‘Don’t be silly; you don’t need to thank me. It’s nice to hear you want to go out. You need to remember you’re still you and you’re still young.’
‘I should say the same to you. Do you mind if I go straight up to see him?’
‘Not at all. Should I heat your dinner and you can take it up with you?’
The irresistible scent of Sandy’s jerk chicken suddenly fills the air around me and I realise I’m starving.
‘You’re my angel,’ I say, planting a big kiss on her cheek, causing her to titter and fuss her tightly curled, black hair. ‘I’ll heat it myself. You put your feet up.’
I tap my foot on the farmhouse tiles that match the units in the kitchen, willing the microwave to flash my bowl of casserole quicker. Impatient, I open the door before the ping and take the semi-heated bowl upstairs with a freshly baked flatbread, still warm from the oven. Sandy’s breads are to die for.
His television is playing, the blue light flickering under his bedroom door on the first-floor landing. Opening the door with my elbow, I tentatively step into the room.
Dad turns in his bed and gives me a dashing, warm smile. Despite his grey-white hair, he looks youthful, ardent and delighted to see me. This is what I’ve been waiting for all day. Neglecting my hunger, I set my supper on his bedside table, my need to hold him overwhelming.
He’s still beaming at me as I reach down and wrap my arms around him. He holds me tightly as if he’ll never let me go.
Don’t cry; you’ll frighten him.
I fight back the rivers building behind my eyes. I know my subconscious is right, so I unravel myself from his tight cocoon and sit into his bedside chair.
‘Martha, I’ve missed you.’
The world begins to crumble around me, slowly, excruciatingly slowly; the syllables Mar-tha replay in my mind. My chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat.
‘No, Dad,’ I choke. ‘I’m Scarlett.’
Confusion distorts his face. ‘Where’s my Martha?’
I bite down on my bottom lip to steady my wobbling chin as my eyes cloud.
It’s not his fault, my subconscious reminds me.
But I can still be pissed! I yell back at it.
Taking a deep breath, I try to rationalise my thoughts, for me, for him. ‘Mum left a long time ago, Dad. I’m Scarlett, your daughter.’
‘No!’ he yells. ‘No. No. No.’ He slaps his hands on the bed.
‘Dad, please,’ I croak. ‘I’m your daughter. Martha was your wife. Martha was my mother.’
‘I. Want. Martha!’ he screams. His arms move from the bed to me, striking my chest and my face.
‘Dad!’ I plead, grabbing his hands, shocked that he no longer has the strength to fight me.
‘Scarlett! Doctor Heath!’
My dad stills and looks at Sandy. He’s coming back. He moves his gaze to me and I can no longer bear it. My shoulders shudder as uncontrollable sobbing takes over my body.
‘Sandy,’ my dad whispers.
‘Yes, sir. Let’s get you settled again, shall we?’
His face changes as his life story untangles in his defective mind. His features contort until he looks pained. He reaches towards me steadily, a little uncertain. My body, unquestioning, bends to meet him. His damp palm rests on my cheek and I dissolve into his touch.
‘Dad,’ I whisper.
‘Scarlett,’ he croaks.
