Page 36 of Falling for You
‘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?’
‘I …’ I stare at my hands, mentally trying to remember the last time I saw it. Mom gave me that ring when I was about fourteen and Stevie had started wearing her jewellery. She didn’t want me to feel left out so she gave me her emerald ring. Since she got sick, I’ve started wearing it on my little finger.
I was wearing it at the party, I’m sure of it. I showed it to that girl … and then …
Shit. Did I leave it there?
‘Sorry,’ I say, realising that Mom is staring at me, looking worried. ‘Nothing. I just left something at a party I was at before I flew over here.’
Mom brightens, slapping me lightly on the arm. ‘A party!’ she swoons. ‘With Stevie?’
I smile reluctantly. ‘Yes. He dragged me there.’
‘How is London?’ she says, pulling her sheet further up her body. ‘I want to know everything. Have you fallen in love with Keira Knightley yet?’
I try not to laugh. Guess who watchesLove Actuallyevery Christmas?
‘Not quite.’
‘Well, have you met any nice people?’
