I walk over to the bottom of the stairs and call up.
“Hello?”
I wait for a reply that doesn’t come. No, I’m here by myself and they’re due to arrive at 12 p.m. It’s the paranoia again. I can’t trust my mind. Over the last few days the dementia has ramped up. And now here I am imagining some intruder in my home. I try to shake off the uneasy feeling that flutters alongside my confusion. It won’t subside. It’s been lingering for a while now.
“I don’t have time for this.” I say, returning to the kitchen.
The last few days have gone by in a blur. Alistair and I have been texting, but we haven’t met again. I haven’t felt up to it. I followed his advice though and after a little Google investigating, I called the adoption agency and have been told a case worker will be in touch soon. I can’t face the memoir right now, so I’ve been working on the next Palmer Twins book instead. The rest of the time, I’ve been mostly watching the phone, waiting for the adoption agency to get back to me and worrying about losing myself again.
I’m convinced that the dementia is progressing more quickly than I thought. Sometimes it feels like I’m sweeping up a million shards of glass and trying to put them back together. I thought I had everything under control but I’ve been spiralling away from myself, losing my grip on simple tasks and the stark shape of reality. I feel as though eyes are on me, silent witnesses to my decline, but when I search for the source of that feeling, I am always alone. It’s the reason I’ve put off seeing Alistair again. I don’t want to have another incident when we’re together and I just can’t face telling him about my diagnosis and navigating his reaction. What’s the point anyway, when I might not even be here for much longer?
Pull yourself together, Faye.
Suddenly my thoughts are broken by the sound of a bell. What is that? The oven timer? Then more insistent ringing follows. Is someone calling my phone? I walk over to where it sits on the counter and see a notification from my doorbell app. I click on it and see a video of Penny and a man waiting at my front door.
It’s the bloody doorbell. Of course. They’re here.
I hurry to the front door and snatch it open.
“Hi!”
Penny and a man I don’t recognise stand on the doorstep. He’s tall, with dark hair and brown eyes. He smiles warmly at me. For a moment I think I’m supposed to know who he is and I’m scared that I don’t.
“Penny,” I say, reaching for the next word and not finding it.
“You okay, Mum?” Penny’s expression shifts into one of concern.
I wrap my hands around her shoulders, pulling her to me, pretending to hug her when I’m really in need of a hug myself. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Come in, both of you.” Then I remember. This has to be Penny’s new boyfriend. “You must be Tim.”
As I let go of my daughter, I extend a hand to the man next to her. He takes mine in both of his and meets my gaze with a smile.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Mathis.”
They step in and I wave a hand to usher them through to the kitchen. Tim looks smart in a crisply ironed blue shirt. He’s definitely more attractive than her last boyfriend. But when I view him under the glare of the kitchen lights, I see that he’s probably about ten years older than Pen.
“Is Nathan here yet?” Penny asks, placing a bottle of wine on the counter.
“Not yet,” I say.
“He sent me a text early this morning to let me know he was setting off,” Penny says. “Jessica and Kiri are at a birthday party.”
“I haven’t seen Kiri for a while now. How old is she?” An image of Nathan’s baby pops into my mind along with the regret that I’m not closer to my stepson.
“Three,” Penny says. “How’s the roast going?”
“Swimmingly,” I say, remembering that I don’t know where I’ve put the beef.
Penny walks over to the oven and pulls down the door.
“Mmm,” she says. “It smells good, Mum.”
And in that moment, all the tension leaves my body and it’s replaced by some clarity. I put the beef in fifty minutes ago and it’s roasting well. The potatoes are in too. I remember now that I was going to make a soup as a starter but the bread rolls I bought have already been eaten. I must have had them for lunch yesterday, although I have no memory of it. But, hey, I did just invent an intruder in the house so I’m clearly getting one step closer to losing all the marbles in my brain.
Now I just need to whip up the Yorkshire pudding batter and boil some peas. Everything is under control. It was a blip, a nothing. I’m fine.
“Would you like any help, Mrs Mathis?” Tim asks.
I wave a hand. “Not at all. Can I pour you both a glass of wine?”
