Chapter 7
FAYE
I wake suddenly, the sugary cocktails still pulsing through my system. My head is stuffy, the room a little wobbly. But I’m okay. I know where I am, who I am, and what I’m doing.
With stiff legs, I head downstairs, make a cup of coffee and sit out on the patio, watching the sun come up over the sea.
Sitting here, I start to relax and the hangover begins to ease.
It’s good to clear my mind sometimes, to meditate and dissolve my worries.
Meditation is supposedly good for the brain and I read somewhere it can even help prevent dementia.
Although, I remember my response to the doctor when I was diagnosed.
“I guess playing Wordle every day was a waste of time after all. Brain training my arse.”
My phone pings.
I enjoyed our date last night.
He’s up early on a Sunday. And he didn’t wait to message me either. I’m almost put off by how keen that is, but I appreciate someone who doesn’t play games. God knows I had enough of that during my marriage.
I text back: Me too. Good conversation. Pretty good dancing. Excellent kissing.
Exquisite kissing, he replies.
I smile and take a sip of coffee. This is new to me, this back and forth, the dopamine hit when my phone dings. Most of my dating occurred in the early nineties, before texting was a thing. Instead, boyfriends left messages with my university flatmate when I wasn’t around. None of them were sexy.
But I’ll work on the dancing, he texts.
I respond: Perhaps I was too hard on the dancing. And you’re right about the kissing.
Can I take you out again? he asks.
This all feels a little too good to be true.
Is he naturally charming or trying too hard?
I can’t be sure. Maybe I’m selling myself short.
After all, we had a blast last night and why shouldn’t he want to text me right away?
Then there’s the issue of my dementia hanging over me like the sword of Damocles.
But Alistair doesn’t want a serious relationship and I’m enjoying myself, so does it really matter?
What is it they say, you only live once?
I remember watching a viral video on YouTube with some bloke screaming YOLO before diving off a cliff.
He had a point, but he also went on to break several bones in his body.
Not sure his advice was worth much after that.
I’d love to, I respond. When are you free?
How about Tuesday night? I have something in mind.
That sounds great, I type. Looking forward to it. Then I add impulsively. Especially if there’s more kissing.
I hope so, he replies.
The warm fuzzy excitement of flirting with a man is suddenly spoiled by thoughts of the viral photo. It’s still out there being shared on social media. Hopefully Alistair won’t even notice it and the whole business will simply fade away.
I’m visiting Mum today and part of me is not looking forward to it. There are difficult conversations to be had, ones that have been avoided for more than thirty years.
Getting older should mean taking more things in your stride, developing a thicker skin. But the older I get and the longer I carry life’s baggage, the more my back aches.
Suddenly the doorbell rings. It’s just after 9 a.m. on a Sunday. Who on earth is that? I make my way over to the front door and swing it open.
“Hi, Mum! Thought I’d pop in. A client sent the company some local biscuits and jam and my boss gave them to me. Thought we could share them.” Penny bustles into the house, making her way to the kitchen. “How was the date? Did it go okay? Are you… okay?”
She places a gift basket on the counter and turns to me, her grey eyes wide with anxiety.
Penny is a petite version of me: barely over five feet with that same pale complexion that never tans and similar strawberry blonde locks.
Only she wears her hair longer, and never blurs the freckles on her nose with concealer like I tend to do.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying not to sound frustrated by this unexpected intrusion. “The date went very well. We’re meeting again on Tuesday.”
Penny pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and flicks the kettle on. “Great. And you remembered your medication today?”
“Not yet,” I say brightly. “I haven’t even had a chance to eat breakfast.”
“Mum…”
I can’t help but bristle at her condescending tone. “I am perfectly capable of managing my own life, you know.”
“I do know that.” Her voice is pleading. “I just worry, that’s all.”
“It’s okay.” I pat her shoulder, trying to gloss over the tension. “Like I said, I’m doing fine.” I change the subject. “I’m going to visit Grandma later.”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes brightening. “Can I come?”
“No, I’m sorry, not today.” I watch her pour hot water into the mugs.
She frowns. “Why not?”
Penny is in her mid-twenties now, but she’s still a baby to me, and when she frowns, she pouts like a child.
“I need to talk to her about my adoption.” I sigh. The word has a heaviness to it. “You remember I was writing a memoir, right?”
She nods.
“I’ve been putting this part off.”
“Grandma won’t mind talking about this stuff, will she?” Penny asks.
I shrug. “I honestly don’t know.”
All of a sudden, Penny’s arms are around my neck. She pulls me into her so tightly that I can smell her coconut shampoo.
“Mum, promise me we won’t leave things too late.”
I wrap my arms around her and a memory sweeps into my mind. Penny toddling down the garden of our first house in London. Her tripping over. Me picking her up, holding her as she sobbed. Her stepbrother, Nathan, laughing.
“I promise,” I say.
Penny wipes her cheeks as she pulls away.
We open a packet of fancy-looking shortbread and take our mugs of tea over to the sofa. I make a point of getting out my medication and taking it in front of her.
“By the way, Nathan and I have tracked down the guy who took that photo. I thought you might want to know.”
I set my mug down on the coffee table and lean in. “I do.”
She grabs her phone from her bag. “I’ll ping his handle over to you.”
“Handle for what? Twitter?”
“Yeah, or X or whatever it’s called now.” She taps her phone and mine chimes. I open WhatsApp to find the name of the user who started this whole ridiculous thing.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“Maybe he can tell you more about what you were doing that day,” she says, sheepishly.
“Penny—” Before I can say anything she launches in.
“Mum, don’t. Don’t say it.” She sighs. “It’s you in that photo, Mum. You just don’t know it’s you.” I watch tears form in her eyes. “Do you expect me not to worry? Do you think it’s something I can turn off?”
“No,” I admit, wiping away my own tears.
I open my mouth to tell her I just want some benefit of the doubt.
That part of me longs to hear her tell me she believes me and that she still sees me as the mother capable of picking her up when she falls down.
But I can’t pull my swirling thoughts together to tell her.
Penny breaks out into a sob. “What if something really bad had happened to you? What if you’d got lost and didn’t find your way home?”
“That hasn’t happened, Pen.”
“But it could.” She uses the heels of her hands to dry her face. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve been really worried, Mum. I know you’re not going to like this idea, but there’s this app where we can keep track of each other.”
I don’t reply. I remember the doctor suggesting something similar at a recent appointment, but I didn’t think it was time to consider it. Not yet.
“We just need to download it and add each other, then I can see where you are, and you can see where I am too.”
I stay silent. She’s trying to phrase it like it’s mutually beneficial, but what she really wants is to be able to see where I am.
Goosebumps erupt along my arms, and a heavy sensation builds in my stomach.
This is a small thing to make my daughter feel better.
It doesn’t matter if she knows where I am, I know this; I’m not a spy or someone living a double life.
I would never hide anything from Penny. But something about the lack of privacy does makes me feel… sad. And afraid.
Whether or not it is me lost and alone in that photo, the day when I do become disorientated and distressed and can’t find my way back to myself may not be too far away.
The doctor recommended this app, and my daughter is requesting it. Am I really so pig-headed as to ignore what’s happening and shun everyone’s advice?
Finally, I say, “If it will make you feel better.”
“Really?” She pulls me into an immediate hug. “Thank you. I know you like your privacy so this means a lot. I promise I won’t spy on you.” She releases me and grins. “You can do what you want with lover boy wherever you want. I won’t judge.”
I can’t help but share her grin. Then I add, “There’s one condition though.”
“What’s that?”
“You start cutting me a bit of slack.”
“Deal.” She grins.
We set about downloading the app and once it’s on our phones, Penny explains how to work it.
“That way you know where I am if you need me.”
“And you don’t mind that?” I raise an eyebrow. I still remember the sign on Penny’s door warning us to keep out. The announcements of “I’m going out. See you later,” followed by a door slam, and “I’m sixteen. I can do what I want.”
“I’m not irresponsible anymore,” she protests. “I’m not about to jet off to Ibiza without telling you.”
I touch her cheek. “But you can live your life, Pen. You can travel and you don’t have to tell me where you are every second.”
She takes my hand. “It’s fine. Honestly.”
We try to ease into another conversation, but it never really gets off the ground. After the gravity of what’s just passed, it’s hard to lighten the mood. We make small talk until we’ve finished our tea.
“Okay, well, I’d best get going.”
We make our way to the front door.
“Thanks for coming, and for finding that guy on Twitter,” I say.
“Well, it was mostly Nathan, to be honest.”
“Oh. Well, thanks to Nathan too then.” I force myself to smile.
Penny laughs. “When are you and Nathan going to start getting on?”
“We do get on,” I protest.
“Yeah, right,” she says with raised eyebrows.
She’s right, we don’t get on, but I won’t admit that. Nathan knows what he did to me. He knows why we aren’t close and never will be. And it’s something I will never ever tell Penny.