Remember me

There was a light, it seeped through the edges of the blinds. An invader, although not unwelcomed.

“There, there Steven.” There was a woman in white, sitting me up in bed. “You took a nasty fall back there, had me worried half to death! Looked like you were chasin’ somethin’, heaven forbid we lose you in this place!” She chuckled.

Something smelled good, like slightly burnt croissant.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m nurse Rosie,” she answered cheerily, “You had me yesterday, n’ last week too.”

“I’m sorry,” I shook my head, “I’m not sure I remember you.”

She only smiled.

There was a nasty sore on my hip accompanying the usual pains that shot through my body.

“What happened?” I asked, “I must have had an accident.”

The nurse blinked as if taken aback, “Why yes, you took a bit o’ a fall, I just told- ahh never mind, you’re all better now. You up for a bit o’ bingo today? Might be good for you, y’know, havin’ some fun n’ all.” She chattered on.

Something lurked at the back of my mind, an image? A man? The thought faded as soon as it had come, until it left nothing more than the traceless shape of a sandcastle, washed away by the sea.

“You’ve a visitor today,” The nurse continued cheerily, “Isn’t that excitin’?”

“A visitor?”

“’Course! Comes by every week, that son o’ yours. Good lad, he is.”

I almost laughed at the thought.

“I don’t have a son.” I said. I don’t have anyone.

She looked at me sympathetically but said nothing.

The mid-afternoon sun shone through the window. A soft breeze ruffled through the open blinds. There was a fragment in my hand, the bitter edges pressed into my palm, cold and unyielding. In it, an old man stared back at me. His face was wrinkled and patches of scalp showed beneath his thin, white hair. Moving as I moved, silent and haunting.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He didn’t respond. A soundless mime trapped in his performance.

“Say something!” I demanded.

He mouthed back at me, unspeaking.

“Please!”

A trickle of blood ran through my fingers as I rummaged through the compartments of my mind. But it was like ripping through endless shelves in a library, searching for a book that was not there. I know I should recognise this man, and yet I knew not who he was. There was something wrong. There was something terribly wrong. I threw the fragment away, as far and as hard away as I my shrivelled limbs allowed. It shattered. The man was gone.

There was a knock on the door, hesitant and quiet. I made my way towards it, ignoring the unpleasant groan of my knees as I straightened from my chair. A tall, middle-aged man stood at the door, his flaming red hair shone in the sunlight.

“Hello?” I wondered why he was here.

He smiled and held up a leather bag, “Can I come in? I have something to show you.”

My mind scrambled desperately through its archives. He looked familiar, and yet was not. Perhaps he was an old school friend, or a colleague long forgotten.

“Who are you?” I asked him as we sat at the table.

“It’s me, Henry.” He sounded disappointed, though showed no sign of surprise. A sense of unjustified guilt washed over me. I should know this man, I know I should.

He reached into his bag and pulling out a large, brown album, worn and battered, as if frequently visited. A book well loved by its owner.

“You want to show me some pictures?” I stared at the photo album, dumbfounded. Of any reason I expected him to be here, this was not one of them. But he only nodded, handed me a croissant, and flipped to the first page.

“When I was only little, my mother and father took me horse riding. I fell off my horse and had to go to the hospital for the first time, see,” He pointed to the first photo, where a little red-haired boy sat on a hospital bed, his arm bandaged in a new, shiny cast, “It hurt a lot, but dad bought me ice cream and I felt it was all worth it.”

I smiled, wondering why he was telling me this.

He continued on. There was a picture of a little boy on a bike, training wheels rattling in the back, an older boy in his school uniform, at the waterpark, on a hike. There were pictures, too, of the boy with a red-haired woman, and a tall, blond man. They smiled happily together, frozen in time.

“This was taken the day my mother died, before we found out, that is. It was my last day of school, I was so excited. My dad bought me croissants to celebrate-”

“-And sang you a happy graduation song.” I finished.

For suddenly it was there, as clear as day. The croissant in my hand seemed to fill my nostrils with pungent vibrance, and the little red-haired boy seemed to move in the picture frame as memories resurfaced my mind. A myriad of images crashed down on me like a waterfall, joyous, wonderful ones, dark, unhappy ones. Time froze as the currents of my memories broke through the dam that had blocked the rivers of my mind. I looked at him, at the man in front of me.

“Henry?”

The young man looked up, tears in his eyes, “Dad.”

I hugged him, hard. He who I loved more than anything in the world… And yet the image of the boy with the croissant was already fading in my mind. I tried to hold onto it, the memories that made me who I am, but it was like trying to hold water with my hands. No matter how hard I tried, it trickled through my fingers, little by little, drop by drop. Time was running out.

There was a man in my room. A stranger with red hair, claiming to be my son. 

I don't have a son