Gordon
Neither of them is home yet. Her son is meeting Maia after work; her husband is…
where? He doesn’t tell Cora when he won’t be home.
So this evening she makes dinner as usual and as six-thirty turns to seven, as the melted cheese topping on a feta and spinach bake starts to resolidify, she waits.
Waits for his key in the lock, waits to see what his mood will be.
Her mind pitter-patters around the idea that, this time, he might be dead.
That perhaps, somewhere between work and home, he’s been hit by a motorcyclist as he’s stepped out to cross the road, and is now in a hospital, medics attempting to jump-start his heart.
But then she shoos the thought away, as though he might return able to discern what she’s been thinking.
At eight o’clock, she covers the untouched dish in foil and puts it in the fridge. Then, she makes herself some bread and butter and eats it standing, prepared to put it in the bin if needed.
Next year, he’s due to retire. She tries to imagine what her life will be like then and tells herself perhaps things might change when he’s no longer a doctor.
After she’d agreed to come back last time, she’d believed it was on different terms, only later realizing it was not what she’d expected.
At first, he’d been kind and gentle, praising her cooking, talking with her about his work and books and politics, taking her out for dinner.
Bringing home a cashmere sweater, presenting her with jewelry.
He’d even suggested they renew their vows.
He’d got up early each morning—“No, stay there, it’s okay”—and brought her tea and toast in bed.
And she’d believed it all. She’d felt as though she was floating on a cloud.
“I love spring,” she’d said, admiring the daffodils in a neighbor’s garden as she opened the curtains one morning.
“Very early for February, though,” he’d replied. And she’d felt sure it was April.
She wondered if he could be right; if her tiredness wasn’t just relief at being home, at the shift in their relationship after all these years.
But a few weeks later, it hadn’t lifted, and her thoughts were increasingly foggy and confused.
“Don’t worry,” he’d said as he folded her into his arms. “It may be some kind of post-viral fatigue. I’ll arrange for an assessment. ”
“What kind of assessment?” she’d said.
“Just to make sure everything’s as it should be, cognitively.
No big deal: it’s what I’d do for any of my patients.
Pretty much standard procedure post sixty; I should probably check myself in for one.
” She’d been touched by this uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability.
It was so unlike him to concede any kind of weakness in himself.
On the day of the assessment, she’d felt more energetic and wondered if it was really necessary.
“Perhaps it’s adrenaline,” Gordon had said.
But still, when she was asked to count backward from ten, she’d stumbled over the numbers, and when she’d named the current prime minister, said what month it was, she saw the assessor glance toward Gordon momentarily.
“But I thought—” and Gordon had covered her hand with his.
“It’s okay, you’re doing really well,” he’d told her, and she’d felt sure something wasn’t quite right, but was also oddly comforted by having him care for her.
She’d become used to Gordon helping around the house.
Used to the feeling of being loved. It reminded her of the early days of their relationship and made her feel vindicated in staying with him all that time.
But then, it seemed to shift back without warning.
One evening, as she squirted washing-up liquid under the running water and asked, “Do you want to wash or dry?” she heard him sigh.
“You seem much better now. I’m sure you can get back to doing the cooking and cleaning.”
“Oh, yes, right,” she stumbled. And so they’d returned to their normal posts—her doing the dishes in the kitchen, as he watched the evening news in the living room.
Cora can’t remember now what caused him to snap.
Only how it ended. With bruised ribs, and her gathering her things to leave again; she hadn’t come back for this.
But then Gordon presented her with the document.
A Lasting Power of Attorney. Proof of his legal control over her health and welfare, over her finances and property.
“Oh, Cora. Did you really think I’d let you go again after last time?
” He touched a finger to her cheek, as though to console her.
Then he returned to the sofa. “I thought you might make it harder for me…But, no, so desperate to be loved.” He patted the seat beside him, inviting her to sit down.
“Did you really believe they’d got John Major out of the cupboard to lead the country again, though?
” he said, shaking his head at her stupidity.
It was still her plan, at that point, to find a way of contacting Maia.
The police even. She just needed to bide her time until he’d left for work the next morning.
But when she woke, he said a locum would be covering his morning surgery and told her they were going on an adventure.
She knew he was playing with her, yet she was still thrown when they pulled into the car park of an old people’s home.
But then, as he told the receptionist they had an appointment to be shown around, that they were interested in seeing the dementia floor with a view to housing a relative, she understood.
The dementia wing was three floors up—extra protection for anyone prone to wandering, they were told by Erica, the manager, as she ushered them through the double layer of security doors with a key fob.
Erica was businesslike, but careful to greet each resident warmly by name in between answering Gordon’s questions.
Yes, very happy to continue administering whatever medication the resident had already been prescribed; No, we’ve never had a resident escape the bounds of the building; Yes, we’re used to dealing with paranoia—accusations against staff and relatives are common with dementia patients.
And as if to demonstrate her point, as they entered the day room, a lady seated in a vinyl-covered armchair wearing a plastic bib began to squawk, “No, no, no! I know what you want! Don’t hurt me!
” Her eyes as wild as her uncombed hair.
“That’s Elsie,” the manager told them, as though naming her might explain her distress.
They drove home in silence. And only when they’d pulled onto the drive and Gordon had turned off the ignition did he speak.
“There, isn’t it nice to be home?” The engine ticked as it cooled down.
He didn’t need to say anything else. She understood.
It felt as though her spine, the gaps between vertebrae, were collapsing.
As though she were sinking into the car’s upholstery and might never get up from it.
It has changed things, though, having their son living at home with them again.
Cora keeps waiting for things to go back to the way they were—them against her—but the younger man is different.
Cora sees there is a rawness about him, like fair skin beneath scorching sun, eyes blinking into too-bright light.
She wants to draw him to her, to cuddle him, but that’s never been the relationship they’ve had, and she doesn’t know where to begin.
Rob opens the plastic tub of rabbit-skin glue, and the odor hits Gordon straight away.
It doesn’t smell bad when it’s fresh, but when it’s not, it’s a reminder something has died.
Rob cringes as he snaps the lid back on.
“That’s what I get for going on holiday.
Do you fancy making some more up while you tell me how you’ve been getting on? ”
“What proportions—eight to one?” Gordon asks, knowing the consistency Rob likes for sealing a canvas.
Rob nods as Gordon opens the cupboard. He is grateful to be able to do these simple tasks—it helps to have a purpose at Rob’s studio when he needs to get out of his parents’ house; to make their relationship feel more reciprocal than sponsor/sponsee.
“So how did you get on last week?” Rob asks, switching on a paint-spattered electric radiator in the corner.
“Okay, I suppose,” Gordon says.
“Oh? That doesn’t sound too good. Did you drink?
” Rob had been readying his small artist’s studio above a pet shop for work, but now he’s leaning back against the sideboard crammed with paints and mediums, watching.
He does this, Rob. Has the ability to make it seem like they’re just hanging out, then in the next moment leaves Gordon feeling as though all his attention is trained on him.
Not in the way his dad does, more like someone watching their favorite football team taking a penalty: barely able to blink for wanting to see the net bulge.
It’s nice to have someone rooting for him, but it’s weirdly intense too.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Gordon says, and Rob visibly relaxes. “Just, you know, that thing of looking back at what an arse you’ve been to different people over the course of your life.”
Rob gives a low laugh. “Yeah, I know that one.”
Rob hasn’t touched alcohol for more than a decade, but his eyes are permanently red-rimmed, as though his body has chosen to wear his regrets like a tattoo. He’d had a wife and child, once.