The Secret Art of Forgiveness (9 page)

Takes one to know one.
‘So, the shirt?'

His eyes slowly moved from her face to where she was pointing. ‘Oh? What's this? How did that happen?'

‘Clearly you missed your mouth. I'm assuming it's food. Hoping…'

He sniffed some of the cloth. ‘I think it might be tomato sauce. Or soup.'

‘Not that out-of-date stuff I was going to throw away… at the back of the cupboard?' She opened the microwave and found a puddle of red stuff in there, too. And yes, the plastic container was in the bin. ‘Midnight snack, was it?'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about.' He turned to go but his eyes darted to the cupboard above the fridge. ‘Oh. Now, do I…? Should I…? Have I forgotten something?'

‘Tablets! Of course. You superstar. I'd totally forgotten.' Was Alzheimer's catching? She reached up and retrieved the tablet box. ‘It's Wednesday today. Hang on… What's been going on here? There's some missing.'

The Wednesday and Thursday boxes were empty. Her stomach lurched suddenly, like in the jolting lift at Baddermans as it started its quick descent. ‘Have you been helping yourself to them? I think you might have taken too many.'

He shrugged. ‘Don't be ridiculous. Why would I take any tablets? There's nothing wrong with me.'

‘Hmmmm. When did you take them? Can you remember? More importantly, do you feel okay?' Slightly panicking, she reached over and felt his wrist, searching for his pulse. She had no idea what it was supposed to be like. She'd just seen people do it on
Grey's Anatomy
. Mind you, she'd seen a lot of medical procedures performed on
Grey's Anatomy
and she wasn't about to start trying any of them.
Hip replacement? No problem – just lie down on the kitchen table.

All she could tell was that his pulse was a little fast compared to her own. But was that normal in an elderly man? ‘How do you feel? Weird? Faint?' What other symptoms might he have? ‘A rash anywhere? Are you okay? Really? Do you feel okay?'

‘I'm fine.' He shook his wrist away.

‘Well, you don't look pale or anything, but what happens when those tablets kick in? You've had a double dose. Well, that's… that's also called an
over
dose. Blimey, I'm going to phone the doctor and see if we can get an appointment this morning.'

He frowned at her. ‘Stop fussing, I'm right as rain.'

‘Fussing?
Fussing?
You've taken too many tablets, Judge. It's all I can do to stop myself phoning 999. I'm ringing the surgery for immediate advice. And I'm going to ask what the tablets are for, at any rate, seeing as there's apparently nothing wrong with you. Why do you have a selection of pills if you're perfectly fine?' He wasn't fine, she knew that. Everyone knew that. But the stress of a possible overdose was making her say and do the wrong things.

He, on the other hand, was quite calm and reasonably alert. ‘You know, you're quite bossy at times.'

‘Good.' She ushered him out of the room. ‘Get a different shirt on and meet me here in five minutes. I'll call the surgery.'

And please, please be okay.

***

‘Judge Evans, are you happy for Emily to be here with you?'

The doctor was only doing his job, she supposed, but what a ridiculous question. ‘Given he walked in with me we can safely deduce he is.'

Dr Shepherd – yes, indeed, to her dismay this was the same doctor as twelve years ago – greyer, flabbier but just as efficient and slightly officious – leaned over to The Judge and raised his voice. ‘Eric, is it okay with you that Emily is here with you today?'

He doesn't have a hearing problem
, she wanted to say. But thought better of it. She didn't think he'd take suggestions on behaviour from the woman who'd thrown up all over his shoes after he'd hauled her out of a ditch.

Eurgh.
The memories were coming thick and fast, followed hot on their heels by mortification. Still, more than a decade later, she could ride over that, couldn't she? She had to, for The Judge's sake.

The Judge looked up from his close examination of his fingers and peered at Emily and smiled.
Again.
‘This one? Here? Yes, why not? Let's get on with it, I have things to do, man.' They both breathed out a sigh of relief.

‘So, Emily rang and said you'd taken some tablets?'

Emily waited for The Judge to say something, anything, but he didn't, so she bowled right on ahead. ‘I didn't actually see him take them. I don't know he took them for sure, but some are missing and he's the only suspect. So, I need you to check him over. I've got the box here.' She held out the evidence. ‘Exhibit one. You see Wednesday and Thursday are empty.'

The doctor looked at the empty compartments and nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘I want to make sure he's okay, obviously. But also, I'd like to know what the tablets are for and whether he needs them all. Is there anything to help him put on weight? And he's been complaining about lower back pain. Actually, I've made a list –'

Dr Shepherd held up a hand. ‘Okay. One thing at a time. Taking an extra dose is nothing to worry about, but you were right to bring him in. I haven't seen him for a while. Tamara usually just requests a repeat prescription.'

‘Well, I think he needs assessing.'

The doctor's smile frayed at the edges. ‘It's good that everyone in the family wants to be involved – but having this kind of conversation with each one of you separately will take its toll; particularly on me and all my other patients waiting for appointments.'

Feeling a little chastised, Emily grimaced. ‘Yes, I see. I'm sorry to bother you, but he did take too many tablets so I thought that might be a medical emergency. And, Tamara isn't here and I'm feeling a little in the dark.'

‘It's okay, Emily. I understand why you're worried. But there's no need to be. The orange pills are to help with the memory and he's on a low dose – so taking too many of those won't harm him. The white ones are just a mild diuretic. He's been on them for years. He seems quite his normal self, no ill effects. Although he may spend a lot more time in the bathroom
than normal today.' Once he'd had a good prod of The Judge's ankles he said, ‘Eric, I need to test your urine. Here's a bottle, can you go and do a sample for me? Toilet's across the corridor. I'll call Angela in to give you a hand.'

‘No need. No need. I can manage perfectly well.' The Judge took the bottle and shuffled to the door.

Emily waited until he was out of the way then couldn't hold in her thoughts any longer. ‘Geez, he's only sixty-nine. Look at him.'

‘It's a nasty disease.'

‘Nasty? It's bloody awful. It's humiliating and cruel. I can't get my head around it, to be honest. Most of the time he's pleasantly confused but able to function. At night he's been worse – it's like a switch has been flicked. And I'm embarrassed to say, sometimes I feel as confused as him.'

‘That's understandable.'

‘And he looks dreadful. I barely recognised him. The hair's not helping. I'm going to take him to the hairdresser's after lunch.'

‘That'll be a start. Try to help him feel physically comfortable. I notice he has lost some weight.'

‘I'm working on that. And do I correct him if he thinks he's on another planet? Am I supposed to go along with his fantasies? What do I do?'

‘If correcting him makes him anxious, then don't. Just change the subject if you can. There's no point making him distressed. He's not going to remember things just because you want him to. You could put labels on things at home so he doesn't get confused, and a day/date reminder on a whiteboard – that may help.'

‘Actually, I think he's guided more by his stomach than anything else. He always knows when it's meal time.' She tried to make light, but it didn't make her feel any better. ‘The thing is, he doesn't even know who I am. He doesn't remember all those things that happened.' She looked down at her hands, because this was really the truth of it all. Selfish! It was so selfish of her, because why should everything revolve around her? But she couldn't help feeling the sharp sting of sadness that she was spending all this time with him and not only did he not know who she was, but he probably wouldn't even remember these days either. And she'd wanted to make him proud, to show him how much she'd changed. Her throat filled a little. ‘I don't want him to remember the bad things. But it would be nice if he knew who I was.'

‘The mind is a strange thing, Emily; he may just have lost that time of his life, I'm afraid. He can't go on indefinitely at The Hall. Have you and your sisters discussed long-term care?'

‘We haven't had a lot of contact over the years,' she explained, and even as she said the words they felt inadequate. They'd all contributed to the distance that had grown more pronounced over the years, but she hadn't ever tried to make things better. ‘I don't think Tamara's coping well, and Matilda's never been great with this kind of thing, to be honest. He can manage fine with someone with him at the moment and I'd like him to stay at
Duxbury Hall for as long as possible. I think that's what he'd want, right? But who am I to say? I haven't been here for years. I don't know what he wants.'

‘No. I don't suppose you do. But in the interim there are agencies you can contact who offer a visiting service to keep him company, or there are day centres he can go to where they have activities to challenge his mind a little. They're quite popular.'

She felt a fierce protectiveness surge through her. ‘Not if he's going to be sitting doing nothing all day. He needs stimulation.'

‘Of course, and that's what they offer. They're experts.'

‘Well, I don't suppose there's any harm in trying them out. It'll take some pressure off Tam. But how would he cope with all those new people? Will he fit in? Will they be nice to him?'

‘Of course they will – they'll assess his needs and plan accordingly. I'll also refer him to the Elderly Care consultant.' The doctor looked at her as if trying to read through the very wobbly lines of her monologue. ‘Does he at least know you're his stepdaughter? Have you told him?'

‘Yes, the first night I was here. But he was cold and confused and I haven't pursued it further. I don't want to upset him.'

They both knew she'd done enough of that in the past.

She tapped her fingers on the desk, gazed around her a little. ‘Where is he? He's taking his time? Do you think he's okay?'

The doctor looked up from writing his notes on the computer. ‘Don't worry, dear, if there was a problem we'd hear about it.'

‘Hmmm. Okay.'

Leaning his elbows on the desk he turned to face her. ‘So… I don't think much has changed since you were last in the village.'

‘Not a lot, no.'

‘Except the graffiti's all gone now.' He peered at her.

She shuddered as that memory flickered between them. He knew. She knew. ‘Oh. Yes. The graffiti… I'm sorry about that. It was inexcusable.'

He nodded, clasped his hands in front of him. ‘I thought it might have been you, although I couldn't prove it, obviously. Remind me what it said?'

The shudder kept coming. She'd vomited on him and then scrawled all over his surgery wall. Could she feel any smaller? ‘Little Duxbury. Little minds. Little dicks… I think that was it.'

There was a smile. ‘Yes, I seem to remember it looked like
Little ducks
. It didn't really make sense to any of us.'

‘Oh. Really? Ducks? God, it's even worse than I remembered then.' She felt strangely deflated but also relieved. ‘Not quite the effect I wanted.'

‘Oh, I think we got the message. This village just wasn't big enough to hold you, eh?'

That, and the fact that no one believed her when she'd tried to protest her innocence about sleeping with Sally's boyfriend. She'd had no choice, really, with no support and no one willing to hear her side, and the stolen vodka and the deep shame and hurt… she'd just had to leave. On her way out she'd left the graffiti by way of a calling card. ‘Again… I'm sorry.'

There was a rap on the door and the barriers went up again in the doctor's eyes. ‘Ah, here's Eric now.'

She stood as the door opened and The Judge came back in with the practice nurse. ‘Hey, are you okay? You took your time.'

‘Just having a nice chat with… er…? Thingy. I'm no good with names.'

You can say that again. It's Angela. Angela. Why can't you remember?

Then she remembered what the doctor had said.
Just because you want him to remember, doesn't mean he will.
There was no point letting the frustration get the better of her, or at the very least, she should try to keep a lid on it.
‘
That's okay, Judge. You're here now.'

There was a clutch in her heart. Jeepers, this was hard. Sometimes she really, really wanted to make him remember. To remember her.
I'm Emily. We spent ten years together.
But sometimes she was just glad to be here with a chance to wipe the slate clean. And then other times she dreaded the thought of him remembering her at all. Because what on earth would that dredge up?

***

The Cosy Café was, indeed, exactly what it advertised itself to be; a warm and inviting place with comfortable chairs, fresh flowers on each table and a nice, homely, fresh-baked scent. Greta had welcomed them in with a hurried smile and then disappeared off to serve the queue of customers all wanting hot snacks on a bright but chilly morning, so Emily had grabbed a table in the corner and deposited The Judge there while she'd ordered.

Unfortunately, the very nature of cosy meant Skyping was a little difficult and everything could be overheard by the other customers. Which meant talking to Brett about anything more personal than current affairs was proving embarrassing.