John Comes Back
by
Neil James Hudson
I feel cold.
Why do I feel cold? I wish they’d do something about it.
Where’s Gwynneth? She’d do something about the cold. It’s
rubbish being here. You’d think they’d keep you warm at
least.
Gwynneth never lets me get cold. She’s always careful to
make sure I have the duvet over me. I reach out for her,
but she isn’t here. That’s why I’m not warm enough. She’s
too good for me.
I wish she was here now. I need the toilet. There’s a dim
nightlight in the ceiling, just enough to see by, so I take
myself. It’s a bit strange but I get myself back to bed.
It’s cold though.
Some young lass comes in. I don’t recognize her. “Mr.
Bedford,” she says. “You’re not supposed to go to the
toilet on your own.”
They treat me like a child.
The next thing I know, all the lights are on. There’s two
of them. “He’s always doing it,” says the first one. Dark
hair and a touch of the oriental about her. I don’t trust
her. “You’ll just have to get used to it. He thinks he’s at
home.”
“Home,” I say. “That’s right. Where’s Gwynneth?”
“I know I shouldn’t say this,” says the dark girl. “But I
don’t know if we’re doing the right thing. Maybe we should,
you know, call it a day with some of them.”
“That’s horrible,” says the other. I think it’s horrible as
well, but I don’t know what they’re on about. This one’s
blonde. A sweet little baby face. Very pretty. It’s a good
job Gwynneth’s here, or I might not be able to control
myself.
I look around me. This isn’t my room. There’s a window, but
the curtains are drawn, and most of the light comes from a
fluorescent tube in the ceiling. It’s all a bit clinical,
but not like a hospital: there’s a carpet, bedside cabinet,
a picture of a boat on the wall. It’s like a bedroom that
no one lives in: maybe I’m in a hotel.
These must be the chambermaids. I remember the hotel where
we went on our honeymoon. And the chambermaid there--she
walked in on us! I was mortified, but Gwynneth almost died
of laughter, and I couldn’t help but join in.
“That was funny,” I say. They don’t look impressed. “It’s
cold,” I say. “Why won’t you do anything about the cold?”
“Go back to bed,” says one of the chambermaids. It was the
one who’d said the horrible thing, but I can’t remember
what it was now. She doesn’t look as if she meant anything
horrible. I think she means well. She looks tired,
actually, as if she should be the one that goes back to
bed. I start to feel guilty, as if I’m the one responsible.
They put me back to bed. The sweet one, my favorite, gives
me a smile before they leave. The dark one has a much more
difficult expression. It’s as if she’s feeling two things
at once. Gwynneth is dark-haired. I prefer the dark ones,
but after we met I swore I’d never look at another woman
again. I close my eyes. We’ll sort it out in the morning. I
hope I haven’t got drunk again, had an argument. I always
seem to muck things up.
I fall asleep.
*
I wake to the sound of curtains opening. It’s light
outside, must be morning. I’m somewhere strange.
“Where am I? Where’s Gwynneth?”
There’s a young blonde lass here. “You’re fine, Mr.
Bedford. It’s a big day today. Are you ready for
breakfast?”
“I’ll be late for work,” I say.
“It’s okay, Mr. Bedford. Do you need the toilet?”
“I’ll find the toilet on my own,” I say. She’s nice though,
I shouldn’t be rude. “Why is it so cold? Why’s this bed
wet?”
*
“I had to come,” says the man. “I had to come for God.”
“Are you a vicar?” I say. I shouldn’t be rude though. I was
rude to the man who married me and Gwynneth, and she’s
never forgiven me.
“Don’t you recognize me?” he says. I look at him more
closely. He seems to be getting on a bit. He’s got a
moustache: I don’t like them, and there’s something about a
vicar with a moustache that I don’t like especially.
“Course I don’t. Are you giving me the last rites? Are you
Derek?”
“Who’s Derek?”
“How the bloody hell should I know?” I say. What’s the
point of asking me about these people? “You should know,
you’re a vicar.”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said.
“You should be.” I don’t like him, he looks like the kind
of person you can’t trust. God knows who he is. The
bellboy? “Second floor,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to like
it.
I have an idea that I used to know what all this was about,
and that I lost something. It’s at the back of my mind. But
there’s a lot of stuff at the back of my mind, and I reckon
that’s the best place for it. Sometimes I think I don’t
remember anything because I’m scared of it, and I don’t
want to remember.
Then another man comes in. The vicar seems to look up to
him. Perhaps he’s God. The vicar leaves. Good riddance.
The new man must be the hero, he’s all square jawed and
blue eyed and ready to sweep the heroine off her feet. He
seems to be in charge. He sticks a needle in my arm. It
hurts and I start to cry. The maids fuss over me. They seem
to think it’s for my own good. I must be going to Africa.
We’ve got a holiday planned to Africa, me and Gwynneth, and
you get your arm hurt before you can go. “I’m going to
Africa,” I say, but I’m still crying, and I don’t know why.
*
I wake up in the night. I reach out for Gwynneth, but she’s
not there. Maybe she’s gone to the toilet. I realize that I
need the toilet. I get out of bed, but I can’t find my way
around. I seem to be in some kind of hotel room. We must be
on our honeymoon. We stayed in a hotel then.
Eventually I ring for assistance. The maid, a dark-haired
young girl sees me standing there and looks on the floor.
Then she realizes what I’ve called for, and helps me to the
toilet. She looks amazed. I suppose she would: you’re not
really supposed to ask maids to do that, are you?
*
When I wake up, I don’t know where I am. I also don’t know
why I’m alone. I’m in a single bed, and it’s not
comfortable.
“Where’s Gwynneth?” I ask, when the maid comes in. It’s the
dark one: I suppose they work different shifts.
“No change there, then,” she says, to herself I reckon, and
sets about getting my breakfast. Then later, she says,
“you’ll be on your best behavior today, won’t you, Mr.
Bedford? Dr. Sanders is coming to see you.”
“Who?”
“The doctor who saw you yesterday.”
“I should knock his block off,” I say. “He hurt me.”
She seems to freeze. “What did he do?”
“He hurt my arm.” I frown. “But then, that’s because we’re
going to Africa.”
She smiles at me. “You silly,” she says. “That’s your
injection. He’ll do it again today: it doesn’t hurt
really.” Then she looks at me more seriously. “You remember
Dr. Sanders?”
“I should knock his block off,” I say. “He hurt me.” She
leaves, looking thoughtful. I like her, she’s pretty.
*
So it’s Dr. Sanders, I think, as the man comes back. He
hasn’t got any of those sharp things with him this time, so
with any luck my arm will be all right. What would a doctor
want with me? I hope there’s nothing wrong with Gwynneth.
“So, Mr. Bedford, how are we feeling this morning?”
“Don’t hurt me,” I say. “I’m on my honeymoon.” The doctor
is a young man, although he’s older than me. Or is he? I’m
not sure, now, if I’m young or old, it’s just confusing. I
try not to think about it.
“I understand you’ve been a bit more talkative today.”
“Just being friendly.” Then he asks me loads of questions.
Questions about myself, like how old am I, how many
children, and he gives me some puzzles to do. I’m cross
with him, I don’t like him. He doesn’t ask me about
Gwynneth, which is just as well. I don’t want her dragged
into it. He makes me feel stupid though, because he looks
as if I got the answers wrong.
“Well, you seem brighter, but there’s no real progress
showing up. Still, early days yet. You’ll get another
injection this afternoon.”
“I know,” I said. “The nurse said.”
Even I realize what I said when I’ve said it. “The nurse?”
said Dr. Sanders. “I thought you said they were maids.”
I think about it. No maid would help me go to the toilet in
the night. “They’re nurses, aren’t they?” I say. “And I’m
not on my honeymoon. I’m in hospital. What’s wrong with
me?”
“It’s not a hospital, it’s a care home,” he says. “We’ll
discuss this another time.” It’s only when he’s gone that I
start to cry.
In the afternoon they hurt my arm again, but I don’t mind
this time, because I know you have to have these before you
can get into Africa.
*
Next day that bloody vicar’s back again.
“I’m not a vicar,” he says, but I don’t believe him. It
would be typical of them to lie like that. You don’t know
where you are with vicars. I told him that, the one that
married me and Gwynneth--
But of course, that’s in the past now.
“I know where I am,” I say. “I always told her, don’t put
me in a home. But she did, didn’t she? I’m here on my own.”
“You still don’t know who I am, do you?”
I look at him, more closely this time. I still don’t like
him. He has a pathetic look to him: he’d be no use in a
fight. He has a good head of hair on him, but a face that
looks as if he’s spent his life running and hiding. He’s
not a vicar, I can see that now. He’s not wearing the
costume. So it’s probably not the last rites.
“I’ll call you Vic,” I say. His moustache looks as if he’s
not trying--or rather, as if he’s tried and tried, and
that’s the best he can grow. People with moustaches like
that should give up and shave. They’re just embarrassing
themselves.
He looks as if he’s about to cry. “Okay,” he says. “Call me
Vic.” There’s a tear in his eye. Men shouldn’t cry. You’d
think he was the one in hospital.
“I’m not going to die,” I say, to reassure him. It doesn’t
help.
“No, you’re not,” he says. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t
think you were coming back to us.”
I don’t know if I want to come back to him. He looks
familiar, I’ll give him that. Mind you, everyone’s starting
to look familiar. I seem to know those nurses quite well.
My God, how long have I been here?
I can’t work it out. I don’t want to work it out. It’s like
growing up, I think. You never want to do it: you know
what’s waiting for you.
“There’s no point,” he says. “Not until you remember me.”
And then he leaves, and I couldn’t be happier.
*
I hold my arm out, and Dr. Sanders gives me my next
injection.
*
“Am I stupid?” I ask. It’s the blonde nurse tonight.
Sometimes they work together, sometimes not. She looks
startled.
“Stupid?” she says.
“There’s something wrong with me. I don’t know what. I
think of some of what I’ve done, and I think--”
“No, not stupid,” she says, firmly. “That must be the worst
of it. You’re very intelligent, Mr. Bedford. It’s your
memory that’s gone.”
A word comes to me. It’s not an easy one, but it’s
important. I’m pleased with myself for remembering it.
“Asshammers!” I cry out.
I can see that she’s trying to keep a straight face.
“Alzheimer’s,” she says. “You’re close.”
She can’t wait to pass that on. She’s the joker of the two:
all smiles and laughs, dimples, rosy cheeks, the one you’d
want to meet after work. The other one’s too serious,
always thinking. Repressed, maybe. She’d get the joke, but
not laugh at it. She’ll get lines on her face if she’s not
careful.
I lie back, and try to remember.
*
I get up in the night. I find my own way to the toilet, now
that the nurse showed me the way last night.
Before I get back in bed, I retrace my steps towards the
part of the floor where I used to do it. Out of bed,
through the door, turn left.
It’s where the toilet used to be at home, in the house that
I lived in with Gwynneth.
I stand there for a bit, but then I think the nurse will
think I’m going to do it again, so I go back to bed.
*
“You don’t know me,” I tell the dark nurse in the morning.
“Of course I know you, Mr. Bedford,” she says, talking to
me as if I’m a child.
“No you don’t. You only know the cabbage that lies in bed
and makes a mess on the floor. But I had a life, you don’t
know that. I was young, just as you are now. I had friends,
family, a job. Do you write poems?”
She looks as if I’ve just caught her with no clothes on.
“I knew it,” I continue. “I’ve seen you in the middle of
the night with that notebook. Well, I wrote poems as well.
I can’t remember any of them now. I don’t know where they
are or even if they exist. But you look at me as if I was
always like this, always a vegetable.”
I wonder if she’ll look guilty at this. I hope she will.
But she doesn’t. She just looks thoughtful.
“I was remembering my honeymoon,” I say. “We went to
Africa. Lovely girl. Gwynneth. I’ve told you about her,
haven’t I?”
She nods.
I sigh, lean back. “I’m a lot older now, aren’t I?”
She nods again.
“You don’t have to play games with me,” I say. “I’m not
stupid. The other nurse said so last night. I still don’t
remember,” I say. “I can’t remember what happened. But I’ve
worked it out.”
She continues to look at me, this time with some
compassion.
“She’s not going to come back, is she, Gwynneth? She’s gone
now.”
And finally, treating me like an adult, as if I’m finally
worthy of her attention, the dark nurse nods again.
*
This time when Dr. Sanders comes back to give me my
injection, I’m waiting for him.
“This is an experiment, isn’t it?” I say.
“Yes, it is,” he says.
“Then who gave permission? I was in no position.”
He avoids my eyes. “We contacted your next-of-kin.”
“Gwynneth?” I say. I know it couldn’t have been her: but
I’m trying to provoke him into telling me.
“I’m afraid that wasn’t possible,” he says. The nurses were
chosen for their skills with people. Dr. Sanders was chosen
for his skills with needles. It’s not that he has no
sympathy. It’s just that he can only express that sympathy
in an impersonal way. In this situation, he has nothing to
offer.
I wait for him to change the subject.
“So, are you feeling any better, Mr. Bedford?”
As if he’s going to listen to my answer. He’s come armed
with his questions and puzzles again, and he’s going to
measure how much better I feel, even if it goes against my
own expression of wellness. I feel that I may as well make
small talk.
“I do feel better,” I say. “A lot better. But.”
He looks at me again, as if I’ve moved to a safe subject.
“But. Getting better feels worse.”
He nods then, like the nurse did. “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it
does.”
*
“I still don’t remember you,” I tell my visitor with the
moustache. He doesn’t seem to know how to react to this.
Some of him wants to feel relief, some of him wants to feel
despair. I watch him for a while, to see if either side
will win.
“But I’m not stupid,” I say. “I can’t remember, but I can
work things out.” I take a deep breath. “Someone had to
sign the consent forms, didn’t they?”
“It was me.”
“I asked one of the nurses how old I am. She didn’t want to
tell me at first, but she knew she’d have to. I’m
seventy-two. That’s about twenty years older than you, am I
right?”
He makes no gesture in reply, waiting to see what will
happen.
“I was twenty when I went on that honeymoon to Africa. So I
suppose that makes you my--” I couldn’t bring myself to say
it. “My next of kin.”
Finally he breaks down. “Oh, Dad!” he manages to say, and
flings his arms around me, sobbing against my shoulder. I
must have done this so many times when he was a child, and
I hold him, but more out of politeness than anything else.
Because, after all, I don’t actually remember him yet, and
there’s only one thing about him that I do know. One thing
that I’m absolutely certain of, that goes to the very core
of my being, that I could never forget no matter how far my
condition worsens.
I hate him.
*
“John,” I say, to Dr. Sanders, the next day: Friday, I
think.
“I beg your pardon?” he replies, but I can see that I’ve
got an answer right. He can’t hide it.
“John is the name of my son,” I say proudly. “He was born a
year after we got back from Africa. Gwynneth wanted him
christened, but I refused--I’d fallen out with the vicar.”
“Welcome back, Mr. Bedford.”
“I’m not back yet,” I say. “But I’m on my way.”
A door opens in my mind. But it closes again. It’s a
strange feeling.
“What does that mean?” asked Dr. Sanders, curious.
“Sorry?”
“What you just said.”
“What did I say?”
“You said, the worst thing was that you were only concerned
with yourself.”
I frown. I don’t remember saying it, and don’t know what it
means.
“It will come back to you,” says Dr. Sanders. “Next
injection?”
*
“Your name’s John,” I tell him.
“You do remember,” he says. “You really do remember.”
“I don’t remember everything,” I say. “In fact, I don’t
remember much at all. I remember you being born: I remember
some of your childhood. I’ve got a lot of catching up to
do.”
“I never thought you’d come back,” he says. “I’ve been
coming here for six months, and you’ve never known who I
am.”
“Well,” I say, considering things, “I never thought I’d see
you again either.” There is a brief silence. “You were a
difficult child,” I say, although it’s still more of a
guess.
“I’ve not been good to you,” he admits. “That’s why I’m
back. And that’s why I’ve brought you back. I want to make
amends.”
But I can see now that another of his sides has gained
control: the side that doesn’t want me to remember who he
was.
*
“Can I read you one of my poems?” asks the dark nurse.
Inwardly, I groan. “Go on,” I say.
She has her notebook with her, one of those pocket ones
spiral-bound at the top. “It was inspired by you,” she
says.
“I’m flattered,” I lie.
She begins to read.
“The door
opens.
Inside, darkness.
I look through, across the dim threshold,
From light into its absence
Hurting my eyes as I strain to see--”
I start to scream.
*
The door opened. Inside, darkness. I looked through,
straining my eyes.
“Gwynneth?” I called.
Something was wrong. The light should have been on. It was
only just gone six, but it was the middle of January and it
was still dark. She usually met me at the door. I wondered
if she was ill and had gone to bed.
But I could hear something, something between sobbing and
heavy breathing. I fumbled for the light switch.
“Are you all right?” I called.
I wondered if John was back. He’d been arrested again
yesterday, but they never seemed to charge him, and
Gwynneth would have tried to intervene, no matter how much
I told her not to. He hadn’t been here since summer though,
and I had hoped--ghastly thing to say about your own
son--that he wouldn’t trouble us again.
I found the light switch, and had a sudden feeling. The
feeling said, don’t press it. Turn round: go back to work.
Do anything except turn on the light.
I turned on the light.
John was back. He sat in the corner, half glaring, half
grinning. He wasn’t sane, I knew that, but now I saw worse.
He didn’t even seem to be himself. The person on his
haunches, with that sick expression, I knew to be my son,
and yet I felt as if I’d never seen him before in my life.
At the opposite side of the room lay Gwynneth. She was face
down, thank God. There was a lot of blood. The blood was
smeared across the floor, between my wife and my son. He
was holding a knife.
I screamed, and then I rushed from the house, not knowing
where I was going, just trying to get away. That was what
hurt the most, I think. I didn’t try to help Gwynneth or
even see if she was still alive. I was only concerned with
myself.
*
Two men are trying to hold me down: security staff I
suppose, although I haven’t seen them before. The dark
nurse is trying to help but she can’t do much. “We didn’t
know!” she is shouting, trying to be heard above my own
screams. “I swear to you, we didn’t know what had
happened!”
Dr. Sanders enters the room at a run. He looks haggard, he
must have been woken up.
“Please,” says the dark nurse. “Help him.”
“I’ll give him a sedative,” he says, keeping his distance,
and prepares a syringe.
“No!” I shout, desperate. “No! No more injections.”
He comes towards me with the syringe. I turn to the nurse,
pleading. “No more injections!”
She understands, and blocks Dr. Sanders. “He’s right,” she
says. “Please. No more injections.”
*
It’s cold in this bed, and I don’t know where I am. But the
dark lass is pretty enough. There’s only one of them here
at the moment. I think she must be the chambermaid,
although she isn’t doing much cleaning. She looks familiar,
although I don’t think I’ve seen her before. I like her
voice. She reads to me, out of a notebook. I don’t know
what she’s going on about, but it’s nice to hear.
“What did you think of that, Mr. Bedford?” she asks.
I can’t remember what she’s asking about. “Gwynneth would
like it. Where is she?”
And something funny happens. The dark lass looks at me
seriously, and says, “Gwynneth isn’t coming back, Mr.
Bedford.”
And I feel sick inside myself, because I know she’s right,
that Gwynneth isn’t coming back. But the feeling passes,
and she begins to read to me again. I don’t know what she’s
on about, but I like her voice.
Copyright
2009 by by Neil James Hudson