Page 7 of Knights Game

He’s sitting in his usual brown chair, making his skin look even paler in contrast. He’s staring out the window, lost, deep in a world where no one can tell what he’s thinking.

The room is small and stuffy, and I potter around, neatly arranging a few of his favourite items on his bedside table, then take in his surroundings, hands on my hips.

I never see him eating the wine gums I bring him, but the nurses and carers assure me that he does; and when he does eat them some of his old self comes back, memories triggered by the flavours, they tell me.

“How are you today? I saw Sylvia, and they said you haven’t been eating your lunch again. You know you have to eat, right?”

He doesn’t answer me, nor does he acknowledge me, but I continue to move about the suffocating room. Walking to the wash basin in the corner surrounded by some of his toiletries, I run the tap, filling a small green watering can and tend to the plants on the windowsill.

I’ve brought the plants here over time to try to bring some life into the room, which is tired and dated, the pale green walls dirty and the lighting dim.

This is what my money buys him.

I both love and hate being here. Love to see him but hate to see him waste away in front of me; hate the environment that sucks the life out of you a little at a time.

I water the plants, pulling off dead leaves and place the watering can back on the windowsill. “Have you at least been drinking?” His cup sits empty on the table. “Ah, good lad, I’ll top this up for you.” I fill the child’s no-spill cup with water from the jug.

“Where’s Sarah?” He grabs my wrist with a strength that always surprises me. His pale, thinning skin is all age spots and blue veins, and I place my hand over his. It breaks my heart every time he asks this, and he asks it every time. But I can’t tellhim, not anymore. Telling him would make his confusion worse, so each week I tell a lie.

“Grandad, Sarah—Mum—she’s not coming today.” I swallow past the lump in my throat and pat his hand.

“But she hasn’t been for a while, unless, unless that was her last week? Was that her? Was that my Sarah?” I kneel next to him, his watery blue eyes peering over his glasses, confused and hopeful. “I feel like I haven’t seen her for such a long time. Where is she?”

This never gets easier. “She can’t come this week.”

“No?” His brows draw together.

“She and David have gone on a cruise.”

“Have they?” His eyes brighten.

I nod and continue to pat his hand. He looks at where they touch, that vague expression reappearing. He pulls his hand away his attention caught by something outside the window. “How lovely,” he finally says. “A cruise. I bet it’s somewhere warm, Sarah hates the cold.”

I smile sadly and watch a bird land on the tree just outside his window.

“So, she’s not going to come this week?”

“No, Grandad.”

“But you will?”

“Yes, Grandad, every Tuesday and Friday.”

“That’s nice.” He frowns. “And who are you?”

I pull one of the stools up next to him. “I’m Layla, I’m Sarah’s daughter.”

He stares at me; he tracks his bleary blue eyes over my features. “You look like her.” He smiles softly. “And you come every week to see me?”

“Every single week.” I pick up his hand and kiss it. “Some weeks we even go for walks outside.”

“Outside? Really? To see the birds?”

“Would you like to go for a walk today, do you feel up to it?”

He looks around the room. “I don’t think I can walk very well now Sarah.” He stares down at his legs: underneath his tan trousers, bandages cover the welts on his legs where his dry skin has cracked open from repeated chafing and lack of movement.

“That’s alright, we can prop you in the chair and take you on an adventure. What do you say? Get you out of the room for a bit?” He hadn’t left the room for over three months, and I’m desperate for him to get fresh air.

---