I never get dressed while Bridget is in the room; she respects my privacy, but she does expect me to get dressed soon after she leaves. If I didn’t, I would let her down and she might lose some of her bonus hierarchical duties, so I always comply. Part of our understanding is in the repetition of our encounters. She always arrives on time, and always with a cheery disposition. She talks to me as she keeps herself busy emptying the bin, sweeping under the bed, dusting down the chipped window panes, making conversation that is neutral but upbeat, then standing like some wise old woman at the doorway saying her few words before she leaves. She always says these words in a tone that is slower and softer than any previous conversation, and today is no exception.
‘Dr Ebbs, he called me by my name this morning. Only in the door and he knows my name is Bridget, would you credit that?’
I smile because I know she wants me to. Bridget always has hope, which is what I like and dislike about her.
I wait until I hear her farther up the corridor before getting out of bed. When I do, I cannot avoid the tiny mirror. It is in shade now, the sun has passed on its way. I need to look at it to clean my face. I use a small pink facecloth that is the same shade of pink as the window frames. Practically everything in here is either pink or grey. I brush my teeth using water from the sink. Once I am done, I stand looking for just a second and again I see that person looking back at me, the lost person. I cannot look for long, but I look, I cannot help myself.
Once done, I know I have but the briefest of moments before I must head down to Living Room 1. I use this time differently each day. Sometimes I just sit on the bed and try to manage all my ‘non-thoughts’, piecing them together until I am as close to nothing as I can possibly be. Some days this causes me little pain; other days are different. Today is going to be one of those different days. I don’t know why, but I feel uneasy, agitated. Perhaps it’s the new doctor. Perhaps it’s my latest habit of staring into mirrors. All the days here have been a chore in different ways, but if I am being truthful, for the most part I like knowing what to expect. Today I don’t know what to expect and the lack of predictability unsettles me.
I chastise myself. There is no point worrying about the good doctor. I have met his type many times before. But there is something new hovering. It is only when I dress and walk over to the window that I know for sure what it is, and that it has bothered me since yesterday.
The leaves are falling from the trees, some of them have already become that dry, crisp texture that makes them crunch underfoot. It has been a mild autumn. By now I am an expert on such things. As I stand here I think about the previous day, how I was caught unawares when I found myself smiling. To most that would be nothing, but to me, it is disturbing, because smiling is not something that I do.
It does not bother me that it is a long time since I have had a happy memory. Happy memories are not part of the game. In certain ways yesterday was of no real consequence, a harmless childhood recall, nothing more. I was running through the dry leaves of autumn. In the memory the colours of the leaves are as they are today, beautiful shades of orange, red and yellow, a spectacular flight falling from lines of trees. As a child I was amazed by their falling, creating a sea of crunch and colour that I could almost glide through. It was just a silly memory, but it had made me smile, and I had not expected that.
Now when I look at the trees, I think about how they have the strength to survive the harshest of winters, the short days and the long nights, and how, unlike me, they will be reborn again. Could I be like the trees? Could I, after such a long, cold winter, re-form again? Is it the question that unsettles me or the fact that I have thought of it at all? For the thinking of it makes me wonder if I might once again fall victim to that thing I’ve long since given up on: hope.
This afternoon, if Dr Ebbs asks me about the fire, I will let his questions fall away like the leaves are doing now. I will say I don’t remember; he cannot make me talk. The sooner he realises how empty I am, that he is wasting his time and mine, the better it will be for everyone. Then I can go back to just being my old self. It is easier that way. It is what I do best.
As I walk down towards Living Room 1, I pay a visit to the Female Toilets. In here, the tiles are a lighter powder pink and cover the walls and floors. The tiles on the floor are different from the ones on the wall, they are larger and less shiny. In the Female Toilets, there are four cubicles. I can tell Bridget has already been in because each one smells of cleaning fluid and every toilet roll holder is full. The others have already made their way down to breakfast.
I savour my final minutes alone, collecting my thoughts. Breakfast is the worst chore of the day because at breakfast, I will meet everyone for the first time all over again – and, today, I feel nervous. I worry that I might not be able to hide my feelings the way I usually do. The silent, polite exterior of my protective shell feels less sure. Whether it is because of the good doctor or the memory of the fallen leaves, I do not know, but I have the sense that today, despite my desire to remain steadfast, my protection might slip.
The Quays, Dublin
Friday, 7 October 2011, 1.00 p.m.