The One Who Got Away. L.A. Detwiler
my teenage years, it never was home. In fact, for many years, it was a dark stain in my life, a reminder of all that can go wrong in the world. And for so many years, I’ve thought all of this was in my past – buried deep, deep in the past.
I know it’s pointless to get nostalgic or angry. It’s all done. It’s over now. The for sale sign in front of our house in Harlow was changed to sold. My few belongings were packed, the finances and paperwork were taken care of. I’m here. There’s no turning back.
It pains me to think about 14 Quail Avenue having new tenants. I hate the thought of some new couple dancing underneath the kitchen arch where Charles used to kiss me on the cheek before leaving for work. I loathe the thought of some frilly woman redoing the wallpaper that I loved so much in the sitting room or modernising the charming fireplace that Charles built by hand. Pain throbs in my chest at the thought of the new couple’s children or grandchildren playing with toy cars and dolls in the spot of the sitting room where my dear Charles fell over, dead, one year ago. I hate them. I hate this place. I hate it all.
‘Ms Evans, welcome. So lovely to see you. Welcome to Smith Creek Manor. What a lovely choice for your new home,’ a woman in shiny way-too-high heels offers. She shakes Claire’s hand before rubbing my shoulder. Thus, the patronising gestures begin. I shrug it off. I know I’m just sensitive today.
‘Now, let me show you to your residence. You’re so lucky, a third-floor room. You’ve got one of the best views here,’ the chipper woman announces as her bone-coloured shoes clack on the floor, her feet landing close together with each step as her hips sway with confidence. She acts as if she’s on a fashion runway instead of in a cold, damp corridor in a home for the dying that reeks of medicine and hospital. She leads us down the corridor and through a doorway that has a code on it. Above the code box is a bright coloured painting. It’s as if they’re trying to disguise the fact that this is only one step above incarceration.
Claire and the lady – has she told me her name? I’ve forgotten – chatter on about meal timetables and activities and all sorts of things, both trying to convince themselves that this is a perfectly acceptable arrangement and that I’m not coming here to die. Once inside the locked door, we wait for the lift to take me to my new view. I peruse the open area. The smell of this place matches the depressing sights. All around, people in various states of decay clutter the common room, some sitting stooped over in chairs, some sleeping. A few traipse about, dragging their feet on the carpet and muttering incoherently. Only a handful look conscious, reading a book or staring at a telly that looks like the first set Charles ever bought for our house.
The word death floats above these people, tainting the air with a musk of disintegration mixed with rubbing alcohol. That smell. How does one describe it? A sterile crispness infiltrated with what one would suppose melancholy smells like if it had a describable stench. It assaults my nose as the lift dings and the doors drag open, the fluorescent lights blinding me as I creep into the metal box. The doors screech closed, a grating noise that makes me anxious. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been enshrouded in my funeral clothes as the doors shut and we float up, up, up, the lift clunking and sputtering like a death trap. My heart pounds as I lean on the wall, my armpits getting profusely sweaty at the claustrophobic feeling. The lift grinds and creaks, and I may be imagining it, but it feels wobbly.
The ride seems to take forever, and, at a point, I wonder if it’s broken. When it slams to a stop, the doors take an interminable amount of time to creak open. Finally I see the bright lights of the corridor and I’m thankful, shoving my way out to escape the metal box of death. If I never have to get in the thing again, it would be too soon.
‘The lift’s just a bit slow. But I think it’s a good thing,’ the tour-guide woman announces as she and Claire follow me out.
I don’t understand how anything about the lift is a good thing. It’s just another reminder that this place isn’t anything like we thought it would be. My heart races as I consider the possibility of riding in that box again, the slowness of its heavenly ascent jarring.
My heartbeat steadies, and I take a few breaths. It wouldn’t do to let the lift ride get me worked up. After all, the doctor is always chattering incessantly about my heart troubles, palpitations, and stroke risks. He’s always trying to help us prepare for what to expect with the dementia as well. He reassures me with the promise of lucid days and moments amidst the days of confusion, as if that’s a true comfort to the soul to know that even though my mind is failing, there will be moments everything is clear.
Sometimes, I’m convinced he just likes to use medical jargon to sound important. Sometimes, though, I think maybe I’m actually falling apart, especially on days when the familiar pain resurfaces and I can’t catch my breath. Regardless, his warnings worked because eventually, it convinced Claire that living at home alone wasn’t suitable for me anymore. She’d ensured me that it would be safer for me to be in a residence like this, as she called it. My heart problems mixed with the early onset of dementia are a dangerous concoction, it would seem.
Claire’s busy, too. Her job in marketing keeps her floating around from place to place, which is perhaps how old what’s-his-name she was married to escaped with his flighty heart. With her travelling so often for work, it would be impossible for me to live with her – not that I’d want to impose on her life like that. Thus, she’d pleaded and begged for me to move somewhere more suitable and somewhere closer to her so she could spend time with me when she was home.
I hadn’t wanted to give up my home in Harlow, of course. True, most days the place felt like a mausoleum or a shrine dedicated to a life I could no longer live. There wasn’t much left for me on Quail Avenue except struggles and uncertainties. Getting around was exceedingly more difficult, and keeping up with the empty, chilled house was no longer easy. Then, of course, there were the incidents the neighbours were quick to report to Claire – like they’ve never forgotten anything before. Things were never the same on Quail Avenue since Charles passed, but at least there, I had memories and familiarity. I had some remnants of my dignity and privacy. I had a sense of home.
I’d fought Claire for months about moving out, insisting I could handle myself. In truth, I suppose I wasn’t afraid of going out in the same house Charles did. Perhaps a piece of me thought that if we were connected in our manner of death, it would be a good omen for the next life – something I try not to think too much about. However, months of Claire’s nagging coupled with a few scary moments on my own finally managed to free me of my devotion to living alone. Perhaps it was also the fact I was so tired. It had all become way too much.
Nonetheless, coming back to Crawley, well, that hadn’t been easy. The heart palpitations seemed to worsen at the idea, an old fear resurfacing at the thought of stepping onto this haunted ground. I found myself evaluating what I was doing. Why had I even considered coming?
Claire, of course. To be near my daughter. I was willing to risk anything, to face any fears, to make her happy – and maybe I felt the need to protect her.
I’d always hated that Claire had settled down here, an area where I had lived in my late teen years. It had been one of the darkest periods of my life, a time I would do well to forget. Sometimes life is full of surprises, and not always in a good way.
After Charles died and Claire, in the middle of starting her life over again after her marriage fell apart, announced her move to Crawley, I almost collapsed.
‘What do you mean, Crawley?’ I had asked, my heart fluttering.
‘I just need a change, Mum. I need somewhere peaceful that’s still easy to commute from. I’ve found a lovely little flat in Langley Green in Crawley.’
I felt as though my heart was lodged in my throat. I’d protected Claire from the past for so many years. Charles and I didn’t talk about it. We’d moved on from Crawley and never, ever looked back. But to hear my adult daughter talking about those places – it was too much.
‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured, trying to maintain my composure.
Claire sighed, turning the cup of tea in her hands across the table from me. ‘Mum,