Page 155 of Falling for You
But that’s the thing. I wasn’t really thinking, was I?
I look out of the window as we skirt past a parade of shops.
She was from London, that much I know, and she said that she made costumes. I wonder what she’s doing now. Maybe she’s spending the day with a guy who didn’t ditch her halfway through a conversation with no explanation.
I frown. No, it’s not worth thinking about.
Why do I care so much? The conversation lasted less than ten minutes. She probably doesn’t even remember me.
Is there a way I could find her when I get back to London? Just so I can explain and apologise for what happened? Or would she find that incredibly creepy?
I take a deep breath, trying to force myself to remain in the moment as we arrive at the hospital. Dad doesn’t even need to think as he pulls into a parking space, knowing exactly where to leave his car and how the ticketing system works. It makes my heart hurt.
How many times has he actually been here with Mom since I’ve been gone? She’d hardly ever been to hospital when I was living here. I’ve only been gone for a couple ofweeks – how have things gotten that bad so quickly? Is it because I’ve gone? Has she finally started letting go now that her two sons are on the other side of the world?
Does she think we don’t care about her any more?
‘Right,’ Dad says, clapping his hands together, pulling me out of my spiralling thoughts. ‘Ready?’
‘Sure, Dad,’ I mumble. ‘Let’s go.’
When we were children, Mom always had this incredible knack of knowing exactly what you were thinking. Whenever she used to read my or Stevie’s mind, we’d look at her wide-eyed and gasp, ‘How did you know that?’ She’d give us a cheeky look back like it was the most obvious thing in the world and say, ‘Because I’m your mom!’
Now, arriving at the hospital, it’s like Mom is still as tuned in to my thoughts as she was back then. Like she knew I would be terrified of seeing her all curled up and vulnerable, slightly grey-looking and fragile. So, she did something about it.
As I walk into the room, she looks as full of life as she always does. If anything, she needs to tone it down a bit or the hospital will accuse her of faking the whole thing for attention.
‘Nathaniel!’ she cries as soon as she sees me, holding her arms wide, ready to envelop me in a huge hug. I try and ignore the tubes attached to her hand as I hug her. She smells like pine cones, like she always does. I like to think that she’s worn the same perfume every day for so many years that it’s just permanently part of her skin now.
‘What are you doing here?’ she says, as I sink down ontoone of the plastic chairs. Dad leans forward and gives her a kiss. ‘Why aren’t you in London?’
‘I came back,’ I say. ‘I’m back for good, actually. It was just a holiday.’
Mom frowns at me, her face stern. ‘No, it wasn’t. You were going over to start a new life, a new adventure. Don’t you talk to me like I can’t remember.’
Despite myself, I laugh. God, dementia is weird. Mom couldn’t remember how to walk down a flight of stairs two nights ago, but she perfectly recalls a conversation we had last month.
Much like mine, Mom’s hair is dark and curly. It falls down to her shoulders, but only just. Her curls are so tight that if you pulled them straight, they’d almost reach her middle. Stevie and I used to like to do that when we were little and giggle as we let them go and they’d ping back up to her shoulder blades. She has half-moon glasses that she has always worn on a chain and fierce, dark eyebrows which have defined her face long before the supermodels made them fashionable.
‘Well, I’m back now,’ I say. ‘Anyway, how are you? How are you feeling?’
I take her hand gently, wincing as I notice the red blisters from where she burnt herself.
‘Oh,’ she bats me off. ‘I’m fine! This is all a bit of drama over nothing. Who hasn’t fallen down the stairs once in their life? I just tripped.’
I push my lips together. This is where it gets you. She makes it all seem so ordinary and like we’re crying over nothing. She’s so stern about it that occasionally I fall for it andstart second-guessing myself. Is it really dementia, or are we all just obsessing over something that’s not there?
But then she’ll try to run away from you in the middle of the night and look terrified if you try to touch her and suddenly you see it, the ugly beast with its claws firmly dug into her. You can’t deny it after that.
‘It’s been quite nice here actually,’ she continues, her tone light and conversational. ‘The nurses are wonderful. There’s one who looks just like Stevie. Have you heard from him?’
I meet her eyes. ‘Yeah, I have. He’s at work, but he sends his love.’
A line I must have used one hundred times before.
‘How are you …’ I look down at my hand entwined with hers and my heart lurches. My pinkie finger is bare. The ring has gone.
‘What?’ Mom says. ‘What is it?’
