Temporal Sentence

At home Geoffrey went straight to the laptop in their bedroom. Thank God neither Esperanza nor Nicola was in the house. He settled with his feet up on the bed and the laptop in front of him. Catherine sat beside him. Geoffrey found a website. Pick’s Disease. It sounded so unscientific. Symptoms. He read for a few minutes then stopped. There it was in black and white just as the consultant had told them. Overeating. Wandering. Lack of inhibition. And that was just stage one.

He realised he had been holding his breath while reading. He inhaled, coughed and burst into tears. He put his head on Catherine’s shoulder.

“What about a cuppa?” she said.

Geoffrey groaned, laid the laptop on the bed and went down stairs. Thankfully, there was still no sign of Esperanza in the kitchen. When he came back with a tray of two mugs and a packet of plain chocolate digestives, he saw Catherine scrolling down the website page.

“Symptoms: Overeating with a predilection for sweet things.” She grinned at the packet of biscuits. “Better have two then, hadn’t I?” She held out her hand. “Echolalia.” What does that mean?”

Geoffrey put the tray on the dressing table, opened the packet of biscuits and handed one to Catherine. She wolfed it down in a couple of bites and held out her hand for another.

“Repeating things,” he said.

“Repeating things,” said Catherine.

Geoffrey looked at her. Was she being funny? He took a gulp of tea and sat beside her on the bed.

“Difficulty organising diary and appointments.” Catherine sounded triumphant. “That’s why it was impossible at work, even with Jilly’s help!”

She continued scrolling, munching her way through a second biscuit. There was chocolate smeared on her lips. She stopped, biscuit half way to her mouth. Her voice shook as she read the next line:

“Prognosis: “Fatal, average survival rate from onset: eight to ten years.” She turned and looked at Geoffrey who grabbed the laptop and slammed it shut.

“How long do you think I’ve got?”

The doctor had said he had no way of telling when the deterioration had started. Geoffrey tried to remember the first time Catherine seemed odd. Were some of her behaviours over the last year mistakes or symptoms? She was still staring at him. Her face closed. He had expected her to cry. He was surprised how calmly she had taken the news.

“A flattening of affect” was another of the symptoms. Was this what that meant? Had Catherine turned into a kind of Mr Spock?

Geoffrey took her hand. “Look,” he said, trying to keep the tremble out of his own voice. He must be strong for her sake. “These websites, they can only report averages. Each patient is unique…”

“I’m a patient? Will I have to stay in hospital?”

“Not now, not ever,” Geoffrey corrected himself, “If I have any say in it.”

Mustn’t scare her. In fact it would be better if she knew as little as possible.

“We’ll make the most of our time…up here, have some trips…”

He couldn’t help it; the tears were streaming down his face. Catherine leant over him and wiped a few away with her fingers, leaving sticky chocolate marks on his skin. She stood up and stared out of the window for a few minutes.

“Geoffrey. I need to tell you something. It’s really important. You must listen.”

Geoffrey blew his nose on his handkerchief and tidied it back into his jacket pocket. The evening sun was dipping behind the yew tree in the garden next door. The noise of the traffic had died down. Catherine returned to the bed, sat down and picked at the pattern on the bedspread. “I have a child, a daughter. I must see her before I die. You must help me.”

Geoffrey sighed and pulled her close to him. “Darling, it’s all right. I understand.”

Catherine pulled away and searched his face. “You do? I thought with everything that you said about not wanting children, about how they were hostages to fortune…”

Geoffrey put his finger against her lips and shook his head. “Catherine, it’s just part of the disease. Patients, I mean people, make things up, they, what did the website say? They ‘confabulate’.”

Catherine stood up. The room was darkening now and Geoffrey couldn’t see her face against the window.

“I’m not confab, fabuling, or whatever the bloody word is. When I was seventeen I had a baby. I gave her up for adoption. It’s true. Look, I’ve got proof…”

Catherine lifted up the bedcover, peered under the bed. She stood up and searched the room, opening drawers, the wardrobe door, flinging open their suitcases. “It must be here somewhere. My hatbox, I need my hatbox.”

“Darling, you’re not going to a garden party anytime soon. Calm down. Come on, it’s all been much too much of a shock for you.”

Geoffrey reached in his pocket for the bottle of Greek pills. There was no point in letting her get so agitated over nothing. It had been a hellish day for them both. He picked up her untouched mug of tea and offered it to her. She stopped her frantic search and sipped obediently. Accepted the small white pill and swallowed it. A few minutes later Geoffrey tucked her into bed.

“My hat box, my daughter…” were her last murmurs before she fell asleep. Geoffrey stroked her hair for a few minutes, then moved to the window. He stood with his hands in his pockets. What on earth lay before them? He heard Esperanza slamming the front door. He couldn’t face telling her yet. He must consider what this new development meant first.

 

Alison Summers