9

I remember seeing Morayo on previous occasions, walking in Cole Valley. We’d never spoken but we’d nodded to each other, black person to black person. I’d always assumed she was African American until I overheard her speaking, and then, judging from the vaguely British-sounding accent, I wondered if she too came from the Caribbean. Originally. She certainly had class, which was immediately noticeable in her mannerisms and dress. Once I saw her sitting alone in one of the neighbourhood cafes with a cup of tea, an almond croissant and a book. I imagined a waiter arriving with a plate of smoked salmon, truffles and caviar. Not that the French cafe on Cole Street had such fancy dishes, but her sitting there, so tall and poised, made anything seem possible. So what a surprise, but also a shock, to find her several months later, here in the Home looking quite ordinary in plain slacks and baggy T-shirt. There are some people in life that one just never expects to see in a place like this, doing physical therapy. ‘Reggie Bailey,’ I introduce myself, as we pass each other in the hallway.

‘Morayo Da Silva,’ she replies. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Pleasure to meet you too – Morayo, if I may?’ I would like to ask her how she’s doing. If there’s anything I can do for her. But her trainer is waiting and I’ve never liked this man who thinks he has an incredible physique when in fact he doesn’t. So I step politely around them and move on to where I will wait until my wife is ready.

I usually try to arrive at the Home in time to have breakfast with Pearl and stay for the day. I then leave after dinner, taking the bus to and from our house. It’s less expensive this way and I don’t have to worry about parking. I’m here almost every day, but I still feel guilty. The nurses tell me there’s no need. They say it’s easier sometimes when I’m not around, which I know is true, at least when Pearl is being washed, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling badly. For months I’d managed to look after her by myself and when it was just the two of us she didn’t make a fuss. I know of course that there’s no pattern to the disease, no rationality to the jagged paths it scissors through my wife’s brain, yet this doesn’t stop me wishing for logical explanations. And though on her more lucid days Pearl used to insist that I start another life without her, and just remember the good times, this wasn’t something I could ever do. If I’d been her, I wouldn’t have wanted to be left alone. And I know that if she were the sort of person to say what she really wanted, instead of always thinking first about others, she would have wanted me to stay.

I sit in the garden while they give Pearl her bath. Shortly, once it’s all done, I’ll return. She’ll be clean and have no memory of the bath. But for now I wait in the sun, on the bench, facing the main entrance. People come and go, buzzed in and out by the receptionist, who sits with her back to the outside world filing her nails and texting. All day long she’s on that phone. All day long. She’ll do well in old age, doing exactly as she’s doing now.

There’s a back entrance for deliveries, but this is the main scenic entrance for visitors and doctors. Sometimes, when watching new arrivals, I’m tempted to point out how poorly the Home is designed. I’d like to dissuade people from coming, especially if they appear mean or crotchety, for Pearl’s sake. There are enough of these sorts already and fewer of the kindly ones. I think of Morayo and wonder if she’s married. I wonder who visits her here. I’ve seen her with children. Grandchildren?

I check my watch. Quarter to ten. Now they’ll have finished with Pearl’s bath. They’ll use two white towels to dry her and then they’ll dress her and brush her hair. They’ll sit her down and dab powder onto her face, then rouge, in two slanted rectangular blocks along the cheekbones, or what used to be cheekbones where now there is more skin than bone. Then they’ll let her choose a lipstick and chuckle while they paint it on, for Pearl likes to smack her lips, making it tricky. Pearl will smile when they hold the mirror up for her to admire their work. I always tell Pearl how beautiful she looks after her bath, which is a compliment to her as much as to the nurses who smile so encouragingly while I struggle not to curse. Or cry. But for now the sun warms my skin so I stay some extra minutes. I squeeze the tennis ball that I always bring with me. If I had three I might try juggling, but with one I only squeeze then release, squeeze then release.

Looking across at the flower beds I wonder why they didn’t build a tennis court or, at the very least, install a table-tennis table in place of all the flowers. The architects must only have thought of women when they designed retirement homes, and assumed they liked to sit and stare solemnly at gardens all day. Pearl preferred tennis to gardening, which was why our garden was always a practical one, filled with vegetables and herbs for cooking, rather than flowers. I can see Pearl now in her short pleated white skirt. I see her anticipating my serve, rocking back and forth like Billie Jean King, exaggerating to make me laugh, to distract me. I was always the better player but she was the smarter player, the smarter everything, and with tennis her strategy was to keep going until she’d exhausted me. I chuckle and shake my head.

Pearl never used to wear cosmetics – only a sliver of eyeliner on occasion, but never lipstick, nor rouge. She was beautiful without it. Often I find an occasion to wipe off the bright lipstick and rouge that the nurses like on her. It’s a strange negative intimacy, but our only one these days apart from when we’re sitting, holding hands, like one of the sad old couples featured in the Home’s glossy brochure.

I can’t pretend that I’ve never hoped Pearl might die, and not just for her sake. I dream of being held. Of being touched. Of being desired again. Of being recognized. Of not having to worry about what other people might one day think of this, might already be thinking. I fear that one day they’ll say I must stop touching her when there’s no way of knowing if I have her consent. I’m also afraid of the day when I’ll stop wanting to touch her in this way. Afraid because that day has long since come and gone. I squeeze the tennis ball, tighter and tighter, before letting go.