I sip my water and get back into bed, wondering if a noise in the house woke me up.
I don’t remember going to bed. In fact, I’m not sure I remember what I did yesterday evening at all. Perhaps last night was so uneventful it slipped my mind, as evenings sometimes do. I probably made a cup of hot cocoa and read a book. Perhaps I napped. I tell myself I’ve forgotten because it was boring, not because of my broken mind.
Sinking into the bed sheets, I remind myself that this house is safe. It always has been. Any sense of fear stems from my increasingly paranoid brain. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the creaks and groans of this old place, remembering the family holidays, the happy times, the meals cooked here, the laughter shared. And then I sleep.
The next morning, it’s all like a dream. A wisp of something real that I can’t quite grasp onto. Perhaps it didn’t happen after all.
I quickly shower and head into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. There’s a pleasant, salty breeze drifting into the house. I enjoy it at first, until I realise that the windows and doors ought to be closed. My daughter, Penny, is forever reminding me to close every window and lock every door before I go to bed, but the house can get quite stifling in these summer months. Did I open a window while I was wandering around at night?
It turns out I not only left the bathroom window wide open but one of the patio doors too, which is swinging on its hinges. With my heart beating quickly, I close it and lock it. But as I’m about to return to the kitchen, the hair rises on the nape of my neck. I feel the presence of someone behind me. An intruder.
My hands ball into fists. I turn slowly and stop.
The room is empty.
“Silly cow,” I say with a laugh and a shake of the head.
I try to brush it off, but I still can’t quite quell the sensation of being watched. To indulge myself, and to ensure that I can tell Penny with all truthfulness that no one broke into the house, I check each room methodically. Once I’m satisfied I’m alone, I return to the kitchen and start making breakfast.
After I’ve finished my granola and coffee, I decide to step out into the beautiful morning and do a bit of shopping in Beckthorpe village. I’ll be okay, I tell myself, as I always do whenever I leave the house. The roads around the Palmer House are filled with holiday cottages and small bungalows facing the coast. Their pretty front gardens often occupied by holidaymakers on their lounge chairs. But today I head inland to the main road lined with a few shops and cafés. Beckthorpe is small, but it has everything I need.
I’m at the corner of Summer Lane when my body tenses. This is the place I first realised something was wrong with me. It creeps up on me even now, like the aftertaste of rotten food. I had been on my way to the local Co-op to pick up something for dinner. I know these streets like the back of my hand and often meander on the way to the shops so that I can gaze in through the large, bay windows, to see cats peeking out through curtains and bookcases against walls. It’s one of my favourite things to do. Or it used to be.
But six months ago, I lost my way home.
A morning breeze cools the sweat on the back of my neck. Hot flashes descend quickly and without warning. I peel away my cardigan to let my skin breathe, then I make my way up the hill into Beckthorpe.
I won’t get lost today. I won’t most days. I’m more than capable of living a normal life as long as I take my medication and don’t try to do too much. Obviously, that is going to change in the future, but for now, I am fine.
“Faye! I thought that was you.”
I’m a few feet from the entrance to the supermarket when I turn to see a woman smiling expectantly at me. I can’t place her name, but that isn’t the dementia. I’m bloody awful with names and always have been.
“Oh, hi!” I say cheerfully, trying to conceal my confusion. I know this woman’s face, but where from?
She’s younger than I am, around forty I’d say, with highlighted hair and a thin nose.
“You look better than you did earlier,” she says. “Had you been out for a hike?”
I shake my head slightly. “Umm… I’m so sorry I don’t know what you’re?—”
“I saw you up on the coastal path. The one near Seeley Moor.” She frowns. “We had a chat?”
I remember where I know her from now. The Red Lion. Years ago, when Scott and I were still together, we used to go there a lot. She worked there. But what is she talking about now?
“Are you sure it was me?” I ask, finally remembering that her name is Tina, and she always forgot my ice.
Tina frowns slightly. “I… I mean, yeah. It was definitely you. I’d know that hair anywhere! But you were a little… dishevelled. Actually, I was worried about you. I asked if you wanted to come home for a cuppa, but you were adamant that you wanted to stay outside.”
“What time was this?” I ask.
“Oh, early this morning. About dawn. I was walking Roger Moore.”
I shake my head. “Excuse me?”
She laughs. “I thought I’d brought him to the Red Lion but maybe I didn’t. Roger Moore is our yellow Lab. Ten years old and still acts like a puppy. I have to walk him twice a day or he chews up the sofa cushions.”
I smile and nod while heat spreads across my skin. A hot flash or perhaps it’s shame this time. There’s a chance I did go for a walk at dawn. Seeley Moor is only about fifteen minutes from my house by foot. But I was in my kitchen making breakfast at 8 a.m. I didn’t get up early enough to have seen Tina. Did I?
