He remembers the day he gave her the knife like it was yesterday. It was the day they first met, and their lives became forever entwined, sitting on the dry, fragrant grass, her Nikes tapping next to him as she fingered the skinny straps of her top.
He led her down to the pig farm across the field, to get her away from the house. When they were near the pig shed, he took out the knife and asked if she wanted some bacon. He flipped the blade open and watched her eyes grow wide with fear, exactly as he had wanted. But then she did something unexpected that excited him even more. She pulled him towards her and pressed the knife against her skin, cold eyes staring up into his without flinching. He had never met anybody like her before.
He feels a rush of excitement as he remembers. It still turns him on, even after all this time.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“You know I do.”
“I’m going to fix this,” he promises.
“Of course you will,” she says. “If you don’t, I’ll gut you like that little piggy you promised me. Only I’ll actually go through with it.”
CHAPTER 24
FAYE
There’s a moment on the drive over to Mum’s house when the satnav turns into a jumble of lines with no real meaning. I am holding the steering wheel, but I am losing my grip on where I’m headed. The road in front of me no longer seems familiar. All I know is that it has no ending, and no beginning.
The feeling is fleeting but disturbing and when I come back to myself I pull over, drink some water and eat a protein bar. The wine and late night are taking a toll on my body today. Not to mention the embarrassment I felt after being sick in front of Alistair. He laughed it off and helped me to bed, but still, I felt like a teenager at their first party. I suppose that’s better than feeling ancient like I do a lot of the time.
Lists cover every surface of my home and important dates are circled in bold red pen on my calendar. The fridge is covered in shopping lists. Sometimes I tally up what’s inside and scribble it on a Post-It note on the fridge to save me checking more than once. I’m supposed to live a quiet life of routine, but I keep ignoring that to go out on dates with a younger man and spontaneous dawn walks.
Maybe this is why the disease is progressing more quickly than I expected. Do I really want to smoke weed with Alistair on the patio and stay out drinking wine after midnight? Or do I want to keep hold of myself for longer? That’s the balance – grasping hold of those joyous, spontaneous moments or sacrificing them for months or even years of maintaining the status quo.
Once the fog shifts and my confidence returns, I run my fingers along the veins of the roads tracked out on the map and put the car into gear. When I reach Mum’s house, it feels like an achievement to be celebrated.
She’s sitting with a crossword when I arrive and seems even more frail than the last time I saw her. Slumped forward, her chin almost reaches her chest. But she lifts her head as I come in through the door.
“Is that you, Faye?” she asks, squinting through her thick lenses.
“It’s me, Mum. I brought you those biscuits you like, with the caramel inside.” I take her hand and squeeze it.
“Ah, you found your key then?” she says.
I start opening the packet. “I never lost it, did I? Why would you think that?”
“Because when you came, you knocked and said you’d lost it.”
I pause. “When was this?”
“Two days ago,” Mum says.
“I didn’t come two days ago,” I say. “This is my first visit for over a week.”
Mum shakes her head. “No, you came two days ago, and we talked about your adoption again. Although given what you said, I understand why you might want to pretend you never came.”
“What?” I mumble. “No, that’s not right. I didn’t come on Monday.”
Mum sighs. “Why would I make this up?”
“Why would I?” I retort.
We both fall silent, staring at each other. Mum adjusts her glasses. My heart thumps against my ribs. The room is too hot, too stuffy, and the smell of air freshener is overwhelming.
It’s Mum who breaks the silence. “Perhaps you forgot. I… I know that can happen with…”
“With dementia,” I finish. Then I laugh. “Maybe we’re both losing the plot.”
