Whispers of Love

Victoria Faith Wellman

Faded light streamed through the windows. I felt the warm rays radiate down gently on my exposed hand, the excess energy seeping into the knit quilt strewn across my body. I felt the rolling mountains and sweeping valleys of the blanket; the familiar fibers brought a certain calm as my fingertips mapped out my fantasy land. Lifting my eyes from my lap I feel a sense of nostalgia as I begin my everyday routine. I always challenge myself to remember where I am before a nurse tells me, since I came to the home, I have only won once.

This victory was a strange occurrence. After my routine fiddling of my blanket, Michael had come in; of all the nurses he was my favorite. Perhaps because his mannerisms resembled that of my grandfather. Many times, on my afternoon strolls I would see him working in the gardens as well; he flourished when there was too much work to do. In the mornings he would come in cheerfully with eyes vibrant hazel, with energetic frenzy he bustled to and fro. Sometimes his routine varied but the greeting was always the same.

“Hello, Ruth, beautiful day today. The sun is up, the birds are singing melodies to each other, it’s about time you join them, don’t you think? By the way could you remind me what day it is today? I seem to have forgotten my watch at home.”

And every day I would grumble about the patronizing childish wiles he tried. I may be losing my memory, but I was not blind. Before he left each day, I always saw him turn and nonchalantly put a watch on his left hand. Then turn, flash a grin, and step into the hallway. But last week was different. After Michael’s usual tactics he asked, “Could you remind me what day it is today? I seem to have forgotten my watch at home.”

I had an answer for him.

“June 10th, 2017,” I blurted out.

Michael dropped the breakfast tray that he had been carrying. A roll, applesauce, bread, and milk all clattered to the floor with the sound echoing through the dank hallways; frantic and hurried footsteps ensued as roaming doctors and nurses rushed into the room.

“What is wrong?”

“Is any one hurt?”

“What a mess.”

Michael regained his composure and assured everyone all was in order and it was a simple mistake on his part, something about slipping on the floor. He ushered them out of my room in order for me to retain some level of privacy. A few of the doctors he called to the side and explained the true nature of events. My doctor, Dr. Robinson, strolled over to my bedside with a concealed expression.

“Mrs. Blanchard,” he said. “Today we would like to put you through a different set of exercises than normal. We think your dementia may be leveling off.”

I could barely believe my ears. Leveling off? Did that mean I would be able to go back to my old life? Oh, how I missed the lakeside mansion with its vaulted ceilings, grandiose tapestries, and marbled halls. George, my husband, he was there too, but more importantly I could stroll through my lavish halls once more. Admiring my possessions, silk scarves from Italy, beautiful sundresses from the seaside shops of Barcelona, and jewelry from Russia. Some called me a materialist. I prefer to think of myself as practical.

When you have wealth as George and I, it would be a crime not to spend it; I was simply fueling the economy. He was left with a (hefty) trust fund after his father’s affair. It had gone through the courts and his father won. However, in the eyes of George, he would always be a loser. Rodger, George’s father, had come to tell George he had won and they would never hear from Helen again. George was furious; he said that what Rodger had done was wrong. There were a lot of slamming doors and yelling that day. I stayed in our room. At this time we had a dismal house and I was allowed only modest clothing, but the sound drifted wonderfully through the paper-thin walls.

George never wanted a flashy life. He preferred to leave his affluent upbringing in the past, even though a life of leisure is the one thing I most strongly desired. After his argument with his father, everything changed. Rodger thought he could buy George’s admiration back. He did not succeed with George, but after the first six figure check the memories were erased from my mind. Within a year our life had transformed. I quit my job and a life of country clubs and polo matches filled my time. George wanted to stay working as a doctor. Said it brought him meaning to do something other than waste away on caviar and cocktails. For me though, it was paradise. That is, until my memory started fading. Dementia is what the doctors called it. They were astounded to find it in me. Normally, it only affects the elderly, but there I was, a thirty-five-year-old who could not remember her own name. The disease set in swiftly. Soon I was whisked away to live among the elderly in a nursing home. With this fleeting thought, I was brought back to the present with Doctor Robinson leaning over me waiting for my response.

“Well, that’s wonderful news, Doc. Could this mean I will be going home soon?”

Glancing at Michael with a look of hopefulness, he responded, “Let’s not get our hopes up just yet, but it is promising.”

The remainder of the morning was a blur of tests and questions; it reminded me of high school when you were just drilled to the ground with interrogations. George left work to come and assist. It had not even been twenty-four hours since George had seen me last. He was stalwart as ever and had a love for plain things. Maybe that is why he fell in love with me.

I had come from humble upbringings compared to George’s aristocratic lifestyle. Both my parents were professors at the local community college and made enough to get by, but not enough to get ahead. His parents had made a donation for a new library and all the professors’ families were invited to the ceremony. Of course George was there. He says it was something about the humbling way I held myself that caught his eye. He was a nice enough fellow, but I will say his price tag did have some weight in my decision to make things serious. Before we knew it, we were in love, but with what I am still not sure. Part of me had always longed to feel a deep connection with George and fall in love, but money always wedged itself in and kept us at odds. We would never divorce, though; we were too strong in our Lutheran upbringing.

We had grown apart, but when we got the diagnosis, George had continued his role as my loyal husband forever by my side. I, on the other hand was as selfish as ever; as George and I were waiting for test results I could not help but realize that my thoughts centered on the material things. I longed for a love to be kindled between George and I; not a love of money but the pure and simplistic love found in the storybooks of old. I had my knight in shining armor, but I needed to be his princess. Through it all, he had been there. He knew that I did not cherish our love as deeply as him, but he had stayed and his love never faltered. Dementia had taken so many of my memories but the one thing I could not part with is my new found love for George. Whispers of a love pure and simple tantalized my mind. I truly was happier with a simple life. The cocktails and caviar were fun for a time, but these are illusory and short lived. I wanted something more real than these whispers of love.