The Bitter End Page 3

I vowed that I would not allow him the opportunity to hurt me again. I did not attempt to call him, and he made no effort to get in contact with me. Still, in the weeks that followed I could not fight the anxious feeling that flowed through me every time the phone rang, each time hoping it would be him. But in time my hope faded, as hope often does.

 

  There's something majestic about watching the sun rising over the horizon which leaves me wondering why I don't do so more often. But then there really is so much in life we fail to appreciate. It was a warm, summers day when Helen passed away. You always imagine these days will be cold, and wet. That darkness will fill the skies. Perhaps there was something poetic about her dying on such a beautiful day. The end had been coming for a long time, I'd just refused to accept it. Refused to believe a love like ours could ever end. I felt helpless, and often wondered if this was how my father had felt in my mother's final days. It was early one evening when the Doctor asked to speak with me in private and explained that Helen hadn't got much time left. After that I refused to leave her side, my children, now grown-up with children of their own, tried to convince me to go home, to get some rest, but I couldn't bring myself to leave her. One evening I sat beside her, struggling to keep my eyes open, the exhaustion beginning to take it's toll, when she took me by the hand and very calmly told me that she was ready to die. My eyes welled up with tears as I saw her pained expression. She was gaunt, tubes covered her face. But those eyes were still the innocent eyes of the girl I had married all those years ago. I pleaded with her not to give up, before accepting the inevitable. I told her I loved her and rested my head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat, and holding on to her as she brushed her fingers through my hair. I remember drifting off to sleep that night, and waking again hours later. Her hand was cold. Her body pale. I knew she was gone. I placed a kiss on her lips and walked out of the room.

 

  Life became harder after I lost Helen, she had given me so much, and without her by my side the world seemed like a cold and empty place. In the months that followed her death my children often invited me round for dinner, but I never felt like eating, less still leaving the house. So in time they would bring me dinners and try to get me to start living my life again. They would send me drawings done by my grandchildren, and recount stories of their busy lives, but without Helen to share these moments with, nothing had any meaning anymore. Soon their visits became less frequent, and eventually I was left to pass the days alone.

  Perhaps I've grown too comfortable with being by myself since Helen passed away, maybe I've lost sight of the world around me. It's true of so many of us. I can barely count the number of times I chastised my students for failing to make the most of local museums and art galleries, of the rich and varied history our small island has to offer, but it's so much easier to stay at home, to lock the doors and hide away. I suppose the last place of cultural significance I visited was Pevensey Castle, a place of real beauty. If I wanted I could turn off in a few miles and find myself greeting the morning sat in the shadow of that wonderful old building. And to think I stumbled upon it quite be chance. It had been seventeen years since I'd seen my father, Helen was gone and I had become estranged from my own family. It was a time of intense loneliness, and it was that feeling of isolation that led me to seek out my father once again. One Sunday morning I'd driven back to that house in Eastbourne. Often you'd imagine a decision of this magnitude would have been carefully thought out and deliberated, but like most decisions that are destined to change our lives it was made purely on a whim. I had my doubts of course, but they did not creep into my mind until I began the short walk up the garden path. I was almost relieved when my knocking went unanswered. In my mind it simply confirmed that I had made a mistake in coming, but as I turned I was greeted by a familiar flash of peroxide hair, the face beneath it weathered and wrinkled.

  “What do you want?” She growled, failing to recognize me.

  “I've come to see my father.”

  There was an awkward pause, and I remember watching the static expression on her face as she deliberated her response.

  “I think you better come inside.”

  There's an unusual character quirk in some people that causes them to dramatise and complicate situations rather needlessly. I used to find it frequently in local pubs, where I'd always encounter at least one man capable of extending even the most banal story into a fifteen minute monologue. My father's wife was much the same. She insisted I take a seat in the lounge, whilst she put the kettle on. I perched nervously on the sofa, admiring her rather unusual collection of porcelain cat statuettes. Eventually she returned with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. In the half hour that followed I listened to her explain the circumstances surrounding my fathers deteriorating health, how he had begun to suffer from dementia, eventually reaching the point where she was no longer able to care for him at home. I listened intently, and she seemed to appreciate the company, or perhaps just the sound of her own voice. I left that afternoon with a scrap of paper crumpled in my jacket pocket, aware of the played out scenario of once again tracking down the man who throughout my life had seemed so keen to elude me. A part of me often wondered if this was a sign that the time had come to let him go, but in the weeks that followed I found myself drawn to see my father whilst I still had the chance. If losing Helen had taught me anything it was that so often life can be cruel and take from you when you least expect it. My father might have done little to deserve my care, but I knew that I would not have been able to live with myself had I not made the effort. The journey that day had been an anxious one, dogged by nerves and the uncertainty over what I would find. My father’s wife had warned me to expect the worst, but what could that possibly entail? Could dementia really be that much worse than the drunken abandonment? Would a man devoid of his memories be able to hurt me in the way he once did? This man who never attended a single sports days or school play. This man who abandoned us when we needed him the most. A man who had drained the life from my mother with his lies and broken promises. The lady had given me fair warning that I may find a shadow of the man I knew, but surely a shadow was preferable to the man himself. I had called ahead to the nursing home to let them know I would be visiting. I signed-in at the reception and was taken to a room overlooking the garden and told my father would join me shortly. So I sat, and I waited. There was a knock at the door, the nurse entered and was followed by a skeleton draped in skin. The thick moustache remained, as did the long grey hair clinging on beyond the receding hairline. Despite the warnings, I felt shaken by his appearance. He looked up at me through tearful eyes and reached out a trembling hand, I clutched it in my own as he pulled me closer.

  “I always knew you'd come boy.”

 

  In the months that followed I became a regular visitor to the nursing home, I was in fact his only visitor. I grew familiar with the nursing staff who informed me that my father's wife had not returned since the day he was admitted. He drifted in and out of lucidness, some days he would greet me with a smile, others he would refuse to see me, adamant that he had never met me before in his life. During our first few visits I had tried to draw him out of his stupor, tried to get him to remember who he was, to understand his condition. But as I spent more time at the home, and researched his condition I begun to understand that those efforts were futile. His illness was irreversible, and he felt enough frustration at the confusion he faced. He was sick, and felt lost and alone. So instead of trying to make him remember, I simply spent time with him. I grew patient with his outbursts, I learned to take no offence when he would tell me to leave. And in time, I grew to understand that like the alcoholism, this too was now a part of who he was. Then at some point, whilst learning to accept the way he was now, I began to accept the way he had always been. It felt strange, that at a time when he barely knew who he was, I finally felt like I truly understood him. It was at Pevensey Castle just a few months ago that I last shared an intell
igible conversation with him, a conversation that affected me in a way I cannot describe. He had suffered a stroke a week or two earlier, and whilst it's consequences were not severe the doctors had encouraged me to make the most of the time he had remaining. After walking around the grounds for an hour or so, we stopped at a bench to have some lunch. There we were, sat in silence eating cheese and pickle sandwiches out of tinfoil.

  “Cyril,” my father barked out, sitting bolt upright.

  A young man with his wife and children looked round, a bemused expression upon his face.

  “Cyril,” my father shouted again, becoming more animated.

  With an awkward glance, the man and his family hurried on.

  “Do you know that man?” I asked, pouring a cup of hot chocolate from my Thermos.

  “I could've sworn it was my old mate Cyril,” he muttered with disappointment in his voice.

  “Oh,” I replied, unsure how to respond to him.

  I'd been told by the nurses to go with the flow, to not question the obscurity of his comments. I passed him the cup of hot chocolate, he rested the half-eaten sandwich on his lap