on earth had happened to put her in hospital? She was supposed to be on holiday. In Australia. With Will and Lexie. Visiting eco-resorts. Staying on an outback station.

If only she could open her eyes and really work out where she was and what was going on. She had managed it earlier, hadn’t she? Or had she? Was that hours ago? Or a few minutes ago? Time seemed to have gone so strange. She felt like she’d been asleep for days. Weeks. It had been quite nice actually. Such a deep, deep sleep.

Her thoughts were all a bit jumbled, but she did seem to remember waking up now and then. Each time there seemed to be different people around her. She’d been having the oddest conversations with them too. One time it had been a young woman in a uniform. Another time, a pretty woman with long dark hair, who’d asked her all sorts of questions, as if she were interviewing her. Another time Angela was sure she’d seen a little boy standing there looking at her. And a tall, serious-faced man. A group of young women. All saying her name.

Who were these people? And where were Will and Lexie? Perhaps they’d got caught up at work. They’d be joining her here soon. Yes, that was it. Will was so dedicated. So in demand. His architectural designs had won so many awards. Angela had been amazed when he said he’d be able to take six weeks off. As for Lexie . . . Angela frowned as she tried to remember. That’s right, Lexie was only going to join them for part of the trip anyway, wasn’t she? She was so dedicated too. So enthusiastic about her work with the community theatre group in Bristol. Angela was so proud of her.

She changed position in the bed. That was better. Yes, she was much more comfortable now. Come on, open your eyes again, she told herself. You can do it, Angela. On the count of three.

This time she managed it. There was a sudden rush of light. It hurt, but only for a second. She blinked once, twice, and tried to focus. Above her, she could see fluorescent lights. A curtain rail of sorts. A curtain too. Yes, there was a curtain around her bed, but it was pulled back. She could see a drip stand, some tubes. She glanced down. The drip was attached to her. She looked around some more. She’d been right. She was definitely in a hospital bed, one with white sheets and a pale-blue blanket. She shifted slightly and felt a quick dart of something, not quite pain, more a tightness of some sort. In her left side. She touched it. There seemed to be a bandage there. How odd. Why would she need a bandage?

She heard someone say her name. She looked around again. The people were back. The little boy. Or was it a little girl? Her or his hair was so long, it was hard to tell. The tall, serious-faced man. The three young women. All looking at her, as if they were waiting for her to say something. She couldn’t think of anything.

It was all getting a bit too confusing. A bit too much. She’d just shut her eyes again for a while. Have another one of those lovely deep sleeps. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Right now.

Hopefully it wouldn’t be too long before Will arrived and sorted everything out.

It was the next day. The Gillespies once again gathered in the hospital meeting room. Ruth had asked them to join her there. Angela had woken again that morning, while Ruth was nearby. They’d had a conversation for nearly twenty minutes. Ruth wanted to tell them about it, but was finding it difficult to get a word in. They were all still talking about their experience with Angela the previous night.

‘She didn’t recognise us, did she?’

‘She looked at me like she had no idea who I was! Has she forgotten us?’

‘Why did she go back to sleep again? Is she in another coma?’

‘Can we try to wake her again?’

Eventually, Ruth managed to quieten them down. ‘It’s still positive, I promise. She’s woken up several times now. She is on her way back. When she woke this morning I managed to have a long time with her awake and talking. That’s what I need to speak to you about now.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Did she ask about us?’

‘Does she know what happened that night?’

‘Why was she up in the hills at all?’

Ruth glanced at Nick for assistance.

‘Just wait and listen, all of you, please,’ Nick said.

They shut up.

Ruth spoke. ‘From what I can gather from our talk this morning, there does appear to be some memory loss. Some confusion. I asked her a series of questions. Standard ones. “What’s your name? Where do you live? What month is it? Who is the prime minister?” ’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said her name is Angela Richardson.’

‘That’s nearly right,’ Nick said. ‘That was her surname before we got married.’

‘She also said her husband’s name is Will, her daughter’s name is Lexie and that she lives in London. That the prime minister is Margaret Thatcher and that her favourite newspaper is
The Guardian
.’

There was an eruption of noise, questions and astonishment.

‘She thinks she’s in London?’ Genevieve said, speaking over the others. ‘That it’s the 1980s?’

‘No, not consistently,’ Ruth said. ‘When I asked her about music, she mentioned a recent song. She was jumping from subject to subject, confused at times. But she was also lucid at times too.’

‘Should we go back in there now?’ Victoria asked. ‘Stay beside her? Talk to her, tell her who we are, show her photos?’

‘Not just yet. Please, let me explain. We talked before about amnesia. There are different forms. Some are caused by a blow to the head, a punch or a knock of some kind. That can create damage to either the left or the right lobe. That kind of amnesia can be more straightforward in some ways. What’s happened to your mother is different. The loss of oxygen meant that both lobes have been affected. It’s rare, but it does happen. And when it does, there can be some amnesia, but it’s not just a matter of forgetting who she is, of there being a blank area in her brain. It can lead to other changes in memory and in behaviour. To a state called confabulation.’

‘Which means what?’ Genevieve said. ‘That she’s forgotten us?’

‘Not exactly. In Angela’s case, when she regained consciousness, her brain couldn’t readily tell her where she was or who she was. Our brains don’t like it when there’s nothing going on. We all need a personality, a story about ourselves. That’s what our mind is made of, thousands and thousands of snapshots, memories, thoughts that tell us every second of our day who we are, what we are doing, what we want and need. In Angela’s case, that knowledge, that memory of her real life, has been affected. So she is doing what we call confabulating.

‘Her brain has created a new identity for her, a new story, made up of lots of different fragments of information that she’s stored over the years. Anything to fill that blank space. Underneath, the rest of her brain is working on retrieving her lost memories, putting the pieces of the puzzle back together. What we expect will happen is that slowly, gradually, her real story will emerge again, once her brain has had time to adjust.’

‘But can’t you give her something now, a tablet, some kind of treatment?’ Victoria asked.

‘What if she never remembers us?’ Lindy asked.

‘We’re her own kids and she looked at us like she had never seen us before,’ Genevieve said.

Ruth’s pager buzzed. She glanced down. ‘I’m sorry, I need to see another patient. But please save up your questions. I’ll do my best to answer them all.’

They waited until she’d gone and then the room filled with noise again. Joan called for silence. ‘Please, all of you, be quiet. Not just for me, but for every patient in this building.’

‘We need to talk to Ruth again now,’ Genevieve said. ‘Because this confiber—’

‘Confabulation,’ Victoria said.

‘Whatever it is, this new story she’s creating, it’s not out of nowhere, is it? You heard what Ruth said. Mum talked about a man called Will. A daughter. London.’ She reached into her handbag and pulled out the creased printout of Angela’s Christmas letter. ‘Listen to this: “I’d have supported Will as he studied to become an architect. We’d have had one child. Just the one. A daughter called Lexie. We’d have stayed in London.” ’ She stopped reading. ‘I think Ruth needs to see this letter.’

‘No.’ It was Nick.

‘Dad, this might be the key to what’s going on with her.’

‘Too many people have seen that letter. It’s done enough damage.’

‘I think it’s important Ruth sees it,’ Genevieve insisted.

Victoria intervened. ‘Dad, maybe it will help. If that’s part of who Mum thinks she is now, maybe it will make a difference to her treatment, if they know she had these thoughts —’

‘Fantasies,’ Genevieve said.

‘— before the accident. That they haven’t come out of nowhere. It might be important.’

‘She’s right, Nick,’ Joan said. ‘It could be important.’

‘Dad, please.’

He looked at Genevieve for a long moment. ‘Go on, then. Give it to her.’

Genevieve left the room, Victoria, Lindy and Ig close behind her.

In the silence that followed, Joan came across the room to Nick and sat beside him. His eyes were shut. She didn’t say anything. She just touched his arm to let him know she was there.

There was another meeting with Ruth the next day. Angela had been conscious again during the night. Ruth had spent ninety minutes with her early that morning. She’d also read the Christmas letter Genevieve had left for her.

‘Let me start with the good news,’ Ruth said. ‘Physically, she’s doing well. Her reflexes are good, as is her eyesight, her hearing. She’s off the drip now, eating and drinking normally.’

Ruth shared details of her latest conversation with Angela. Again, there had been talk of London, different British politicians, place names. Another mention of a husband called Will. A daughter called Lexie. She had also talked about Australia. A trip to Australia. A holiday on an outback sheep station. She had spoken about their sheep station, even named it. Errigal.

‘So she’s started to remember us? Remember where she lives? The old her is coming back?’ Genevieve asked.

‘Not yet, I’m sorry. It’s not a matter of there being an Old Angela replaced by this New Angela. Both versions of her are still present. The best way to explain the idea of the amnesia and now this confabulation is to think of it as a protective shell her brain has put around itself. Her brain did receive some temporary damage, so while it’s fixing itself up, it’s operating on a different kind of system. Does that make sense?’

They looked blankly at her.

Ruth tried to explain some more. ‘Her brain is still her brain, her memories still her memories. But on the surface, there is this new story that she has invented, or at least her brain has invented. It will keep changing as she needs it to change, to help her make sense of what is happening around her. In her case, she seems to be taking fragments from a pre-existing fantasy life, the one you showed me in her letter. From what you’ve said, from what I read, it was very rich and detailed. The idea of a fantasy life, of retreating to your imagination to soothe or to calm, is perfectly normal. We all do it to some extent, especially when real life is a bit tough or times are hard. But we can usually differentiate between what is fantasy and what is fact. What’s happening with Angela now is she’s forgotten the factual part of her life, and believes parts of her fantasy life to be her reality.’

‘But can’t you fix her?’ Victoria said. ‘Hypnotise her or something? Tell her it’s not real?’

‘Should
we
tell her it’s not real?’ Genevieve said. ‘Tell her who we are, that we’re her family? Isn’t it only doing her damage if we go along with this whole other life of hers?’

‘This is where you have to be patient. For the time being, she won’t take in all that you say. It’s a factor of this condition that the patient is able to easily discount anything that doesn’t tally with their idea of reality. They simply ignore it. It will be the same if you point out any inconsistencies in her story. In the same way a child will ignore you if you tell them their teddy isn’t alive. They’ll appear to listen to you, but it’s not sinking in. It’s not what they are experiencing or what they know, so it simply doesn’t register with them.’

‘So who does she think we are?’ Genevieve asked. ‘How do we fit into this new life of hers?’

‘Subconsciously, she’s recognised you,’ Ruth said. ‘You’re all familiar to her in some way. What I expect to happen is that she’ll find a way to blend you into her confabulation. She might think of you as old friends. Talk to you as if she knows you. Or she might ask you to tell her all about yourselves. It will probably change from day to day.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Lindy said. ‘Can’t we just tell her who we are?’

Ruth shook her head. ‘The fantasy life is what she believes at the moment. You could show her family photographs and she might not even recognise herself in them.’

‘So what happens next?’ Genevieve asked. ‘Does she stay in hospital until she completely remembers us and can come home? Until she realises there is no Will, there is no Lexie?’

‘She doesn’t need to stay in hospital until she regains her memory. As I said, her vital signs are good. She’s recovered well from her spleen operation. She’s been told about that and she accepted it without any difficulty.’

‘Has she said anything about why she was in the hills?’ Joan asked.

‘She said she was driving from the airport and got lost,’ Ruth said.

‘She doesn’t remember staying in a hotel for those nights?’ Genevieve said.

‘She was able to give me some details, but she thought it was an airport hotel in Hong Kong. I know you all hate the word, but it’s a matter of being patient. She really is doing well after her operation. But she will still need hospital care for another week. She’s a bit confused. Her attention and concentration will be poor. We’ll need to assess and monitor how she copes with her self-care skills and daily living, but that can be done in a hospital closer to your home. So we’re arranging for her to be transferred to the hospital in Port Augusta. For a week to begin with, and then depending on how she is physically, after she’s been examined by a doctor there and also the occupational therapist, she should be able to go home with you.’

‘Go
home
?’ Genevieve said.

‘You
can’t
let her out,’ Lindy said. ‘She’s not herself.’

‘I want her to come home,’ Ig said.

As Ruth explained more, it was clear to them all that she’d taken a personal interest in the case. She didn’t see cases of confabulation very often, she told them. With their permission, she wanted to stay closely involved even after Angela went home. There would be a treatment plan put in place, devised by a team of people – doctors, nursing staff, psychologists, occupational therapists. There would be plenty of support available from her too, over the phone at any time. The safest place for Angela would be at home, with her family, she assured them. There was more chance of a speedy and complete recovery if she was in familiar surroundings, rather than in a hospital ward in Adelaide or Port Augusta.

What went unsaid was the other factor. They needed her hospital bed for other patients now.

‘And you’re still sure she will get better?’ Genevieve asked.

‘I can’t tell you when, but I do believe she will. Whether she’ll return completely to her old self is difficult to say, but I’m hopeful. I can also assure you she’s in good spirits. Happy, even. It’s often a factor in confabulation. The patients can be quite jovial. It’s not an unpleasant condition.’

Ig put his hand up again. ‘Can I please go and talk to her?’

‘Ig, she might not recognise you,’ Ruth said gently. ‘She will one day, but for now —’

‘I don’t care about that. I just want to talk to her now.’

‘Can I take him in?’ Genevieve asked her father, and Ruth. ‘Even just to say hello to her?’

Ruth nodded. After a moment, so did Nick.

‘What do we call her?’ she asked Ruth. ‘We can’t call her Mum, can we? That won’t make any sense to her.’

‘Just use her name,’ Ruth said. ‘All of you. Just call her Angela.’