of the vase and put today’s flowers in. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t notice as I shuffle them around in an attempt to make them look nicer. I sit in the chair next to her and take her hand in mine. It’s warm. It’s always warm, no matter how cold the room gets. I’m glad for it, because it helps remind me my wife is still alive.
She occasionally blinks as I tell her about my day. There is
no expression on her face as I run a brush through her hair,
stroking it over and over, searching for the recognition that isn’t there. She does not laugh when I tell her how I slipped into the water. She doesn’t chide me for not telling Patricia Tyler that her daughter has been dead the entire time she has been missing.
Other noises, the shuffling of patients, the squeaking of caster wheels, come from the care home which, for the last few years, I have quietly nicknamed ‘Death Haven’. I’m not sure why I’ve
come up with the name. I’m not sure whether thinking of it as
Death Haven has made it more personal to me or less. Every day I have this romantic notion that I will come in here and Bridget will look up at me and smile. Every day. But she doesn’t. I hold onto the hope, I have become attached to it sentimentally, in the same way Mrs Tyler has become attached to the idea her daughter has run away and is living the perfect life in a perfect town and is so perfectly happy she just hasn’t had the chance to call.
I keep talking until my throat is sore and I’m out of words.
Bridget has remained in her catatonic state the entire time, happy in the world she is in, or perhaps sad; I wish I had a way of
knowing. The window and the trees beyond hold for her the
same fascination as they have done every day for the last two
years. I feel exhausted, as I always do when I purge myself of the day’s events. The silence in the room is peaceful, and in these quiet times I often think that I would be better off if I could be catatonic too, unknowing and unfeeling, and keeping Bridget company. I sit holding her hand for a few more minutes, then
I stand, pulling her hand up slightly. She comes with me and
steps towards the bed. Her actions are involuntary, her body just following the motions. She can move from the bed to the chair, and back again. Sometimes the staff will find her standing in
the corridor, motionless, and twice she has made it down into the foyer. Guide a glass up to her lips and she can drink. Raise a fork to her mouth and she can eat. But she cannot fend for herself, cannot speak, cannot look at you with an expression that suggests she knows you are there. Everything is a thousand miles away, and her eyes are fixed on that point in the distance, continually searching, searching, but never finding.
She lies down. I kiss her on the side of her cool face — her
hands are always warm, her cheeks always cool — then slowly
make my way from her room. I don’t turn back. I never do, not
these days. I will see her tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after.
Patricia Tyler isn’t the only person in this city playing the
waiting game.
Outside, the cold air feels like silk against my face. I stand next to my car for nearly five full minutes. I stand doing nothing as the rain dampens my jacket. I’m not even really sure whether I’m thinking about my wife or dead girls or bad luck and bad omens, Until finally I find the strength to drive away.
chapter nine
I turn my cellphone on and wait for it to ring, but it doesn’t.
Could mean people are getting killed elsewhere in the city and the reporters flocking there have forgotten about me. Could be the police know who put the bodies in the water and don’t feel they need to let me know. Could be Tracey hasn’t noticed the missing ring on the dead girl’s finger and I’m sailing through trouble-free waters. Could be none of that. Might simply be a poor signal.
Or that taking it for a swim has finally caught up with the inner
She occasionally blinks as I tell her about my day. There is
no expression on her face as I run a brush through her hair,
stroking it over and over, searching for the recognition that isn’t there. She does not laugh when I tell her how I slipped into the water. She doesn’t chide me for not telling Patricia Tyler that her daughter has been dead the entire time she has been missing.
Other noises, the shuffling of patients, the squeaking of caster wheels, come from the care home which, for the last few years, I have quietly nicknamed ‘Death Haven’. I’m not sure why I’ve
come up with the name. I’m not sure whether thinking of it as
Death Haven has made it more personal to me or less. Every day I have this romantic notion that I will come in here and Bridget will look up at me and smile. Every day. But she doesn’t. I hold onto the hope, I have become attached to it sentimentally, in the same way Mrs Tyler has become attached to the idea her daughter has run away and is living the perfect life in a perfect town and is so perfectly happy she just hasn’t had the chance to call.
I keep talking until my throat is sore and I’m out of words.
Bridget has remained in her catatonic state the entire time, happy in the world she is in, or perhaps sad; I wish I had a way of
knowing. The window and the trees beyond hold for her the
same fascination as they have done every day for the last two
years. I feel exhausted, as I always do when I purge myself of the day’s events. The silence in the room is peaceful, and in these quiet times I often think that I would be better off if I could be catatonic too, unknowing and unfeeling, and keeping Bridget company. I sit holding her hand for a few more minutes, then
I stand, pulling her hand up slightly. She comes with me and
steps towards the bed. Her actions are involuntary, her body just following the motions. She can move from the bed to the chair, and back again. Sometimes the staff will find her standing in
the corridor, motionless, and twice she has made it down into the foyer. Guide a glass up to her lips and she can drink. Raise a fork to her mouth and she can eat. But she cannot fend for herself, cannot speak, cannot look at you with an expression that suggests she knows you are there. Everything is a thousand miles away, and her eyes are fixed on that point in the distance, continually searching, searching, but never finding.
She lies down. I kiss her on the side of her cool face — her
hands are always warm, her cheeks always cool — then slowly
make my way from her room. I don’t turn back. I never do, not
these days. I will see her tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after.
Patricia Tyler isn’t the only person in this city playing the
waiting game.
Outside, the cold air feels like silk against my face. I stand next to my car for nearly five full minutes. I stand doing nothing as the rain dampens my jacket. I’m not even really sure whether I’m thinking about my wife or dead girls or bad luck and bad omens, Until finally I find the strength to drive away.
chapter nine
I turn my cellphone on and wait for it to ring, but it doesn’t.
Could mean people are getting killed elsewhere in the city and the reporters flocking there have forgotten about me. Could be the police know who put the bodies in the water and don’t feel they need to let me know. Could be Tracey hasn’t noticed the missing ring on the dead girl’s finger and I’m sailing through trouble-free waters. Could be none of that. Might simply be a poor signal.
Or that taking it for a swim has finally caught up with the inner
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