I'm sorry this is so sad when we're all so sad for other reasons. But it's a story that I felt could and should have been told, one that would have added a tragic depth to the existing storyline without the need for going all melodrama. Thanks for reading.
The smell of the place, it turns her stomach less than it did when she'd just got pregnant, but it's a smell she'll never get used to. It hits the back of her throat, it crawls on her skin. The scent of bodies, fluids, aging and decay. The stink of institutionalization.
Kate signs the visitor's book and nods at the nurse on duty. The nurse smiles at her, welcoming, friendly, but Kate's seen the other side of this particular woman, seen her berate her juniors, seen her dismissive attitude towards the residents. Kate won't be taken in by her.
Her heart breaks, again, that she's here. That he's here. That there's no other choice.
Richard's grandmother had been in a place like this; they'd visited her every month or six weeks or so. Richard had hated it. She'd had to persuade him to go, more often than not. She hadn't liked it either, but at least Agnes had had her wits about her, even as her body failed. She'd been spirited, alive, with it; she'd given the care assistants a good run for their money. She'd been playing bingo even to the end, her zest for life as fully entwined with her lust for competitive low-level gambling as ever it had been.
But the dementia ward's nothing like the place that Agnes was.
Kate follows the corridor round, takes a left, a right, a left again. A maze to the uninitiated. Past the stately-looking front rooms, past the ordinary residents' dining room, past the care assistants rec room. The corridor gets shabbier as she passes along.
The dementia ward up ahead, her step falters. Despair rises up. She chokes it back. She breathes in, out, sets her shoulders, and keys in the code to open the door.
"My wife and I, we're having a little one too," he says, eying her belly. "A baby." He smiles, pleased with himself, and looks around the room. "You should meet her, my wife. She'd like you." He looks around again, his face becoming confused. "My wife... Ginika, my wife...she must've just popped out for a moment. For some milk. She'll be back soon."
Kate nods. "I expect so."
Ginika's half the world away at a conference in Seattle; Kate skyped her a couple of days ago.
"Is it a girl or a boy?" he asks, genuinely interested.
Kate's told no-one, not even her mother. Only Caroline knows, and that wasn't by design.
"A girl."
"Oh, how lovely. Don't tell my wife, but I'm hoping for a girl too."
Kate smiles, nods.
"Oh, don't get me wrong," he says, "Boys are fine, but I'd just love a little girl."
Kate nods again. Can't speak for a moment. And then, quietly, "I'm sure you'll be a great dad."
"What are you thinking about for names?" he asks.
"Oh, I'm not sure. There are so many to choose from."
"Yes, yes. But - Catherine. Kate. Katie," he says. "That's what I'd like to choose. Katie McKenzie, such a pretty name, don't you think?"
Kate looks away. Fights the tears. Looks back.
He's staring at her intently.
"Katie?" he says, uncertainly, with a kind of recognition in his eyes. He reaches out his hand.
"Dad." She clasps his hand. "Daddy."
There's a bang from the corner of the room; Kate turns her head. Someone's thrown over a table; a care assistant is patiently picking up the mess, murmuring reassurances to a shrunken old lady.
Kate turns her head back to her father. The moment's gone. He's looking at her hand like he doesn't quite understand it. His eyes move to her face. Recognition fails. He doesn't know her.
He pulls his hand away, anxious.
An hour later, on her way back along the shabby corridor, she realizes she's not going to make it home with this pressure on her bladder.
She asks a care assistant, finds a toilet.
She sits.
She weeps.