Chapter 3
My excitement builds as I ride the nine stops home on the Tube.
I can’t wait to see him. I can’t wait to hear him say my name and watch his face light up as I read him chapters from his favourite book.
In those brief moments, when he remembers, he’s my same old comforting, sweet, gentle and polite Dad.
He can still melt my heart with the twinkle in his eye that he reserves just for me.
The jerk of inertia as the Tube comes to a stop forces the couple who’ve been playing tonsil tennis beside me for twenty minutes to come up for air.
Two security men in padded, hi-vis jackets gawp as I burst from the Tube and bound up the steps from the platform to the street.
I run along our road and halt in front of our townhouse to catch my breath before pushing through the wrought-iron gate and darting up the path to the porch.
I fumble trying to place my key in the lock then throw my bag on the hall table as I practically jump inside.
‘Hi, Sandy!’
‘Hello, Sweets. How was your day?’ she asks in her usual singsong way, always sounding much older than her forty-two years.
‘Busy but good. How’s your day been? How’s Dad?’
‘He’s doing well today,’ she says, helping me out of my mac and hanging it on the hat stand in the vestibule. ‘He sat in his chair for the best part of the morning. We even managed a game of cards.’
It’s another fleeting and increasingly rare moment of good health and happiness. I know better than to be optimistic but Sandy still beams with pride, her smile reaching her brown cheeks, her warm eyes glowing.
‘He’s been asking for you,’ she adds.
I can’t prevent a goofy grin spreading from ear to ear as I kick my shoes off onto the polished, rosewood floor. ‘He has?’
‘He really has. Today’s been the best I’ve seen him in weeks.’ She’s triumphant, as if an invisible barrier has been crossed.
‘I can’t wait to see him. Thank you so much for looking after him so I could have a drink tonight.’
‘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.
* * *
I’m up and dressed early enough to make sure I can have breakfast with Sandy.
‘Is he often like that with you?’ I ask.
She flutters around the kitchen in her peach dress, a beige apron pulled tight at her curvaceous waist, her hair pinned back at the sides just behind her ears, the way she does when she’s cooking. She avoids my eyes as she pours milk onto my cereal.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I will myself not to cry again but the restless night sleeping at my dad’s bedside has left me tired and, if possible, more emotional than usual.
I’ve never been a crier. It’s as if all the tears I’ve never cried have erupted in the last couple of months as I’ve watched Dad’s health deteriorate.
Some days, most days, he’s barely recognisable.
‘Now stop that,’ Sandy says, tenderly brushing an escaped tear from my cheek.
‘Don’t give up on him.’ The whole thing is taking its toll on her too.
The image of her standing in the doorway to my dad’s room keeps coming back to me.
Her eyes were red and swollen. She prepares Dad’s pills and sets up his breakfast tray, intentionally keeping her back to me.
‘He’s getting worse quickly, isn’t he, Sandy?’
She stops dead still at the breakfast bar, then continues to set out his tray.
‘He still has his moments,’ she says, turning to me and placing her warm hand on mine. ‘He’s a fighter, Scarlett.’
‘Sandy! Did he do this to you?’
She pulls her arm from me quickly and wraps her other hand around the plump, marked, red skin of her wrist.
‘He gets frustrated, that’s all. It’s nothing a tough woman like me can’t handle!’ She flashes me a big grin but her eyes are solemn.
‘He’s becoming too much for you.’ My voice breaks. I know what the next step will be. ‘Sandy, I really appreciate your help. I know Dad does too. He’s just not the same any more, and you’re not a nurse.’ I take a shallow breath. ‘You’ll tell me when it’s time, won’t you?’
She returns her hand to mine. ‘Doctor Heath is a good man. He’s always been good to me and I’ll help him for as long as I can. I love you both more than you could ever imagine.’
I manage to nod but my eyes are on fire.