After school, feeling less like a zombie and more like a human being after his nap on Mrs Paine’s banquette, Adam decides to drive over and visit Grandpa. It’s been a couple of weeks since he’s seen him. He tosses his backpack in the boot of Mum’s car. Actually, that’s just a family joke. Mum has never had her own car. As a fringe benefit, she’s always driven a demo model from the yard. Dad changes it every eight weeks or so which keeps the mileage down. This latest one’s a Mazda 2, zippy, and with brakes more sensitive than a dog’s nose. It’s a girly colour though—turquoisey-blue. Mum had liked the colour. It reminded her of holidays and freshly washed table linen. The same blue her bridesmaids wore.
‘Do you remember, Phil? So summery!’
She’d even hinted to Dad that she wouldn’t mind keeping this car. Dad had snorted at that, grumbling about the recession and how money doesn’t grow on bloody trees. Slipping into a park at Resthaven and ratcheting the brake, Adam figures the car is his to drive—for the moment anyway.
Adam stops by the office to sign his name in the register. At Resthaven, they like people to sign in and out every time they come: OSH regulations. And last year there’d been a spate of petty burglaries with some of the residents losing jewellery, money and even a personal television. Adam thought that was bold: walking out of a busy retirement home with a television under your arm. After that last affront, the residents’ families had clamoured for better procedures, so the rest home had installed surveillance cameras and insisted every visitor sign in and out, whether they were known to the staff or not.
Adam scans the page, examining the names of today’s visitors. Gran was here earlier: looks like she had lunch with Grandpa. Adam has a thought. He flicks back to the beginning of the month and starts checking through the entries, looking for Mum’s name. Running his finger down the pages, he finds it occurs every day, alongside her signature and the times she arrived and departed, mostly late morning. She even dropped by and saw Grandpa that Wednesday, the day she disappeared, but after that—Adam checks the entries line by line—nothing.
Disappointed, he signs himself in and weaves his way through the labyrinth to Grandpa’s room at the back of the complex, assailed as always by the smell of coddled milk and disinfectant. The room is empty. Bereft, Grandpa’s unread newspaper waits on the candlewick bedspread, the way school play equipment waits for kids to come out at Interval. The bathroom door is closed and, thinking Grandpa might be in there, Adam knocks.
‘Grandpa?’
‘Oh hello, Adam!’ Mrs Kirkham calls out as she passes by the open door. ‘If you’re looking for your Grandpa, I think I know where he might be. Some of the boys were out in the garden playing bowls after lunch, and afterwards I heard one of the caregivers mention that John was going to have his afternoon tea in the conservatory. I’ll walk you there.’
‘That’s okay, I know the way.’
‘Oh, it’s no trouble. I’m going that way.’ Adam falls in beside the Centre Manager. About the same age as Mum, Mrs Kirkham is more your twinset and pearls type. Dressed today in a blue skirt and oyster-coloured blouse, she isn’t actually wearing pearls, but Mrs Kirkham’s not the sort Adam could picture slouching around in jeans. Too proper. Like the Queen.
‘That bowls match!’ Mrs Kirkham exclaims, as she leads Adam along the corridor. ‘Anyone would think it was the World Championship Tournament. Those boys do take their bowls seriously.’ Adam thinks it’s funny the way Mrs Kirkham calls the men who live here boys, as if they were a bunch of wilfully mischievous children. In their seventies and eighties, and with one resident well into his nineties, those ‘boys’ are around twice her age. Apparently, you’re never too old for a bit of mothering.
‘So, who won?’ Adam asks, running his fingertips along the hall’s continuous handrail as he walks.
Mrs Kirkham stops for a moment and smiles. ‘You know, I don’t know.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Adam says, as they round the corner. ‘By now half of them won’t remember either.’
‘You’re right, it doesn’t matter. They had such a lot fun standing around in the sunshine arguing about whose ball is the closest, calling for do-overs. They even had the audacity to come in and pinch a ball of wool from one of the ladies. Comparing distances, they said! They’ve had a lovely day. And if the weather stays fine, I expect they’ll replay the entire tournament tomorrow.’
They’ve almost reached the conservatory now. Adam slows to a dawdle, not quite ready to see Grandpa yet. Sensing Adam has something to say, Mrs Kirkham slows too.
‘Everything okay, Adam?’
‘Mrs Kirkham, does Grandpa know about Mum?’
She purses her lips for an instant, her fingers clutching at non-existent pearls, then says: ‘I think so, love. You know, your grandpa still likes to flick through the newspaper. Mainly he reads the headlines and looks at the photographs—he wouldn’t be able to follow the gist of a lengthy article—but they’ve printed your mother’s photograph a lot lately, that one of her on the beach. I’m sure he’s recognised her.’
‘What about Gran? Do you know if she’s told him?’ Another pause. Mrs Kirkham seems to weigh up whether she should say more. Eventually, Adam detects a small shrug of her shoulders.
‘Yes, she has. Your gran doesn’t believe in keeping anything from your grandpa.’ She shifts her weight uneasily. ‘You have to understand, Adam, in cases like John’s where there’s severe memory impairment, the jury’s out about how best to approach this kind of thing. Some people think we should hold back information that could be upsetting to the patient. I believe your gran kept Tiffany’s disappearance from John in those first few days. It was still early on, and everyone was hopeful your mother might still be found. Of course, we still do hope she’ll be found. But as time’s gone on, your gran felt John should know. She said she hadn’t lied to her husband their entire married life and she wasn’t about to start now.’ Mrs Kirkham sighs deeply and Adam wonders if the Centre Manager doesn’t entirely approve of Gran’s decision. With short, clipped nails, she runs her hands down her skirt, smoothing out the pleats. ‘It does make it very hard for your gran though, having to explain the situation over and over. So, in answer to your question, yes, deep down your grandpa does know that your mum is missing. But that doesn’t mean he always remembers.’ Adam nods thoughtfully.
Mrs Kirkham claps her hands together. ‘Ready?’
They turn into the conservatory. West facing, the room takes full advantage of the afternoon sun. Seated at a card table, Grandpa’s face is a picture of concentration. He’s bent over a Rush Hour game-board, his attention and his fingers lingering on an orange 3-square truck as he tries to figure out his next move. Although he spends hours playing the game, these days Grandpa rarely manages to get the little ambulance through the traffic.
Sweeping into the sun-filled room, Mrs Kirkham says, ‘Look who we have here to see you, John. It’s your grandson, Adam, come for a visit.’ She tips Grandpa forward while she talks, her voice running up and down the scale as she plumps the cushions behind him.
‘You know what I think I’ll do, John? I think I’ll have the girls bring you and Adam a cup of tea. Some biscuits, perhaps. That way, you two boys can have a chat. I’m counting on you to find out what Adam’s been up to—all the juicy gossip—and tell me later.’ Not for the first time, Adam is impressed with the way Resthaven staff members announce a guest—their name and their relationship to the resident—and then suggest a plan for the visit. Adam used to think it was for Grandpa’s benefit, but as time has gone on and Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s has worsened, Adam suspects it’s more about softening the agony for the visitor when their friend or family member doesn’t recognise them.
‘I’ll leave you boys to it now,’ Mrs Kirkham informs them. ‘But I’m trusting you lads not to flirt with the ladies when they bring through the tea.’ She winks at Adam, then nips away.
Grandpa guffaws, tickled by Mrs Kirkham’s parting comment. Adam pulls up an armchair. ‘Hello, Grandpa. How are you getting on there?’
‘Oh good, good. Stuck on this piece.’ He waves the orange truck in Adam’s direction. ‘Have you played this game? It’s called Rush Hour. And tricky! I haven’t managed to work the blasted thing out yet.’ Resigned, he replaces the truck in the game board.
‘So, how are you then?’ Grandpa asks. Adam’s not sure if Grandpa recognises him today. Some days he does, while other times it’s clear he hasn’t the faintest. But he’s an expert bluffer and always does his best to hold a conversation.
‘I’m fine, Grandpa. Back at school now. Ōtūmoetai College. This is my last year.’
‘Back at school? You been off crook?’
‘No, it’s not that Grandpa. I’ve just... I’ve been a bit run down, that’s all. But I’m back at school now.’
‘Uh-huh. So, how’s school going? Remind me what you’re taking again.’
‘The usual boring stuff: Maths, English, French...’
‘French? Did you know I took French at school?’ Adam knows it. This is one of Grandpa’s favourite stories. It’s one of the weird things about Alzheimer’s: Grandpa often has vivid memories from way back in his past, from his school days or when he first got married, as if those early memories are super-glued to his consciousness. On the other hand, what he did ten minutes ago eludes him, peeling away as easily as a Post-it note. Grandpa goes on with his story. ‘We had two French Masters at school. One was from that poncy college in Paris... I forget the name...’
‘The Sorbonne.’
‘That’s it! So anyway, one French Master came from the Sorbonne. My brother had him. All proper, his French was. I had the other Master. He was from Marseilles, so I learned the French of the Marseilles’ gutters.’ As always, Grandpa draws out those last words in his version of the Master’s twangy southern French accent. Adam knows what’s coming next. Grandpa will recite the first few lines of the two essays he learned by heart in order to pass the 1953 School Certificate examination. There’s one about the coronation of Queen Elizabeth and another about Sir Edmund Hillary conquering Everest. Adam doesn’t mind. In the beginning it used to frustrate him, but now he’s got used to Grandpa repeating himself over and over. In a way, it’s comforting. And as long as Grandpa can still recount these familiar stories, it means he’s holding his own, staving off the disease.
‘Mrs Kirkham tells me you played in a bowls tournament earlier,’ Adam says, when Grandpa has finished his recitation.
‘Did I? Bowls? I don’t remember.’
‘Apparently, a bunch of the residents organised a game. It’s not important if you don’t remember.’
‘I remember my wife came,’ Grandpa says.
‘Yes, I saw Gran’s name on the visitors’ list when I came in. She dropped in around lunch time. Probably had lunch with you.’
‘Did she? Yes, that sounds like Wynn. If I know her, she probably complained about the lunch menu.’ Adam grins at this rare glimpse of the old Grandpa. Chuckling, Grandpa says: ‘My daughter came to see me, too.’
Adam’s face falls. ‘I don’t think so, Grandpa,’ he says, carefully. ‘I’m pretty sure Mum didn’t come in to see you today.’
But Grandpa insists: ‘Oh, yes, she always comes to see me. She comes every day. Never misses. She’s a good girl, Tiffany.’
Luckily, Adam is rescued from answering. The woman has arrived with their tea.