Where the Memories Lie (3 page)

Sibel Hodge

As I stopped at a set of traffic lights, I glanced out the win-

dow and caught sight of a woman walking up the street. She was

slim and busty, her clothes showing off her best assets. Her long hair bounced on her shoulders as she walked in very high − and very

uncomfortable-looking − stilettos that defied the laws of gravity.

She looked so much like my childhood friend Katie, who’d left the

village ages ago, that the breath caught in my throat for a moment.

Was that her? I hadn’t seen her in years. I craned my neck, trying

to get a proper look as she hurried past on the opposite side of the road, just the back of her now visible on the busy street. The traffic lights changed and someone sounded their horn behind me. By the

time I’d driven along, she’d disappeared. I shook my head. No, it

couldn’t have been her.

My Mini crunched to a stop on the gravel car parking area

at Mountain View, and I got out and walked up the steps to the

reception.

‘Hi, Mrs Tate.’ Kelly, the very perky receptionist, smiled at me.

‘Hi, how are you?’ I smiled back and wrote in the visitors’ book,

recording the same things as usual: my name and address, who I

was there to see, my vehicle registration number and the time I’d

arrived.

‘I’m pretty good, thanks. Just counting the days until my holi-

day now.’

‘How exciting. Where are you off to?’

‘Portugal. Have you ever been?’

‘No, but I hear it’s nice.’ I put the pen back on top of the book

as her phone rang.

The smell of disinfectant, laced with pine, vomit, boiled carrots

and a hint of lavender, hit my nostrils as I headed up the corridor to the nurses’ station in Tom’s wing. Eau de Nursing Home.

‘Hi, Mary. How is he?’ I asked the head nurse, who was looking

down at a folder of notes on her desk.

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Where the Memories Lie

She gave me a half smile and I immediately knew something

was wrong.

‘What is it? Is Tom OK?’ I didn’t want any more bad news

today.

‘Yes, he’s OK, it’s just . . . I wanted to talk to you before you

pop in and see him.’

I leaned my hip against the desk.

‘For the last few days he’s been very agitated. More than

usual, I mean. He says he’s having bad dreams, about a woman

called Georgia.’

‘Well, as you know, he’s suffered from nightmares for years.’

‘Yes, but these seem different. When he wakes up afterwards, it

takes us a long time to calm him down again, and he keeps saying

Georgia is haunting him.’

‘Georgia?’ I frowned. ‘As far as I know, he doesn’t know anyone

called Georgia.’

‘Ah, well, that’s what I wanted to ask. He said she’d gone

missing.’

‘Missing?’ I pursed my lips, thinking. ‘No, it doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘I’m sure it’s just the usual confusion, but when he said she was

missing, I wanted to check with you.’

I shook my head. ‘No, I’ve never heard him mention anything

like that before. Did he say anything else about her?’

‘Not really.’

‘You know what he’s like. Sometimes when he watches TV, he

thinks the characters are people he knows. Sometimes he doesn’t

recognise the family anymore, or thinks Nadia is his wife and Ethan is his brother. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

‘The other day, he was convinced I was someone he went to

school with.’ She nodded and rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

‘I’ll let you know if he says anything else, though.’ I headed past her desk to his room at the end of the corridor.

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Sibel Hodge

Every time I saw Tom, he seemed to shrink inside himself

more. Once a tall, solidly built, active man, he was now stooped

and colourless and bony. It broke my heart to see the changes this

ravaging disease had forced upon him. I was a nurse, so I knew

what death and illness looked like, but when it was someone you

loved, it didn’t make you hardened to it. The worst thing was the

slow, steady and relentless progression of a disease that would

eventually be fatal. From the initial stages of attacking the part

of the brain where memories are formed, over years it makes new

memories harder to form. Then it spreads to different regions of

the brain, killing cells and compromising function. The damage

to the areas where emotions are processed then makes it harder

for patients to control moods and feelings. Next it wreaks havoc

on the senses, even causing hallucinations and delusions, and

erasing the oldest and most precious memories of a person. In

the last stages it destroys the area of the brain responsible for

regulating breathing and the heart. For family members it can

be horrific to watch the person you once knew literally change

into someone else. Someone who was kind and compassion-

ate can become vicious and bitter. Someone who was calm and

happy can become angry and spiteful. Sometimes patients have

no idea of their surroundings or loved ones. They can’t identify

everyday items. They have trouble understanding what is being

said or going on around them. They gradually lose their ability

to walk, become incontinent, or exhibit unusual behaviour. The

symptoms are heartbreaking.

Nowadays Tom’s lucid moments were outnumbered by the

confusion, although he usually still recognised me. He was asleep,

sitting in a comfy foam-padded high-backed chair in front of

the window, overlooking the gardens. The newspaper was strewn

messily over the surface of the small table in front of him, as if he’d become frustrated with it and flung it down in anger. Next to the

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Where the Memories Lie

paper was an intricately carved wooden box that Tom had made for

Eve. It was designed with a secret compartment that could only be

opened by sliding out and pushing in certain hidden parts of the

design in a unique combination. Tom called it a magic box, and

Anna had loved playing with it when she was a kid. I could never

manage to open it but Anna always could.

‘Hi, Tom.’ I sat in an identical chair next to him and patted his

hand. Loose skin hung from his fingers.

His eyelids fluttered open and it took him a moment to famil-

iarise himself with his surroundings.

‘Olivia.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Nice to see you. You haven’t been

here for ages.’

‘I came in two days ago, Tom.’ I patted his hand again and he

gripped mine.

His eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe me. ‘Was that when

you—’ He stopped mid-sentence.

I waited for a moment. He often forgot what he was talking

about in the middle of a conversation, or forgot words. Sometimes

he liked to be prompted; sometimes it made him angry.

When he didn’t carry on, I said, ‘When what, Tom?’

He picked at his trousers with a fingernail, rubbing the same

spot over and over. ‘Fucking bastard.’ He stared down angrily

at them.

Before the disease, I’d never heard Tom swear. Never seen

him lose his temper, either. He was the most laid-back person I’d

ever known. He never seemed to get stressed about anything. Not

anymore, though.

‘That fucking bastard stole my trousers.’

I stroked his hand. ‘It’s OK, Tom. Don’t worry. I’m here, OK?

I won’t let them take your trousers.’

He turned to me. ‘You sure? Because they sneak in here at

night. No one thinks I know, but I bloody know. I’m not stupid.’

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Sibel Hodge

‘Of course you’re not stupid.’ I pointed out of the window to a

rhododendron bush in full bloom, trying to distract him. ‘What’s

the name of that bush, Tom?’ I knew it, but I wanted to try and

calm him down.

‘That one?’ His face softened as he pointed a shaky finger

towards it. ‘It’s a
Rhododendron arborescens
. I planted one in our garden once for Nadia. I took all the kids to the garden centre and got them to each pick out a cocktail they liked.’

I knew he didn’t really mean cocktail. He obviously meant plant.

‘Then we named the cocktail after them. Every birthday, I’d

hide a present under their cocktail for them when they came back

from school.’ He chuckled gently. ‘They used to love it.’

‘I bet they did. And do you remember doing your yearly Easter

egg hunt for Anna and Charlotte? Hiding all that chocolate in

the garden for them to find?’ Tom had enjoyed watching the girls

screeching and giggling all round the garden so much, he’d done it

right up until he sold the house to us, and even though they were

nearly thirteen and seventeen now and a bit too old for it, Ethan

and I still carried on the tradition Tom had started.

He smiled and nodded, but I didn’t know if my words had

registered. ‘How’s Ryan?’

‘Who’s Ryan?’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘You know.’

‘No, Tom. Is he an old friend?’

‘He’s your son.’

‘I have a daughter. Anna – remember? She’s doing really well at

school, although they’re breaking up for the summer holidays in a

few days.’

‘I hope he calls you. It’s not nice when your children don’t keep

in touch. You worry about them, don’t you?’

I always thought it was best not to dwell on the memories he

now got wrong, so I steered him in another direction. ‘Charlotte’s

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Where the Memories Lie

studying hard for her exams. Next term she’ll be going to sixth form college. I can’t believe how fast the time goes.’

‘Fast,’ he repeated, nodding softly.

‘Mary said you’d mentioned someone called Georgia. Who’s

she? I haven’t heard you talk about her before.’

He gripped my hand hard. ‘You have to find her. She’s

haunting me.’

‘What do you mean?’

He jerked forward, eyes wide. ‘She won’t leave me alone.’

I rubbed his arm soothingly. ‘It’s OK, Tom. She’s not really

here. It’s just me.’

‘No!’ He pushed my hand away.

‘Who is she, then? Why is she haunting you?’

‘When I go to sleep.’

‘It’s just a dream, that’s all. A recurring dream. I used to have

one about—’ I stopped abruptly. I used to have one when I was

eighteen, about people who wanted to kill me, chasing me through

an abandoned hotel somewhere abroad. It had gone on for about

two years in the end. But it was probably best not to mention

something so miserable to him in case he fixated on it. ‘Anna’s been having one about finding a horse in the garden,’ I said instead. Yes, much more pleasant.

His brown eyes flashed dark with hatred, making him look

nothing like the gentle giant of a man I once knew.

‘She knows.’

‘Knows what?’

He gripped the arms of the chair, lifting himself up. ‘I want to

get out! You can’t keep me in here!’

‘OK. It’s OK. Let me help you with your slippers, though.’

I worked his feet into a pair of moccasins with hard soles that Ethan and I had bought before he came into the home. ‘Do you want to

go for a walk in the grounds? Get some fresh air?’

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Sibel Hodge

‘Can we go to Durdle Door?’

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.’

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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.’

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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.