The Last Love Note(64)

‘Did it help?’

I can barely speak for holding back the sob in my throat. ‘He tried to pick up the drawing of the fork, Hugh.’

My heart!

‘I’m terrified how fast this is progressing. I thought we had years.’

There’s so much pain reflected back in his eyes I can barely look at him.

‘I find myself lying awake at night, willing him to have the heart attack I once dreaded so much. It would be kinder than this agony.’

For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say. I know he wouldn’t try to put a positive spin on this – he’s more clued in about my grief than that. But he’d usually say something. Everything feels even more unstable.

‘You don’t have to come in,’ I tell him. ‘He won’t remember you’re coming anyway. I don’t want to make . . . whatever this is even worse for you.’

He looks at me briefly and stands up straighter. Takes a low breath in and out. I can almost hear the self-talk: Get over yourself, Hugh. Think of Cam. Think of Kate.

Now he wants to get on with it. I’m standing in the way and he steps forward and reaches for the door handle at my back. It’s been getting stuck the last few days. When it falters, he pulls back a little. A strand of my hair drags against his chin. As I reach up and untangle it, my fingers brush his jaw. His body shields me from the wind and I feel so protected from the world in this moment, I just want to melt into it. It shouldn’t feel this warm here. I shouldn’t be this pathetic. I’ve been growing my resolve to handle the hard stuff single-handedly, since there’s so very much of it coming at me. But now he’s here.

And I’m not thinking of the hard stuff now. The usual scent of his designer aftershave is missing. In its place is something raw and rugged and far more familiar than it should be. I hope he thinks I’m cold now, the way I’m shaking.

‘You need some WD40 on that handle,’ he says next to my ear, still not meeting my gaze. ‘I’ll fix it on the way out.’



If I thought things were bizarre on my verandah, they’re even more so inside the house. Hugh goes through to the lounge room and strips off his jacket and scarf and sits in an armchair opposite Cam.

Two-year-old Charlie rushes over to him and puts his arms up to be swept into his lap. ‘Unckie Hugh!’ he says, patting Hugh on his chin, trying to work out what’s different.

‘Hey, mate. Nice Brumbies jumper!’ He’d bought it for Charlie to wear to a game the three of them went to a couple of months ago. Giving us merch from the rugby club seems to be a theme.

Charlie snuggles into Hugh’s chest, and it’s like a dagger to my heart when Hugh envelops him. Lately, when Charlie’s tried that with Cam, he’s been pushed away, and I’ve had to rush in and distract him to keep him from noticing the rejection.

Cam’s been asleep most of the afternoon and he’s confused when he opens his eyes and finds Hugh here. But then recognition passes across his face, and he looks at Hugh like he’s expecting an answer to a question he didn’t ask. Not just now, anyway. It’s odd.

Hugh’s eyes are glistening. His upper lip is twitching. What is this? I notice a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head and a deeply apologetic look. Cam shuts his eyes, like it’s too painful to be alive any more.

I know these two men. What are they keeping from me?

‘Can I take you for a drive, Cam?’ Hugh asks, leaning forward. They don’t go for beers any more. Advanced dementia and alcohol are a bad combination. Often, on Sundays, Hugh has turned up, helped Cam into the wheelchair and into his car and they just drive, Springsteen and The Who blaring.

Cam eyes him thoughtfully. Though ‘thoughtfully’ is becoming a problematic word. His thoughts aren’t what they used to be. He fixates on things. He misunderstands. His conversation is closing in, like the four walls he spends most of his time staring at. Every sentence exhausts him – so many words on the tip of his tongue, hardly any to hand when he wants them. He can read aloud, disjointedly. It’s as if the English professor within him is clinging to words for dear life, but he can’t comprehend what he reads, because so much of what he’s read is immediately forgotten. Even reading to Charlie the other day I noticed he repeated whole pages so many times that Charlie became incensed and threw the book across the room. It undid me. My luminous husband and teacher, losing his language.

‘Go for a drive, Cam,’ I suggest. ‘It will do you good to get out.’

He looks at me and glowers. ‘It will do you good for me to get out,’ he says coldly. The words sting. This whole time, the one thing I’ve been really proud of is my patience with him, right from that first incident at the work barbecue when he let Charlie wander to the water’s edge and I held my anger back. It’s getting harder by the day not to be abrupt with him when he asks the same thing for the hundredth time in a row, or now that he’s having uncharacteristically angry outbursts like this. I remind myself that this is the disease talking. Not the person.

‘Cam,’ I start to say, hiding how much it hurts.

‘Don’t you want a husband who works?’

‘We’re fine, Cam. We have income protection insurance.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘I don’t mean working in a job. I mean someone like him!’ He points at Hugh. ‘He can drive and talk and make you laugh.’