Missing Pieces

All characters, as is this story, are fictitious.

Alison sat with her back to the café window through which the sun shone in glorious, bone easing brilliance.  She closed her eyes and arched her back before she paid closer attention to what her friend sitting opposite her was saying; something about the holiday she and her husband had planned.

Allison had known her friend for over forty years, been matron of honour at her wedding, as she was at hers.  Their children had been born at more or less the same time and had consequently grown up together, they were in and out of each other’s houses all the time.

Now Alison looked directly at her long-time friend and gave a little frown, what the hell was her name?  Alison gave a little smile to ease the worry on her friend’s face at the little frown, and accepted the vagaries of old age which brought the occasional bout of forgetfulness.

                                                                ****

Alison tutted impatiently at the phone, which was ringing incessantly, and hoped she would reach it before the caller rang off.  Her arthritis was particularly troublesome today, and moving quickly was not on the cards.

She lifted the receiver and put it to her ear, the voice on the other end said, “Mum, how’re you feeling today?”  

Alison smiled, it was her daughter Joan.  “Joan, how good of you to call, we haven’t spoken in what seems an age, that son of yours found his feet and walking yet.?”  

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line, this didn’t worry Alison, Joan was probably seeing to, now what had she called that boy?  Eric!  That was it, Eric.  They got into everything at that age.  

Joan was speaking, “Mum,” she said slowly, “I was phoning to see how you were after yesterday.”  “Oh,” said Alison a little perplexed, “What happened yesterday?”  

Again there was a brief pause before Joan went on, “We went shopping Mum, and you had a bit of a tumble and hurt your hip… Mum, I didn’t think you bumped your head too, are you OK?”   

“When was this?” Asked Alison.  

Another confounded pause, Alison wondered if there was something up with the telephone line.  

“Mum, I’m coming round OK?  Don’t go out or anything will you,”   said Joan.  

Alison felt a thrill of pleasure at the prospect of a visit, “I’ll put the kettle on for a cuppa, and I’ve got a lovely fruit cake in the tin, and some bikkis, and I’ll dig out Eric’s Tommi-Tippi mug for some milk for him.”  

“OK Mum,” Joan replied slowly and a little sadly, she continued, “I’ll be an hour or two so don’t put the kettle on just yet a while.  See you soon.”   

“Bye darling, big kiss for Eric,” replied Alison.

Phoebe replaced the receiver and brushed a tear away from her eye, she gave a determined cough and picked up the phone once more and dialled her mother’s doctor.  

Her grown up son Peter came into the room and stood behind her, “Gran?” he asked, 

“Yes,” replied Phoebe continuing to dial, “She keeps calling me Joan, that was her sister’s name, and she seems to think I have a baby called Eric.”

“You do know who I am, don’t you Mrs Wilcox,” Dr Henshaw asked Alison as he sat beside her on the sofa.  

“Of course I know who you are, you’re my GP, Dr Henshaw,” replied Alison.  

She was becoming more than a little irritated.  Why on earth had Phoebe brought him round to her little flat, which she had acquired after the death of her husband, and what was all this nonsense about her taking a fall yesterday whilst shopping.  She hadn’t gone shopping yesterday, she had stayed home because of the awful weather.  Anger replaced the irritation as Dr Henshaw patted her hand.  Alison had a feeling as to what this was all about, she could see it in Phoebe’s eyes.  

Coldly she turned to her GP and asked,  “You’re going to ask me if I know the date, who the Prime Minster is, and … whatever other ridiculous questions come into your mind, aren’t you?”  

Dr Henshaw smiled, and he removed his hand from hers, “Well do you?” He asked in turn.  

Alison recited the name of the current Prime Minister, the date, her date of birth, where she was born, her full name, giving both her maiden name and married name,  and just as she was about to give him the names of her children and their dates of birth, he barked a short laugh and said, “Ok, ok,”  

“Well?”  Asked Alison raising her eyebrows, “How did I do?”  

Again Dr Henshaw gave a short laugh and shook his head, “You were spot on Mrs Wilcox, but please, just one more thing, a sort of game I like to play, please indulge me.”  

Alison wasn’t sure if she wanted to ‘indulge’ him in all this nonsense, what was the point of it all?  She looked across at Phoebe sitting in the comfy chair, 

“Please Mum,” said Phoebe, sounding a bit whiny, “Please.”   

“Oh all right then,” snapped Alison and turned her attention back to the doctor.   

“Right,” said Dr Henshaw, “I’m going to give you a list of things, then in a short while I will ask you to repeat them, they don’t have to be in the order I gave them, and don’t worry if you can’t remember them all.”  

“Oh for goodness sake!” Alison burst out the exclamation causing Phoebe to once more whine out, “Mum, please!”   

Disregarding the outburst Dr Henshaw gave Alison a short list to memorise, red, bucket, fish, tree, and summer.  He then went on to ask if she had any aches or pains, Alison replied, happy now that he was behaving more like a doctor should, told him her arthritis was playing up.  

Dr Henshaw then smiled and said, “Mrs Wilcox can you repeat the list I have just given you?”  

Alison frowned and cast her mind about to think where she could have put the list, it must be important for the doctor to ask for it, perhaps she'd left it in the kitchen, if she knew what was written on it that would be a help, so she asked, 

“What list?”


                                                                 ****

Alison thought what fun it was coming to live with Joan, though she couldn’t imagine what her husband Peter would say about it.

What was missing?, thought Alison as she lay in bed, what was not there that should be?  

“Ohhhhhhh!” she wailed as she realised it was bird song, the dawn chorus, which meant she was late, very late, and would risk getting fired from her job, which she had only started a couple of days ago.  Pulling on her dressing gown she hurtled downstairs, wondering if she had a bout of ‘flu coming on, she felt really stiff.

She burst into the kitchen and pulled up short.  She didn’t recognise any of the people sat around the table.  She gave her sister Joan, who was stood by the cooker, a quick look, which turned into a stare, “Joan!” She exclaimed, “What the hell have you done to your hair, wait till Mum sees you, she’s going to be so angry!”  

Joan must have been feeling regrets about her new hairdo because she burst into tears.  One of the strangers, a young man, had stood up, he was reaching out toward her, but what he was saying made no sense, 

“Gran,” he was saying, her name wasn’t Gran, or Nan, it was……whatever it was it wasn’t Gran or Nan.  He was coming toward her, 

“Go away!” she screamed as he tried to put his arms around her, “Don’t touch me, who are you?  Mum, Mum help, help!”  

She struck out catching the young man at the corner of his mouth, she felt gratified at the welling up of blood on his lower lip, so she struck out again, and again, and again.

“You say she passed out,” Dr Henshaw asked Alison’s Grandson Peter, 

“Yes,” the young man replied, “But not before she landed me a right corker.”  He turned his head so the doctor could see the split which had swollen his lip.  

“Mum’s covered in bruises doctor, she can’t cope anymore.”  

Dr Henshaw closed his eyes in sorrow, Alison and her husband Peter, (after whom her Grandson had been named,) along with their daughter Phoebe, had been amongst the first patients he had when he first became a GP, over forty years ago.  To see this woman, who had maintained her vibrancy throughout her life, slowly descend into an emptiness, or more like a jig-saw where the pieces are slowly disappearing one by one, was heart-breaking.  

“I’ll make the arrangements,” he said to her Grandson, whose mother was downstairs sobbing, distraught and guilty at the realisation that she could no longer cope or live with her own Mother.

Alison looked up from her bed at the woman who stood before her, 

“Hello Mum,” said the woman, 

“Who are you?” said Alison.




Author's note:  This is not a charity appeal, it is an appeal for education ... Written in memory of my Uncle Jimmy Searle who passed with Alzheimers earlier this year.


   http://alzfdn.org/ 

http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/