She needed help with more daily activities and became less able to follow conversations involving several people. Familiar rooms could confuse her when objects were moved. She sometimes failed to recognise people she had known for decades.
There were mornings when she knew Jack was her husband.
On others, she called him by her father’s name or asked whether he had seen the children from her old classroom.
Jack learned not to assume that yesterday’s abilities would necessarily be available today.
He also learned that his own exhaustion could make him unkind.
One winter evening, May became convinced that someone had stolen her handbag.
Jack found it beneath the armchair.
He showed it to her.
She thanked him.
Ten minutes later, she accused him of hiding it.
He explained.
She became angry.
He explained again.
By the fourth repetition, his patience broke.
“May, for heaven’s sake, it’s right here.”
She flinched.
Jack stopped speaking.
His wife stared at him with frightened eyes.
He had used that tone before in their marriage, usually during arguments about money or when he was tired from work.
In those days, May had been perfectly capable of giving as good as she got.
Now she looked like someone being reprimanded for a mistake she did not understand.
Jack set the handbag on the table.
“I’m sorry.”
May drew back.
“Why are you shouting?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
She watched him warily.
He sat down at a little distance.
“Your handbag is here. You’re safe.”
She looked at it.
After a while, she picked it up and held it against her chest.
Jack went into the kitchen.
He stood at the sink with his hands braced against the counter.
The dishes were already clean.
There was nothing to do.
He remained there until Helen telephoned.
When she asked how things were, he said, “Fine.”
Then he sat down and told her what had happened.
Helen listened.
“You need more help, Dad.”
“I’ve got help.”
“Two afternoons a week isn’t enough.”
“She’s not ready for strangers in the house.”
“Neither are you, apparently.”
Jack closed his eyes.
Helen softened her voice.
“I’m not criticising you.”
“It sounds very much like it.”
“I’m worried about both of you.”
He looked toward the sitting room.
May was talking quietly to the television.
“I don’t want her to think I’m handing her over to somebody else.”
“Dad, accepting help isn’t abandoning her.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I know.”
“Then let us arrange more support.”
Jack did not answer immediately.
He had spent his working life believing that difficult tasks could be completed through persistence.
But his wife’s needs were increasing, and persistence alone could not supply the knowledge, time, or rest required to care for her safely.
Finally, he said, “All right.”
The following month, a care worker named Ruth began visiting regularly.
Ruth was in her late forties, practical, cheerful without being relentlessly enthusiastic, and experienced in supporting people with dementia.
May initially regarded her with suspicion.
“Who is this woman?”
Jack introduced her.
Ruth smiled.
“I’m here to help with a few things around the house.”
“I don’t need a cleaner.”
“Good. I’m not very good at cleaning.”
May looked surprised.
Ruth glanced toward the garden.
“But I know a bit about plants. Jack says you’ve got roses out back.”
May straightened.
“He’s probably pruning them incorrectly.”
“He says you’re the expert.”
“Well, he’s right about that.”
Within twenty minutes, the two women were discussing roses.
Jack stood in the kitchen listening.
For the first time in weeks, he felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen.
The morning May failed to recognise him began with burnt toast.
Jack was eighty-two, and May had recently turned eighty.
The kitchen was warm, the radio was playing quietly, and rain tapped against the window above the sink.
Jack had been awake since six.
He had made tea, checked the heating, and set out May’s medication according to the agreed routine.
She came downstairs shortly after eight wearing her dressing gown.
He turned from the toaster.
“Morning, love.”
May stopped in the doorway.
For a moment she looked at him without speaking.
Then her eyes moved toward the back door.
“Who are you?”
Jack smiled automatically.
“It’s me.”
She took a step backwards.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?”
He set down the butter knife.
“May?”
“How did you get in?”
Her voice had become sharp.
Jack felt his stomach tighten.
He had seen moments of confusion before. She had occasionally mistaken him for another relative or failed to remember why he was in a particular room.
But this was different.
She was looking at him as though he were an intruder.
“May, it’s Jack.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Your husband.”
“No!”
She backed toward the hallway.
Jack remained where he was.
He wanted to approach her, take her hands, show her the photographs on the wall, and explain that they had lived in this house for more than fifty years.
He wanted to make her look properly at him.
Instead, he saw the fear in her face.
It was real.
Whatever she remembered, she did not currently recognise him as someone safe.
He took one step back.
“All right.”
May stood beside the door, breathing quickly.
“Please leave.”
Jack swallowed.
“Of course.”
He moved slowly toward the back door, keeping enough distance that she would not feel trapped.
“I’ll go into the garden.”
She watched him.
He opened the door.
The rain had become heavier.
He stepped outside in his slippers and cardigan.
Behind him, May closed the door.
