What Alice Forgot

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” said a nurse. Her bright, bubbly voice was like glass breaking.

Alice jumped and gasped for air as if she’d been holding her breath.

Chapter 11

Frannie’s Letter to Phil I’m back again, Phil.

It’s six a.m. Still dark outside, and chilly. Brrrrr! I’m writing this in bed.

Barb called again last night to say that Alice is fine. They’ve done a CT scan apparently, whatever that is, and everything looks normal, although evidently Alice is suffering some memory loss. When she woke up, she thought she was still together with Nick!

Now Barb is celebrating because she thinks they’ll get back together. She has become so irritatingly optimistic ever since she took up salsa dancing.

I think reconciliation is unlikely. Alice was here on Monday (which was lovely, although I do sometimes feel as though I’m a chore being crossed off her list, but perhaps that’s unfair). I asked her about Nick and the most repellent expression crossed her face. She became quite ugly with hatred.

After she left, I was thinking about the first time Alice brought Nick around to meet me. They’d come straight from the beach, their feet sandy, their hair still wet, smelling of the sea. They were sitting on the couch chatting politely with me, not touching, or so it seemed, except that I happened to glance down and I saw that their hands were lying next to each other on the couch, and that Nick was caressing Alice’s little finger with his own. I remember being shocked by a feeling of pure envy. I wanted to be Alice, young and lovely, feeling the secret caress of a handsome boy’s fingertip.

Isn’t it strange and sad what time can do? What became of those passionate young people?

But what do I know about marriage? It’s a mystery to me. I assume it’s a matter of compromise. Negotiation. Give and take.

Actually, I remember seeing Alice and Nick, after another trip to the beach, except by this time they had three children and there was certainly no fingertip caressing. Something had obviously happened (to do with Olivia, I think) and you could have cut the air with a knife. They were talking to each other in those terrible, icily polite voices I’ve noticed couples use in public when they’re arguing.

Do you ever wonder, Phil, what sort of a marriage we would have had?

Would we have fought? For example, you always said you didn’t mind that I had the more senior position, but perhaps that wasn’t really true and it would eventually have become a problem for us. They say that men are defined by their work.

Do you know I’ve been writing to you now for over three decades? That’s longer than a lot of marriages. Longer than Alice’s marriage.

May I share another quibble with you about that fellow? That Mr. Mustache? Last night, I was in the dining room for dinner and he was sitting at the same table. He asked if any of my own family were performing at the Talent Night. I said that my “honorary granddaughter” would be dancing.

Mr. Mustache wanted to know what I meant by “honorary.”

I briskly gave him the facts. I said that I had lived next door to a young family, and that when the father died suddenly of a heart attack the mother wasn’t coping especially well and I stepped in to help out, as she had no other family. Eventually I became a sort of “pseudo” grandmother.

I didn’t tell him how the shattered, white faces of those poor little girls are imprinted on my memory forever. I didn’t tell him about the many days I had to drag their mother out of bed. (Once I got so frustrated, I actually pinched poor Barb, quite hard, on the arm. Isn’t that dreadful! I was tough back then.)

Of course, I didn’t tell him about you.

Mr. Mustache listened (I’ll give him that. He really did listen.) and then he said, “I think you can drop the ‘honorary.’ Sounds like they really are your family.”

Phil, I’m not sure why this bothered me so much. It was something about his tone. So definite. So presumptuous. I’ve only known the man five minutes and he’s making remarks about my life. And he seemed to be implying that I was being overly pedantic.

Am I making too much of this? Am I pedantic?

I guess I’ve always taken secret pride in my pedantry.

Oh I can just imagine you snorting!

Must rush. I’m catching the minibus into the shops to buy a gift for Alice. I’ll never get this letter finished at this rate!

Right! Time to get moving. A nice hot shower. Clothes. Hair. Makeup.

The last nurse had left and now a brisk, bossy voice in Alice’s head was telling her what to do.

Too tired, replied Alice truculently. Her eyes were dry and stinging. I’ve just had the worst night of my life. Also I should probably wait and ask a nurse.

Rubbish! You’ll feel more awake after your shower. You always do!

Do I?

Yes! And it’s time to look in the mirror, for heaven’s sake. You’re only thirty-nine, not eighty-nine. How bad can it be?

What about a towel? I don’t know which towel to use. There might be procedures.

You smell of sweat, Alice. From that gym class. You need a shower.

Alice sat up. She couldn’t stand the thought of having any sort of body odor. It was the ultimate humiliation. She was horrified even when Nick casually mentioned she had garlicky breath the day after they’d eaten an especially garlicky dinner. She would clap a hand to her mouth and run to clean her teeth and spend the whole day chewing gum. Nick was bemused by the fuss. He couldn’t care less if he smelled. After working all day on the house, he’d sniff cheerfully at his armpits like an ape and announce, “I stink!” as if it were a fine achievement.

Maybe Nick was divorcing her because she’d developed extremely bad breath.

She put a tentative hand to the tender lump on her head. The pain was still there, but it was definitely better, more like a memory of yesterday’s pain.

But she didn’t remember those children, and she didn’t remember Nick moving out.

She slid her bare feet onto the cool floor and looked around her. The tulips her mother had given her were fat, gold bulbs against the white of the hospital room wall. She tried to imagine her mother dancing the salsa with Roger, their hips swiveling in unison. She could imagine Roger’s hips swiveling all right, but Mum’s? She was fascinated and repelled by the thought. She couldn’t wait to talk to Nick about it.

Well.

She remembered his voice on the phone yesterday, thick with hatred. It had to be over something more than bad breath. If that had been the reason, he would have sounded compassionate and embarrassed.