Page 15 of Falling for You

Nate

It’s impressive how quickly you can get a flight out of London if you’re prepared to ignore any figure and blindly hand over your credit card. Miraculously, my passport was in my pocket as my form of ID for the party, not that I needed to use it to get in. We weren’t even on the guest list.

I left the party as soon as I saw Dad’s name flash up on the screen. I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the nearest airport. Apparently, there was one right in the city.

I tried looking for Stevie as I left, but it was hopeless.

It was so busy in the ballroom that all the phone signal had been sucked into the void – Dad’s call must have snatched the final collective bar of signal.

Although now I’m waiting at the airport for my flight, that’s all I’m left with. Time.

I texted Stevie whilst I was in the taxi. I sent him the flight information once I’d booked in and offered to cover his ticket, but I just got a one-line response.

Let me know you land okay.

He didn’t even ask how Mom is. Stevie and I are a unit. We’re brothers, two sides of the same coin. But sometimes, he can be a real dick.

I lean back against the cold plastic chair, trying to ignore the dubious glances of passers-by as they clock me in my suit. I look like I’ve just run out of my own wedding.

Stevie will be right where I left him, just quite a bit drunker, on the dance floor with a stranger.

He didn’t give any of this a second thought.

As always, it’s me who has to pick up the pieces.

Doesn’t he think I’d rather still be at the party, chatting to a beautiful girl in the first normal, nice conversation I’ve had in months? Maybe even more than months?

I curse to myself under my breath as the conversation passes in front of my eyes. I’ve spoken to girls in bars before, loads of times. But this was different. She was different.

I run my fingers through my hair.

I didn’t even get her name. I barely said goodbye, I just leapt up and ran away like I was about to transform into a werewolf after spotting a full moon. I mean, God, what must she think?

Feeling a rush of adrenaline, I pull out my phone again and send Stevie a voice note.

‘Stevie, one more thing. Can you find the girl who is dressed as a bat and tell her I’m sorry? Will you see if she wants my number? We were chatting before I had to leave.’

As soon as it swoops onto my screen I feel a frisson of embarrassment. How pathetic, sending a desperate voice note about someone when you don’t even know their name.

I jump as my phone buzzes. For a split second I expect to see her. Maybe Stevie has miraculously found her and I can apologise and explain.

It’s not Stevie. It’s Dad.

I’ll pick you up at the airport. Mom okay, just confused. Have a good flight.

I sigh as I finish reading the message and slip my phone into my pocket.

I’m not an expert on life or death, but I think that dementia is possibly the cruellest way to lose someone you love.

It happens so slowly. You feel like you’re watching them gradually fade away, day by day.

Then some days, they remember everything about you and it’s like nothing has happened at all and it was all a horrible dream.

It fuels you with hope that the nightmare is finally over, and you have your person back.

Sometimes it lasts a few days, a week even, usually just long enough to trick you that everything is going to be okay.

And then it sneaks back up on you again. Pulls a bit more of the person away. That lovely, familiar conversation you had the day before is only a memory for one of you.

I know we all think it, but I truly did think that my mom was invincible.

She worked two jobs as we were growing up.

She was on the school PTA and baked for every cake sale and fundraising event.

She worked on the reception in a hospital, and cut and coloured people’s hair in the evenings.

Every night we’d have someone different round at our house, sitting in our kitchen with a cape wrapped round their neck.

They’d chat away as Mom snipped and painted like they were best friends, no matter how well she really knew them.

She had that knack with people. She made you feel like she’d known you forever.

She made everyone feel safe in her company. She’d look after you.

It crept up on us all. The thing is, you don’t think you have to look out for it.

Why would you? Everyone forgets things. I’ve misplaced my keys.

I’ve forgotten to take the bins out. Did I turn the oven off?

I think I have those thoughts every day.

Doesn’t everyone? How was I supposed to know that they were warning signs?

That something cruel and relentless had gotten its teeth into Mom and was slowly dragging her away?

She was diagnosed five years ago. By this point, Stevie had been in London for five years. I didn’t expect him to move back to Manhattan, but I did expect him to visit more, which he didn’t. We’ve never properly spoken about it.

She was having a good day when I got offered the position in the London office and was adamant that I must take it.

I hadn’t told her the real reason I was going.

She didn’t know that Aunt Tell had been ignoring me for weeks, and I didn’t want to worry her, so I made it sound like this big, exciting idea that I’d go to London to stay with Stevie and explore the city.

She worried about Stevie, and I know she thought I’d go and look after him like the good big brother I was.

She could never understand why I was hanging around so much anyway, and why I would even consider turning down the chance to go on a great adventure.

You can’t really tell someone that the reason you don’t want to go is because of them.

Because you’re scared of what will happen if you do leave.

That if you turn your back for a second, they might really slip through the cracks and you won’t be there to catch them.

Dad called this evening to say that she’d fallen down the stairs.

Apparently, she’d been confused about where they started, and her legs didn’t quite pick themselves up in the right way.

She hit her head and every part of her body as she knocked each step on the way down.

She was in hospital now. Dad was with her.

He wasn’t telling me because he expected me to come home, but he didn’t try and stop me either.

Dad wanted me to be in London as much as Mom did, but I saw the fear in his eyes when I told him I’d decided to go.

Like he’d have to deal with it all alone.

Mom was always the carer of the family; Dad was the fixer. But he can’t fix this, none of us can.