ASIM_issue_54 (6 page)

* * *

Home: warm, welcoming, filled with hope and love and dreams. She struggled up the stairs to get back into her house, pat her dog and stroke her cat again.

“Take your time,” he warned her as she stumbled, using the newly installed handrail to haul herself towards the shut front door.

There was a security keypad, but she hadn’t even thought of the access code and couldn’t remember it now. She began to worry. Another memory sprung to meet her. “Keys!” she cried out anxiously. Keys would let her in if she couldn’t remember the access code. “I’ve forgotten my keys!”

“I have them here.”

He gently manoeuvred her out of the way and unlocked the door while she fidgeted, excited as a child on Christmas morning. She tried to sneak past him, but he lifted her up in his arms and carried her across the threshold like a grey-haired bride. “Welcome home, my love,” he whispered in her ear as he lowered her down, holding her arm as she stood on unsteady legs and looked around her.

One open doorway beckoned to her more strongly than all the others down the hall. Following her instincts she found herself standing in the room where the winter sunlight could be cut with a knife. The room smelled of dust, as if—like her mind—it had been shut up for too long.

And there was the large old … no, antique … wooden desk, polished to a deep brown hue and smelling faintly of beeswax, the laptop closed on top of it. Her fingers itched to open it, to return to the tools of her trade. She had long ago remembered that she’d been an author—a successful one, apparently. She caught sight of a few awards scattered among the bookcases, their shelves crammed full of leather bound books waiting to greet her like old friends. And there were copies of titles she’d written, thirteen in all. Seeing them again was like greeting her children; it made her tingle with excitement.

Her exploring hands touched all her books, palm to leather-bound spine, her eyes drinking in familiar authors and titles until she saw one name in particular embossed in gold. She turned to her Guardian Angel lingering silently by the door as she reacquainted herself with her library. Finally she had a name to put to his face. “HG,” she told him confidently, “Thank you for bringing me home.”

No hesitation at all as she’d said those words, it was like the old her, before the stroke, had reasserted itself in these familiar surroundings and she was whole again.

“You’re welcome,” he replied also with no hesitation, so she must have been right in selecting his name.

“Oh, Mog,” she sighed as she approached the cat sunning itself on the wide window sill. As her fingertips touched his fur, the cat yawned and let out a meow as if asking where she’d been so long. “Oh, how I missed you, you lazy cat.”

“I want to write again.” Her fingers caressed the lip of her laptop lid. “I have so much catching up to do. So much to tell the world of what was happening while I was away. My readers, my fans …”

“They know,” he reassured her. “All your social sites have been regularly updated.”

All his doing, she had no doubt now. Like the cat being fed and the dog being walked, and the house kept up to date. He’d seen to it all.

“Oh, you’re a good and noble friend, HG. What would I be without you?”

He took a small bow at her compliment, which made her smile even wider.

“I must write!” she declared again, frail fingers fumbling with the laptop.

He crossed the room to her and laid his strong hands lightly across hers. “There’ll be time for that later. It’s your first day back home. Come and explore the house properly first, maybe sit in the garden for a spell. Remember the doctors told you not to rush things.”

And he was right, as she felt he had always been right whenever she’d turned to him for advice in the past. But now that she
did
remember him, she wondered in what context? Friend fitted him easily, but was he her lover? Husband perhaps? A friend wouldn’t carry her over the threshold, now, would he?

Bob the dog greeted them in the garden. He didn’t seem as exuberant as she remembered, almost as if he sensed she was still frail and fragile and needed to be treated with care. The dog stayed by her side as she and HG sat and talked about the past.

She had no doubt that prompting her memory was all part of her recuperation, but she was too shy to tell him she couldn’t remember who he was. It might be just enough of a crack in her defence to have them sending her back to hospital, and she wanted to stay at home now, comforted by all her familiar things. His name had already returned to her. She was sure, given time, she would remember the rest.

No shy bride on her wedding night, she showed no embarrassment as he helped her bathe and dress for bed in the evening. He’d performed these tasks for her in the hospital as well while she’d been recovering, so she was quite comfortable naked in his presence now, and happy to follow his lead.

But when he tucked the duvet over her, kissed her on the cheek, turned and headed for the door, she called after him.

“This isn’t right, is it? I distinctly recall us sleeping together.”

He turned back to her, smiling a little sheepishly. “I thought after your time in hospital you might prefer to sleep alone?”

She patted the duvet beside her decisively and stared him into compliance. He dutifully removed his robe and slippers and slipped into bed beside her, enfolding her in his arms.

“Can you hear them too?” she asked him, her head pressed against his chest. He made a noise like a question mark. “My army of nanos, I’m sure I can hear them sweeping their way through my veins, making sure I stay alive.”

He drew her a little closer to him and she was soon asleep and dreaming of angels.

* * *

“Welcome home, Miss B,” said the lady with the olive complexion and the lovely smile.

Mina … ? Nina … ? Nona! Her cook and housekeeper, who had been with her for … oh, over a decade now and who was in her middle 40’s.

“What will you be having for breakfast? Scrambled eggs? Toast? I can fix you up some waffles if you want?”

Nona had two grown children; three if you counted Eliza whom she doted on, tempting her with breakfast treats.

“Oh, waffles I think,” Eliza said decisively.

A frown shadowed HG’s face. “Perhaps the scrambled eggs would be easier for you to eat?” he suggested.

But she made a face. They’d fed her scrambled eggs in the hospital. Horrible stuff made from powdered eggs, reconstituted with water. And she’d eaten it gladly at first, despite it being tasteless, because she’d needed sustenance and it had been easy to swallow. But now that her taste had returned and she was home, Nona’s fine waffles beckoned.

“Waffles,” she repeated, and Nona smiled at her again, and that was the end of that.

But Eliza couldn’t help noticing the cold face Nona presented to HG. “And will you be breakfasting too, sir?” she asked him.

He seemed to shrink back from the cook’s question as if she’d attacked him. Certainly not comfortable in
her
presence. Had they always been at loggerheads? Or was it just that he’d suggested she have something else for breakfast? Eliza searched her memories, but nothing came. They’d be worth watching, these two.

Though still a challenge to eat—HG had to help her cut them up into bite-sized pieces—the waffles were divine, and after she’d eaten them, old habits rose like ghosts from her mind. “And now I’ll go to my office, I think. Check my e-mails, review my notes.”

Nona smiled warmly and said, “Just as it’s always been,” as she cleared away their plates. But Eliza saw the dagger-like look she threw at HG, who was also aware of it—Eliza had no doubt—though he kept his face neutral. He followed her into her study like a faithful dog, sitting quietly in the chair in the corner where (she recalled) Bob liked to lay. His dog, then? No! No, most definitely
her
dog, and usually sitting in the space HG occupied.

He saw her confusion.

“My dog usually sits there. Where is he?”

“In the back yard. Would you like me to bring him in?”

She nodded, and HG enacted her wishes. Bob headed straight for his usual spot in the study, but HG looked around awkwardly for somewhere to sit, and seemed suddenly out of place.

“As I recall,” she stated boldly, the laptop finally open before her, “you have your own office further down the house where you write your books … when you’re not doing something in the garden that is. You’re very good at gardening.”

For a moment he looked at her as if their roles were reversed—like he had holes in his memory and she knew all his past. Then he replied. “Today—well, for a while—I think I’d like to stay here with you, watch you work. In case you need me—in case you need to be reminded of anything.”

She smiled at him over the laptop screen. He was very kind.

HG settled on the wide windowsill. In time the cat strolled into the study and leapt onto the sill beside him. Eliza got on with her writing. After a few paragraphs, she beckoned him over to her laptop. “Does this look right to you?”

He leaned over her shoulder and studied her words. “It looks fine.”

“But is it still my voice, HG? ”

He frowned, reread her words then said supportively, “Yes, I think it sounds like you.”

She sighed in relief and leaned back against him. “Thank you! I knew I could trust you!” Her bird-like withered hand reached up to clutch his, and he pulled it to his lips and kissed the fingers from which her livelihood sprang. “You’re welcome, my dear.”

With that he returned to the windowsill with the cat.

* * *

Nona arrived bearing a tray laden with teapot, cup, saucer, sugar bowl, milk jug—all in the Royal Albert design—and a plate of scones.

“Time for a break, Miss B,” she announced with a smile; but HG noted that she greeted him with a hostile raised eyebrow.

“Why only one cup, Nona?” Eliza queried innocently.

“I thought the … gentleman … was in the garden,” Nona quickly made up an excuse.

“A natural oversight,” HG spoke up.

“You’ll take tea with me, HG?” Eliza asked.

“Of course.”

Her displeasure conveyed by cold silence, Nona fetched another cup and saucer.

“There you are, Mister … ?”

“HG. Just HG.”

Eliza showed no sign of noticing this inconsistency.

“Mr Carter and Mr Powell said they might visit you later today, Miss B,” Nona informed her.

Eliza looked up idly from the cup of tea she was carefully stirring. There was a vague expression across her face that suggested she had no idea who these two visitors were.

“Your editor, Mr Carter, and as I recall Mr Powell works in the publicity office of your publishers,” HG stepped in to fill the void.

“Oh,” Eliza said nonplussed, returning her attention to her tea.

“Perhaps when you meet them again … ?” HG suggested.

“Perhaps,” Eliza responded, head down, not sounding confident.

* * *

There was a knock on the front door perhaps an hour later. Eliza tried to remember: who had Nona mentioned, over tea? Too many people, too many names, too many thoughts best left in the past. Her brain, once as swift as a greyhound in flight, struggled like a sackful of drowning puppies.

HG was quick to scoot off the windowsill, murmuring, “I’ll get it.”

There was awkward small talk in the hallway, then the two guests were ushered into her office.

Old memories stirred like a cat stretching before a fire on a cold winter’s day. The one on the left was Mr Carter. Robert, wasn’t it? Robbie? Their exchanges had been light, informal, flirtatious. He’d always tried to jolly her along, even when he brought the worst of news. But that other one … Powell … always an ill wind, that one, and judging from his grave face nothing had changed there.

“You’re looking well, Eliza.” Robbie leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“And back to writing already,” Powell noted approvingly.

I never liked you
, Eliza thought. And somehow she found that memory soothing. The man only knew how to communicate in sales figures, print runs and deadlines. He found no joy in the beauty of the written word the way she and Robbie did.

“Another best seller, I hope?” Powell probed.

“I’ve written ‘fish’ repeatedly on four pages so far; do you think that will sell?” Eliza asked him caustically, enjoying the look of horror that flit across his face. Even Robbie looked askance as he ducked behind her antique desk to check the small screen of her laptop.

“No she hasn’t,” he reassured Powell.

“No, it says: ‘The cat ate the fish’ repeatedly on four pages, doesn’t it, Robbie?”

Robbie smiled bashfully, shot a quick glance to Powell. ”No, it doesn’t.”

“Should I ask Nona to get us some tea? Or would you prefer coffee?” HG spoke up.

Why did the other two men act so awkwardly around HG? Eliza wondered. He was a bestselling author, after all; why didn’t he deserve more of their respect? She was fascinated by the lack of interplay between them all. What was going on here?

Powell looked meaningfully towards Robbie.

“This is just a whistle-stop visit, I’m sorry, Eliza. But we’ll pop in and visit you again soon, I promise.” Robbie homed in on her cheek for another kiss. “Au revoir, my dear. HG, will you see us out?”

And why the devil did they need HG to show them where her front door was? It hadn’t moved since they’d last used it.

Eliza strained to hear the whispered discussion that went on in the hallway without much success, though she could have sworn she’d heard the phrase ‘strange bedfellows.’

HG returned to watch her from the windowsill. Every now and then Eliza called on him for assistance with this word or that as she wrote, but when she started talking to him about one of the characters she’d developed she saw his face momentarily go blank as if he didn’t know how to respond. She waited patiently, expectantly, and in time he gave her an answer she found suitable.

“Thank you, HG,” she said finally, bringing to a close the conversation that he’d found so challenging. She hadn’t meant to test him, just to talk things through with him.