"Your name, please."
I look at the small, blonde receptionist in alarm. My name... my name.... Who am I? I feel as though I have lost myself somewhere. I answer in the only way I can.
"Stan's wife," I say.
She looks up at me condescendingly, probably diagnosing the confusion in my face as dementia. It happens a lot now, at my age. One mistake, one false move and the whole world tells you you've lost your marbles. "I need your proper name, madam. So we can tell the doctor you're here."
"It's..." I take a deep breath. "It's Mrs Hollingsworth. Mrs Stanley Hollingsworrth" The name catches in my throat.
"Okay, Dr Clarke will see you in just a minute. Do take a seat."
I stumble over to the rows of chairs feeling foolish and lost. I mustn't forget who I am, not now. My heart drops as I dread again the return to the empty bed, the vast expanse of cold sheets and duvet that waits for me each night now. He is gone, and yet the evidence that remains, the absence of him, is so strong it threatens to overwhelm me. The sweet and sour smell of his coat hanging in the porch, the rows of old trainers thrown into the cupboard. His tie on the wardrobe door, the one that never went with a single shirt but he insisted on wearing every day.
"Mrs Hollingsworth for Dr Clarke."
Yes, that's me. I rise and somehow find my way to the right room. Dr Clarke is reading the computer screen. He lifts his head and assumes the appropriate face.
"Stan's wife, isn't it? Such a shame, I'm so sorry."
Of course. He has to be sorry. How many times has he used that phrase, to how many people?
"It's the pain, Dr Clarke," I tell him. "It's almost physical. I can feel it, right here." I touch my chest. "Could it be a real heart problem, do you think?"
Dr Clarke smiles indulgently. "I think after what you've been through this is most probably an emotional pain, but if it sets your mind at rest I'll take a listen."
I am glad to hear he has learned something from his recent experiences. But how strange just to drop it in like that, as though I have nothing to do with it.
He reaches for his stethescope and hangs it round his neck. How appropriate. He bends towards me and holds the end to my heart. I wonder, can he hear it beating like a bass drum, rattling in my chest like a thunder clap? Does he note the way it speeds up just before I pull the end away and tighten it around my neck?
Does he remember that he misdiagnosed my Stanley's heart, and in doing so turned both our hearts to lifeless organs, incapable of any more humanity, any more love?
I tug and pull. I have found my strength. I am, after all, Stan's wife. HIs face turns puce, his eyes bulge and roll. When I have had enough of watching, I leave. "That's from Stan," I say, "And Stan's wife."
I walk away, unflinching, my heart all used up, and close the door quietly behind me.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.