The Breakdown

by B. A. Paris

  ‘I’d rather not risk driving, that’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. Anything I can do to make your life easier, tell me and I’ll do it.’

  ‘I know,’ I say gratefully. ‘I know.’

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1ST

  I can hardly wait for Matthew to bring up my breakfast tray so that I can start taking my pills again. I’d forgotten it was Bank Holiday yesterday so I haven’t taken any pills for three days now. I never take any at weekends in case Matthew realises how much they affect me, I just hide them in my drawer. Besides, with him around, I don’t really need them to get through the day. I still need them at night though, otherwise I’d lie awake thinking about Jane, about her murder, about her murderer, who still hasn’t been caught. And who is still phoning me.

  I caught myself a couple of times during the weekend eyeing the pills, wondering if I could take maybe one, just to calm me. The first time was on Saturday morning when we came back with a car full of shopping. We’d had a coffee out and I’d enjoyed being back in the real world, if only for a while. Back home, I was putting the shopping away, marvelling at how a fridge full of food could make me feel that I was back in control of my life, when Matthew took out a beer.

  ‘I may as well start as I mean to go on,’ he’d said cheerfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I’d asked, wondering if he felt the need to get drunk just to be able to put up with the increasing demands I make on him.

  ‘Well, if Andy makes one of his curries tonight, we’ll probably be having beer with it.’

  I took a long time putting the cheeses we’d bought into the fridge, playing for time. ‘Are you sure it’s tonight we’re going to Hannah and Andy’s?’

  ‘Bank Holiday Saturday, that’s what you told me. Do you want me to phone and check?’

  The information meant nothing to me but I didn’t want Matthew to guess I’d forgotten. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  He took a sip of his beer and fished his mobile from his pocket. ‘I think I’ll check, all the same. It won’t hurt.’

  He phoned Hannah, who confirmed that she was definitely expecting us.

  ‘Apparently, you’re bringing dessert,’ Matthew said when he hung up.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, fighting down panic, hoping I had enough ingredients to at least make a cake of some sort.

  ‘I could go and get something from Bértrand’s, if you like.’

  ‘Maybe one of their strawberry tarts,’ I replied gratefully. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Even though another embarrassment had been avoided, my mood took a dive. I glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall and saw something written in the square for Saturday. I waited until Matthew had left the room and went over to see what it said: HANNAH AND ANDY’S 7 P.M. I tried not to let it get me down but it was hard.

  Then, over dinner, Hannah asked if I was looking forward to going back to school. I hadn’t thought about what I was going to tell people, so there was a bit of an awkward silence until Matthew stepped in.

  ‘Cass has decided to take some time off,’ he explained.

  Hannah was too polite to ask why but, over coffee, I saw her deep in conversation with Matthew while Andy kept me busy with photos of the holiday they’d just had.

  ‘What were you talking about with Hannah?’ I asked on the way home in the car.

  ‘It’s normal she’s worried about you,’ he said. ‘You’re her friend.’ And I was glad that we’d be going to bed when we got in and I’d have a legitimate reason for taking some pills.

  I hear Matthew’s feet on the stairs so I close my eyes, feigning sleep. If he knows I’m awake he’ll want to chat and all I want are my pills. He puts the tray down and kisses my forehead gently. I pretend to stir a little.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he says softly. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  The pills are in my mouth before he’s reached the bottom of the stairs. Then, exhausted by the effort I had to make over the last three days, I decide to stay in bed instead of getting dressed and going down to the sitting room as I usually do.

  The next thing I know, a persistent ringing wakes me from a deep sleep. At first I think it’s the phone but when it carries on long after the answering machine should have kicked in, I realise that someone is pressing over and over again on the doorbell.

  I lie there, unperturbed by the fact that there’s someone at the door. For a start, I’m too drugged to care and also, the murderer is hardly going to ring on the bell before coming in to kill me, so it must be the postman with more packages of things I don’t remember ordering. It’s only when I hear her shouting through the letter box that I realise it’s Rachel.

  After shrugging on a dressing gown, I go down and open the door.

  ‘At last,’ she says, looking relieved.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I mumble, aware that I’m slurring.

  ‘We were meant to be meeting for lunch today, at the Sour Grapes.’

  I look at her in dismay. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ She takes out her phone. ‘Twenty past one.’

  ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ I say, because it seems politer than saying I forgot.

  ‘When you hadn’t turned up by quarter to one, I tried to get hold of you on your mobile but, when I couldn’t get an answer, I tried phoning here and, then, when you didn’t pick up, I was worried that you’d broken down on the way or had an accident,’ she explains, ‘because I knew you’d have let me know if you were going to be late. So I thought I’d better drive over and make sure you were all right. You don’t know how glad I was to see your car in the drive!’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to come out,’ I say guiltily.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Without waiting for an answer, she walks into the hall. ‘Would you mind if I make a sandwich?’

  I follow her into the kitchen and sit down at the table. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘It’s for you, not me. You look as if you haven’t eaten in days.’ She takes some bread from the cupboard and opens the fridge. ‘What’s going on, Cass? I go off to Siena for three weeks and come back to find you looking like someone I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s been a bit difficult,’ I say.

  She puts a jar of mayonnaise, a tomato and some cheese on the table and finds a plate. ‘Have you been ill?’ she asks. She looks so beautiful with her gorgeous tan and white shift dress that I feel self-conscious in my pyjamas. I pull my dressing gown around me.

  ‘Only mentally.’

  ‘Don’t say that. But you do look dreadful and your voice is all over the place.’

  ‘It’s the pills,’ I say, lying my head down on the table. The wood is cool beneath my cheek.

  ‘What pills?’

  ‘The ones Dr Deakin gave me.’

  She frowns. ‘Why are you taking pills?’

  ‘To help me cope.’

  ‘Why, has something happened?’

  I lift my head from the table. ‘Only the murder.’

  She looks at me, confused. ‘Do you mean Jane’s murder?’

  ‘Why, has there been another one?’

  ‘Cass, that was weeks ago!’

  She looks a bit off-kilter so I blink rapidly. But she’s still off-kilter so it’s obviously me. ‘I know, and her killer is still out there,’ I say, jabbing the air with my finger.

  She frowns. ‘You don’t still think he’s after you, do you?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘But why?’

  I slump back on the table. ‘I’m still getting calls.’

  ‘You told me you weren’t.’

  ‘I know. But they don’t bother me any more, thanks to the pills. I don’t even answer them now.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her spreading mayonnaise on the bread, cutting the tomatoes and slicing the cheese. ‘So how do you kn
ow they’re from him?’

  ‘I just do.’

  She shakes her head in despair. ‘You know that there’s no foundation for this fear of yours, don’t you? You’re worrying me, Cass. What about your job? Doesn’t school start again tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  She stops slicing. ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are things really that bad?’

  ‘Worse.’

  She assembles the sandwich and puts the plate in front of me. ‘Eat this, then we’ll talk.’

  ‘It might be better to wait until six o’clock.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the pills will have worn off by then and I might make more sense.’

  She looks at me in disbelief. ‘Are you telling me that you spend all day like this? What on earth are you taking? Are they antidepressants?’

  I shrug. ‘I think they’re more imagination suppressants.’

  ‘What does Matthew think about you taking them?’

  ‘He wasn’t too keen at first but he’s come round to the idea.’

  She sits down next to me and picks up the plate, offering me the sandwich, because I’ve made no move to take it. ‘Eat!’ she demands.

  After I’ve eaten both halves, I tell her everything that’s happened over the last few weeks, about seeing the knife in the kitchen, about thinking there was someone in the garden, about barricading myself in the sitting room, about losing my car, about ordering a pram, about the things I keep ordering off the shopping channel and, when I get to the end, I can see that she has no idea what to say because she can no longer pretend that I’m suffering from burnout.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, looking upset. ‘How does Matthew feel about it all? I hope he’s being supportive.’

  ‘Yes, very. But maybe he wouldn’t be if he knew how hard it’s going to be for him in the future if I do have dementia, like Mum.’

  ‘You don’t have dementia.’ Her voice is firm, stern even.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ I say, wishing I had her confidence.

  She leaves soon after, promising to come back and see me when she gets back from yet another business trip to New York.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ I say wistfully on the doorstep. ‘I wish I could go away.’

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ she says impulsively.

  ‘I don’t think I’d be very good company.’

  ‘But it would do you a world of good! You could relax at the hotel while I’m at the conference and we could meet up in the evenings for dinner.’ She takes my hand, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘Please say yes, Cass, we’d have so much fun! And I’m taking a few days off after so we could spend those together.’

  For one tiny moment, I feel as excited as her, I feel as if I could really do it. Then reality comes crashing in and I know that I’ll never be able to.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say quietly.

  She looks at me determinedly ‘You know very well that there’s no such word.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, I really can’t. Another time, maybe.’

  I close the door behind her, feeling even more miserable than I usually do. Not so long ago, I would have jumped at the chance of a week in New York with Rachel. Now, the thought of getting on a plane, of leaving the house even, is overwhelming.

  Craving oblivion, I go to the kitchen and take another pill. It wipes me out so quickly that I only wake up when I hear Matthew calling my name.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, mortified that he’s found me comatose on the sofa. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Shall I make a start on dinner while you have a shower to wake yourself up?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Getting groggily to my feet, I go upstairs, have a cold shower, throw on some clothes and go back down to the kitchen.

  ‘You smell nice,’ he says, looking up from where he’s unloading the dishwasher.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t get round to doing that.’

  ‘It’s fine. But did you put the washing machine on? I need my white shirt for tomorrow.’

  I turn quickly. ‘I’ll go and do it now.’

  ‘Having a lazy day, were we?’ he teases.

  ‘A bit,’ I admit.

  I go through to the utility room, sort the shirts from the rest of the laundry and load them into the machine. But as I go to switch it on, I find my fingers hovering uncertainly over the row of buttons, trying to remember which ones to press because, frighteningly, it has gone from my mind.

  ‘You may as well put this one in as well.’ Startled, I whip round and see Matthew standing bare-chested, his shirt in his hand. ‘Sorry, did I scare you?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say, flustered.

  ‘You looked as if you were miles away.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I take the shirt from him and add it to the machine. I close the door and stand there, my mind a blank.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice tight.

  ‘Is it what I said about you having a lazy day?’ he says, contrite. ‘I was only joking.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  My face burns. ‘I can’t remember how to turn on the machine.’

  The silence only lasts a few seconds but it seems longer. ‘It’s fine, I’ll do it,’ he says quickly, reaching around me. ‘There, no harm done.’

  ‘Of course there’s harm done!’ I cry, incensed. ‘If I can no longer remember how to turn on the washing machine, it means my brain’s not working properly!’

  ‘Hey,’ he says gently, ‘it’s all right.’ He tries to put his arms around me but I shake him off.

  ‘No!’ I cry. ‘I’m fed-up of pretending that everything’s all right when it’s not!’

  I push past him, march through the kitchen and out to the garden. The cool air calms me but the increasingly rapid disintegration of my memory is terrifying.

  Matthew gives me a while, then follows me out.

  ‘You need to read the letter from Dr Deakin,’ he says quietly.

  I go cold. ‘What letter from Dr Deakin?’

  ‘The one that came last week.’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’ Even as I speak I have a vague recollection of seeing a letter with the stamp of the surgery on the envelope.

  ‘You must have – it was lying on the side with all the others you haven’t opened yet.’

  I think of the pile of letters addressed to me that have accumulated over the past couple of weeks because I can’t be bothered to deal with them.

  ‘I’ll sort through them tomorrow,’ I say, suddenly scared.

  ‘That’s what you said a couple of days ago when I asked you about them. The thing is—’ He stops, looking awkward.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I opened the one from the surgery.’

  My mouth drops open. ‘You opened my mail?’

  ‘Only the one from the surgery,’ he says quickly. ‘And only because you didn’t seem to be dealing with it. I thought it might be important, that maybe Dr Deakin wanted to see you, or change your medication or something.’

  ‘You had no right,’ I say, glaring at him. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Where you left it.’ Hiding the fear I feel with anger, I march into the kitchen and go through the pile of letters until I find it. My fingers shake as I take the single sheet of paper from the already opened envelope and unfold it. The words dance before my eyes: ‘spoken to a specialist about your symptoms’; ‘like to refer you for tests’; ‘early-onset dementia’; ‘make an appointment as soon as possible’.

  The letter falls from my hands. Early-onset dementia. I roll the words around in my mouth, trying them for size. Through the open door, a bird picks up the words and begins chirruping, ‘Early-onset dementia, early-onset dementia, early-onset dementia.’

  Matthew’s arms come round me but I remain rigid with fear. ‘Well, now you know,�
�� I say, my voice shaky with tears. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Of course not! How could you say that? I’m just sad. And angry.’

  ‘That you married me?’

  ‘No, never that.’

  ‘If you want to leave me, you can. It’s not as if I don’t have enough money to go into the best home there is.’

  He gives me a little shake. ‘Hey, don’t say things like that. I’ve told you before: I have no intention of leaving you, ever. And Dr Deakin only wants to refer you for tests.’

  ‘But what if it turns out I do have it? I know what it’s going to be like, I know how impossibly frustrating it’s going to be for you.’

  ‘If that time comes, we’ll face it together. We still have years ahead of us, Cass, and they could be very good years, even if it turns out that you do have dementia. Anyway, there’ll be medication you can take to slow it down. Please don’t start worrying before there’s something to worry about. I know it’s hard, but you have to stay positive.’

  I somehow get through the rest of the evening but I feel so frightened. How can I stay positive when I can’t remember how the microwave or the washing machine works? I remember Mum and the kettle, and the hot tears start all over again. How long will it be before I can no longer remember how to make myself a simple cup of tea? How long will it be before I can no longer dress myself ? Matthew, seeing how down I am, tells me that things could be worse, so I ask him what could be worse than losing my mind and, when he can’t answer, I feel bad for putting him on the spot. I know it’s no good being angry with him when he’s trying his best to remain positive. But it’s that shooting-the-messen-ger-thing: it’s hard to feel grateful when he’s robbed me of my last bit of hope, that it was something other than dementia which was causing my memory loss.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20TH

  I stand in the kitchen, slowly stirring the risotto I’ve made for lunch, my eyes on Matthew in the garden pulling weeds from flower beds. I’m not watching him, I’m just using him to focus my eyes while my mind swirls around, a reaction to the weekend and the lack of drugs.

  It’s two months since Jane’s murder and I have absolutely no idea where the last few weeks have gone. Thanks to the pills, they’ve passed in a painless blur. With difficulty, I count backwards, trying to work out when I received the letter from Dr Deakin referring me for tests, and come up with three weeks ago. Three weeks, and I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that I might have early-onset dementia. Maybe one day I’ll be able to face up to it – my tests are scheduled for the end of next month – but for the moment I don’t want to have to.