Red Tape

Shadows of Nostalgia

Are the forgotten as good as dead?

Memory is an odd thing. It is both the chronicler of our life and the falsest of testimony. It may be a sycophant slithering up to us to whisper in our ear of glorious triumphs or the severest critic. The truth is, every time we remember something, we are retelling a story, embellishing the anecdotal here, editing, and omitting ( or forgetting?) there.

Sadly, these stories also slide through our clenched fists like dust to the winds of time. Oddly, this is what Henry loved about them. He had spent all his life teaching History and for him perhaps the greatest thing of all was the writing down and reading of stories. It was like storing that wasted dust in hourglasses. That was part of the reason why he wanted her to leave. As a historian, Henry knew the warping effects of memory better than anybody. He knew that as he forced himself to retell the story in his head, so he could remember it, and write it down in his diary, in its most concrete and precise form, that the story was already growing branches and twisting itself away from the cold hard facts.

The woman (he had fallen into that awkward social situation of having forgotten and asked for the other person's name too many times, making it impossible to ask for it again) always came to visit on Tuesdays, or was it Thursdays? He would have to ask the nurse later.

"My memory," he said under his breath.

"What's that dear?" she asked.

"Oh, Nothing,"

That was the other thing; she called him dear just like when his wife Margery was cross with him.

"Would you like a chocolate biscuit with your tea, dear?"

"Oh, Yes."

He belittled himself for having fallen for memory's cheap trick. He had remembered Margery's cross-use of the word and had written that part of his story, that retelling of memory, onto the strange woman who always seemed a little sad and talked endlessly about her two children.

She had just sort of turned up one day and Henry didn't have the heart to stop her. Besides, it had been nice to have some company in the beginning. Margery couldn't always come to see him. Also, if there was something Henry prided himself on it was good manners and a sense of common human decency. They were both lonely after all. However, it was starting to become well... a little strange. He worried what Margery might think if she turned up and found this strange woman he hadn't told her about.

"I don't want you to come to see me anymore."

"What?" the woman asked.

"I don't want you to come to see me anymore," He repeated.

For a moment, a lancing pain seemed to shoot across her face, before she regained her composure. She sighed and shook her head.

"Thank you, Henry," She said

"Thank you for what?"

"For helping me make my decision," she replied, taking her handbag, standing up, and bending over to kiss him on the forehead. She left quickly leaving Henry alone in the Hospital room. He filled in his diary in a solemn silence so he could tell Margery about it tomorrow.

The next day Margery came to visit. Henry wolf-whistled as she walked in. Margery wore an elegant light pink skirt and blouse with matching flat shoes (sensible shoes had become her life's mantra as they had gotten older).

"You look great," he said

"Thank you, how are you feeling?"

"You know me, fit as a fiddle."

"Good, I have something important to tell you and I was hoping you'd be... better today," she said softly, as though trying to drain the meaning from those last words.

"Me too. Listen, there's been this woman coming to see me."

"Do you love her?" Margery interrupted.

Henry couldn't reply straight away. He was like someone who has seen white swans all his life had suddenly set eyes on a black one. He could hardly imagine loving another woman.

"Of course not! What's gotten into you?"

"The living fall in love all the time, so why shouldn't the dead do the same?" Margery answered.

"I'm not dead," He managed to say.

"Not in the traditional way. Listen, Henry. I love you, I really do. But you're not the man I fell in love with. The man I fell in love with was one of the smartest, kindest men I have ever met. Yesterday, you didn't even recognize me and when you asked me not to come back anymore well, I have been thinking about this a lot lately."

"You're the woman who came to see me yesterday?" Henry couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Yeah, that was me." She paused before continuing; as though drawing on some last reserve of strength.

"Do you realize that some days you're as much a stranger to me, as I am to you?" she continued forcing herself to look him straight in the eyes, a sheen glistening in the light across their surface.

"Oh sure, you have you're good days like today, but the doctors say that with time your Alzheimer's will get worse and those days will be less and less frequent. So, when you didn't recognize me the other day and asked me not to come back." Henry could hear her voice cracking, as she fought back the tears. He recognized a lifetime habit of her eyes wrinkling at the edges a little, as she tried not to cry. Margery hated to appear weak. Even when they lost their first child in a miscarriage, it had taken her months to finally break down and let it all out. Or had it? Was his failing memory spinning its own narrative? He suddenly wanted to grab his diary and scan its pages for proof of whatever it was that had taken his life away from him. To find an hourglass of memories that wasn't cracked or broken.

"The kids?" he blurted he could feel his own sorrow building behind his eyes, his face reddening with the effort, not to break down before Margery.

"You stopped remembering them a long time ago, but they've got their own lives, their own families now and..." her voice trailed off.

"Yeah, and so have you." Henry finished the sentence for her, knowing how painful it was for her still fighting back his tears.

"I love you, Margery."

Just like the day before, she stood up, took her handbag, bent down to kiss his forehead, and left. This time her shoulders shuddered in time to her sobbing. Henry did his best to capture that moment, wondering how long he would remember it for. Then realized that he hoped he wouldn't.