Martha and I wave our parents off and then, when we can no longer see their car, Martha says, ‘I suppose we’d better go too,’ and so we return to the house and collect my things.
I only have two bags.
One that my mum packed has clothes and toiletries in it and another that I packed has got the things in it that I will need.
My Friends box set.
My complete Die Hard box set.
Some sweets.
A bag of satsumas.
I cannot remember the rest but I am sure there is more in there.
I cannot help Martha with my big bag because I find it difficult to walk carrying heavy things. Martha does not seem to mind though, she makes a joke about it. In a funny voice like one Sasha Baron Cohen would make if he wanted to make you laugh she says, ‘See, strong, like bull!’ and puts the suitcase in the boot along with the bag I have carried. As she returns to the house to lock up, I take one last look at it. I will miss my home very much. I am not looking forward to living somewhere else, even if it is only for a few weeks.
I do not want to go.
On the way to the home Martha tries to talk to me about lots of different things but none of them have to do with where I am going. She asks me which season of Friends I am watching and how much weight she thinks Dad will have put on by the time he comes home or what sort of presents Mum will bring back for us. Finally I say to her, ‘I would much prefer it if you did not ask me any more questions. I would like just to be taken home.’ She does not take me home though. Instead she looks sad and says, ‘You know I can’t do that, Jamie. If I could, I would but I just can’t.’
The man who shows Martha and me to my room at the care home is really tall, has lots of spots on his face and is wearing a grey suit that does not fit him very well. He is called Dean and he is the trainee deputy manager of the care home. My room is like a big box. There is a bed against one wall and a wardrobe next to it. Opposite the bed is a sink with a mirror above it and next to that a table with a lamp. Dean tells Martha there are jigsaw puzzles in the recreation room if I want to do one, and Martha laughs and tells Dean that I have always hated jigsaw puzzles even when we were young. Martha tells Dean that I will be fine as long as I have the TV and DVD player that she requested especially for me. Dean says, ‘Of course, I’ll just go and check where they are for you.’
When he has gone, Martha opens my suitcase on the bed and asks me if I want help putting my things away. Even though I know I will need help, I tell her that I will do it later on my own.
Martha sits down on the bed. She looks really sad. ‘Please, please don’t hate me, Jamie,’ she says. ‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for everyone.’
I let Martha help me put away my things and afterwards we take a little tour of the home. We see the dining room and the main lounge and the recreation room and as we walk around, some of the residents wave at me but I do not wave at them. When we get back to my room, there is a TV and DVD player set up in the corner. I get a DVD from my bag so I can check that it is working properly but as I am getting it out of its case, Martha picks up her handbag from my bed and says, ‘I think it’s probably time for me to be getting off.’
I put down the DVD case and look at Martha.
‘I am sorry,’ I say, ‘for being mean and saying that I did not want your help. I know you are trying your best.’
Martha gives me a big hug and I know even without looking at her face that she is crying. I hand her the box of tissues that my mum put in my suitcase and Martha dries her eyes and gives me another hug.
‘Promise me you’ll call if you need anything at all,’ she says.
‘I will,’ I say, and then she gives me one last kiss goodbye and she is gone.
My first week at Four Oaks does not go very well.
I do not like anything about the home. The dining room is too noisy, the other residents are either quite strange or they do not say anything at all and it is always too warm. I miss my parents and Martha, and I miss my home too. Every night before I go to sleep I call Martha and ask her to take me home or to her house, and every night she tells me that I just need to hang on a little while longer.
At lunchtime on the one-week anniversary of my arrival, I go to the big dining hall to eat. There are lots of different things on offer but I choose fish, chips and peas. The food tastes nice but as usual the dining room is too noisy. There are too many people all talking at the same time and the dinner ladies keep clanging cutlery.
I sit next to a middle-aged man in a wheelchair who I have not met before. He tells me his name is Martin but that everyone calls him Smithy. He tells me he is only here to give his wife a rest from looking after him but he actually quite likes it because it is nice and busy. On the left of me is a smartly dressed elderly lady who has never spoken to me, even though I have sat next to her before. She makes quiet noises to herself as I eat but never once touches her plate of food. Opposite me are two sisters whose names I can’t remember, even though I am sure they told me. They are about twenty years old and are quite funny sometimes. From the moment they sit down at the table with their food, they never once stop talking but still somehow manage to eat everything on their plates.
I try my very best to put up with the noise but halfway through a mouthful of fish and chips, I realise I cannot hear my own thoughts and so I ask one of the care assistants, an Indian lady with a nice smiley face, if I can take my plate to my room because the noise is making my head hurt. She smiles again and says, ‘I know the feeling, love,’ which makes me feel hopeful but then she tells me that I cannot take my food to my room because it’s against the rules. Even when I tell her that Martha said I could eat in my room if I liked, it makes no difference. All she says is, ‘Who’s Martha, dear? Is she here with you now?’ as if she thinks my sister is an invisible friend who I have made up. In the end I tell her it does not matter and I eat everything on my plate very quickly, take an apple from a bowl of fruit and leave the table.
On the way to my room I think about how long I have got left here. Fourteen days does not sound like a lot but when I imagine it in my head, it feels like forever. I tell myself that it will be okay. I tell myself that it will all be over soon and in my head I make a list of the things I will do when I get home.
I only get as far as adding, ‘Have a nap on my bed,’ and ‘sit in my favourite chair,’ when I have to stop because I have been concentrating so hard that I have bumped into an old man coming towards me, being pushed in a wheelchair by a carer. I try to apologise to the old man but he is fast asleep and so I apologise to the carer instead, and he says, ‘No problem, mate.’
As I carry on to my room, I try thinking about my list again but I cannot because another thought is in my head and it will not go away.
The thought is this: I know the man. Not the old man in the wheelchair but the younger man pushing the wheelchair: the care assistant. I know him. But I do not know where from. Because my head is not what it used to be, I tell myself that I have probably made a mistake. Maybe I just think I know him but I do not really know him. Perhaps he reminds me of someone I used to know.
My neurologist, Dr Acari, says that sometimes my memory is perfect and then sometimes it is not. He says that sometimes when I am trying to remember something, it’s like being in a long corridor with a hundred different doors and you know the memory is behind one of them but you just do not know which, and so you have to try them all. When Dr Acari said this, he joked, ‘And of course it is always behind the last door that you open,’ which is funny not just because it is a joke but also because in my head I have just started opening doors, looking for the memory containing the man I think I know. I stand still while I am thinking. I close my eyes too because sometimes it helps, and then just like that I open the right door and I realise I know exactly who he is.