The Secret Art of Forgiveness (25 page)

Wiping her hands on a tea towel Tam shook her head. ‘And often they aren't, Emily. He has a reputation to uphold. He was an important man and was well respected.'

‘So we what? Lock him up so nobody gets to see him? Just to protect the memory of him?' It was heartbreaking to even have to discuss this. ‘He's sick, Tam. This happens. You deprive him of some happiness just in case he might say something unscripted in whatever perfect world you want to live in.'

With a rush of irritation Tam threw the tea towel on the table. ‘Okay then – you have him. Take him back with you when you go, and see what it's like having him stop people in the street and ask them who he is or where his mother is.'

‘You know I can't do that.' It felt like another betrayal just saying that, but she'd been through this already and it wasn't something that could ever happen. Now she knew how Tam felt, being pushed and pulled in every direction other than the one she wanted to go in. She understood everything Tam was saying and couldn't imagine how heartbreaking it must have been to watch him change so much, to make decisions about his life. Being the parent to a parent, roles reversed, and trying to come to terms with all that. But he still couldn't come and live with her in New York. ‘It's out of the question.'

‘Why not? Why the hell not?'

‘Because this is his home, Tam. He's lived here his whole life, handed down from generations of Evanses. It's all he's ever known.'

‘Yes, but for how much longer?'

Sloop. Sloop. Sloop.
His footsteps slid along the corridor outside. Emily shot a dark look at Tam and shook her head. ‘Hush. He's coming. Ah, there you are, Judge. Perfect timing. Breakfast is ready.'

Tam stepped forward, her voice sweet and light. ‘Hey, Daddy. Come and sit down. Next to me.' She patted the chair next to hers expectantly.

Smiling hesitantly at them both, he took his usual seat and held up his cutlery. ‘Oh. Good. Now, what's in the diary for today?'

‘See over there, on the wall?' Emily pointed to the whiteboard she'd hammered up yesterday afternoon. Why did it feel as if they were playing at who could be the better daughter right now? It wasn't a competition as to who was the favourite, or who could make him happiest. She felt her blood pressure starting to rise; surely they could work together to keep him safe here? ‘Judge? That board has all the things you need to know about today. See? Day. Date. Appointments.'

‘Where's my work diary? We have a breakfast meeting at eight-forty-five sharp. No, actually, what's the time? I should probably be going.' He put down his fork and scraped the chair back along the old tiles. Clearly, he was back in another decade today, which explained the hesitant smile. He was trying to place these two women in his earlier life, and couldn't quite make them fit. ‘Who've we got in court today?'

Sometimes she wanted to scream in frustration at him.
Why are you like this? Don't you bloody well understand?

She swallowed it away. Tried to imagine how much worse it was for Tam to have this every day. Her sister was an old grump at times, but she did work hard and The Judge could have pushed a saint to an edge of frustration that actually physically hurt.

Making her tone as gentle, but assertive, as possible, Emily guided him back to his seat. ‘You haven't eaten anything yet. Here it is.
Bon appetit
.' She pushed a plate over and watched him tuck in. ‘This board will tell us everything from now on. So we all know on a day-by-day basis what's happening. We can tick when you've had your tablets…' She ran her finger under the word tablets. ‘There. So there'll be no forgetting or taking too many. Today is Thursday and you're going on a visit to a…' She didn't want to say day centre for old folk with Alzheimer's, with all the connotations that might have. ‘A gathering of like-minded people. I think you'll be doing some activities. Quizzes, that kind of thing.'

‘Oh? The pub, you mean?' Suddenly, he looked quite excited at the prospect.

‘No. Not today. No. But similar idea.' She straightened his dove-grey tie. He was dressed for business, with a charcoal suit and shiny black shoes. Good. That would give the right impression of the kind of man he was.
Used to be
. He'd shaved, and only had a couple of blobs of tissue stuck to his chin, which she'd make sure she flicked off before the van arrived to collect him. At some point they'd fix that hair, too, if he let them.

They were interrupted by the soulful chime of the doorbell. Emily jumped up. ‘That'll be Dave, the minibus driver. He said to be ready at nine sharp. Finish up, Judge. Your transport has arrived.'

‘Oh? Where am I going?'

‘We just told you,' Tam barked. ‘To a centre, to do a quiz.'

Shocked at Tam's sharp response, Emily lowered her voice and spoke gently, hoping her stepsister would get the hint that there was absolutely no point whatsoever in getting cross with him for forgetting. Yes, it was bloody frustrating and annoying and irritating to keep repeating things. But no amount of wishing would change anything. Shouting at him certainly wouldn't.

So yes, it was a bloody competition as to who was the nicest, who made him happiest, who was the kindest. ‘You're going to a gathering, Judge. It'll be fun. Come on. You can tell us
all about it later.' She gave him a reassuring smile and gently hauled him up, brushed the crumbs from his suit jacket, and the toilet paper flecks from his chin, then linked her arm into his and walked him to the door.

‘Now, be good. Don't forget your manners.' She straightened his tie. Again. What the heck he did to make it so skewed she didn't know. There was a lump lodged in her throat and her eyes stung as she watched him bend crookedly to climb into the white minibus. Dave helped him to a seat and fastened his seatbelt for him. All the time, Emily kept her eyes on The Judge. She felt like a worried mother waving off her child to school for the first time. ‘I hope he's okay. What if he wanders off and gets lost? I hope they look after him.'

Tam looked at her as if she were the one losing her mind. ‘There were eight people in that van and three of them looked like carers, I'm sure they'll manage.'

For a few seconds Emily wondered if they were doing the right thing – sending him off to be with strangers. But it was what the doctor had ordered. ‘I'm sure he'll be okay. It's what they're trained to do, right? They said they'd write a report and send it to the doctor, and a copy to us. Then we'll have a family meeting and make some decisions.'

But Tam didn't answer.

The van pulled slowly away and The Judge soulfully waved, twisting back to look at them as if he was a condemned man. She wondered what her mother would have thought if she'd been alive to see his deterioration, how things might have been so different for them all. The weary weight of sadness ran through her veins.

When Emily turned to Tam she realised she was wiping her face. Emily put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, now it's my turn to say it; he'll be fine. Honestly. You go off to work and I'll make sure I'm here to let him in when he comes back for lunch.'

But Tamara didn't move. Her shoulders were slumped and she shook her head so dejectedly. Her hand covered her mouth, pressing her lips as if trying to stop a scream or a cry.

‘Tam? What's the matter?'

She shook her head again. And again. ‘This is it, isn't it? This is real. He's got dementia. We can't pretend he hasn't. We can't hide from it. He's got dementia and there's no coming back from it. He'll never be the same again. We've lost him.'

That twist in her heart was back. Emily ran her hand down Tamara's shoulder. ‘He's just different, Tam.'

‘Yes, I bloody well know that. And he's only going to get worse.'

Looking back at The Hall, Emily wondered just how long they could keep him here safely. She took a step forward and indicated to Tam to walk with her, the crunch of their footsteps on gravel mingling with birdsong in the warm morning air. ‘It could take years for that to happen, and who knows what treatments they'll have by then. He could be cured for all we know.'

‘You're so bloody positive about it all, but I'm sorry, I don't have it in me. He's nothing like he used to be; the sharpness has gone, the wit, the intelligence.' Tam came to a halt. ‘Look at me, Emily. The man we knew has gone.'

‘I know. I know. He's in a different phase of his life now, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Tamara. I don't know what else to say. We just have to do our best for him.' It was devastating for those who had known and loved the old Judge Evans to see him slowly decaying and withdrawing bit by bit from their lives.

But, bizarrely, Emily wouldn't change a thing about him right now. For The Judge, this illness was indeed hideous; it stripped away everything he'd been. It wiped away his life experiences and turned them into nothing, turned his achievements into ethereal dust, like dandelion-clock seeds scattered in a breeze. Floating adrift somewhere. Away. Far, far away.

But it hadn't taken away his essence, not yet. This illness, desperate though it was, had given her a rare chance; a chance to make things right. A chance to get to know her family. To feel part of something. To be with them.

Tam nodded. ‘Right, and that means we have to be organised. You have your to-do list?'

‘Yes.'

‘Make sure you speak to the bank, too. And when the estate agent comes round, show him the stables; see if you can get an estimate for them as well. Oh, and…' She continued with a litany of jobs.

Sometimes, Emily mused, being part of the family meant working three times as hard for only a fraction of the fun.

Chapter Twelve

It was no good, she couldn't concentrate. Filling her time with the festival and work wasn't making her forget the conversation she needed to have with Brett, the guilt at wanting to kiss Jacob and the panic at the thought of marriage. She had a constant stomach ache, a tight knot in her gut that seemed to be getting worse with every hour. Because even though, deep down, she knew what she had to say, she didn't want to actually say it.

Wi-Fi at The Hall meant she could now call him. It was early in the morning, but he'd be up. No excuses. She pressed the Skype call button with a tremble in her fingers.

Breathe.

All too soon he was there, filling the screen. ‘Brett. Hi.' Her voice was shaky and all over the place, like her erratic heartbeat.

‘Emily. How's things?' His smile was small and hesitant, and for the first time since she'd known him he looked uncertain.

She almost broke at that, because he was such a great guy and didn't deserve the runaround she was giving him. ‘It's going okay, thanks. I seem to have found myself organising a festival now as well as working for Baddermans remotely and… well, you know. Everything else.'

Brett looked at her, his eyes moving from her face downwards, and she realised he was looking for her hands. Which she'd sat on. Partly to stop them shaking, and partly to hide the fact she just hadn't been able to wear his ring again. It seemed dishonest to wear something that screamed a promise when she just couldn't keep it. Not at the moment. ‘If anyone can pull it off, you can, Em. I'm sure it'll be a great festival.' His voice was flat and detached. ‘I need to let you know, though, Greg's asking when you're back. Gez is struggling with the Haute Couture Hounds account – they're demanding a meeting with you ASAP. They want you in on all the negotiations.'

Shit. That was all she needed. She'd been doing her best, but was aware she'd taken her foot off the pedal with her real job. ‘I can Skype them. I'll do it after this. And Gez, too. Tell him…'

Brett held up his hand. ‘Talk to Greg. I'm just passing on intel.' He glanced behind him, at his closed apartment door, as if checking his escape route. ‘Is there something… something else… you need to say?'

‘Erm…' She squirmed. This was so damned hard. Her eyes flickered closed as she steadied herself. When she opened them again he was still there, still waiting. God, if only he'd shout at her. ‘I need to talk. Well, Brett… the thing is,
we
need to talk.'

He nodded. Didn't say anything. It was clear by his face he was expecting the worst.

‘It's just that…' She'd rehearsed and rehearsed. She was used to speaking forthrightly in her job, to selling things, being clear and concise, but this was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. She took a long, deep breath, then blew out very slowly, grasping courage and strength to say what she knew was the right thing. But it felt wrong. Right, and wrong. She was so damned torn. ‘The thing is, I can't be engaged to you. Not at the moment.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't know what I want.'

He looked a little lost. ‘But you don't want to marry me, is that what you're saying?'

‘It's complicated.' Shame wriggled through her. Shame, and guilt, at not knowing her own mind. Of not listening to her own heart, and lying to herself and to him.

Of looking at another man. Of almost kissing him. Wanting to.

Brett waited, his head tilted a little to one side. He said nothing.

So she blathered on, stumbling, chasing words and feelings, and not knowing if she ever grasped them completely. ‘I don't know what's going on inside my head. I keep… going round and round in circles… There's something I'm not sure about. You're a great guy, perfect, Brett, but there's something holding me back and I don't know what it is. I need to be sure, right? And I need to be honest.'

His back straightened. Defensive. ‘Is there someone else?'

‘God, no. No one else. Of course not. What? In a week? Please.' There was a flicker of a memory, a feeling more than anything, a surreal happiness and an inky black sky. A warm cheek. A flutter of fingers, and a longing that hit her out of left field. But she couldn't be certain about that either. Because she couldn't replace one man with another, just like that. Couldn't pin down her feelings that were jittering all over the place. A tug of attraction didn't mean a commitment or a promise. An engagement ring did.