Butterfly Memory

Leonard paused at the door, taking a deep, steadying breath. His hand holding the bouquet of daisies trembled, causing the delicate white and blue petals to flutter like butterflies. He knocked and waited. A gentleman always waited to be invited in, but no invitation was forthcoming, so he cracked open the door a little to peer in. Maybe she was sleeping.

Martha was sitting in her chair staring out the window, looking beyond the walled garden, examining an image that was visible only inside her head.

“May I come in?” Leonard asked softly, not wishing to startle her. She turned and looked blankly at him for a moment, before her eyes settled on the flowers.

“Daisies!” she cried with genuine delight. “Are they for me?” At his nod, she reached her gnarled hands for the bouquet, which he promptly handed to her. “They’re my favourite.”

“I know.”

“How could you know that?”

Leonard smiled. “I just do. The blue centres match your eyes.”

Those blue eyes were no longer as bright as they had been. Their colour had faded over time, but they shimmered with a glint of tears as Martha smiled happily up at him. Leonard felt the sunshine of that expression warm his heart. He lived for that smile.

“May I sit?”

“Of course, please…” she looked around the room in some confusion. “I don’t seem to have a chair…”

“I’ll go get one. Or would you prefer to go for a walk? The day is lovely and sunny.”

“I’d like that… but the flowers..?” She fumbled with the bouquet, unsure where to place it. Leonard opened a cupboard and located a vase. It was a tacky, plastic thing, and he sighed. Once it would have been fine bone china, or sparkling cut crystal, but the plastic vase would have to do. He stepped into the small, impersonal bathroom to fill the vase with water and offered it to Martha. She fiddled with the blooms a moment before deciding that they would do, and he settled the vase on a side table near the window.

“Perfect,” Martha declared with conviction. Leonard supposed she was right.

“Shall we take a walk?” He held his arm out, elbow crooked, ready for her to grasp.

“Where shall we go?” she asked as she struggled to stand, leaning heavily on his arm.

“Where ever you desire.”

“I like flowers.”

“The garden it is, then.”

Together they shuffled out of the room and down the long corridor, Leonard adjusting his longer stride to accommodate her slower gait. She barely lifted her feet, so her shoes made a soft scuffing sound along the linoleum floor.

“Are you good, Martha?” a younger woman wearing a lanyard asked as they slowly shuffled past. She was setting plates out on a large dining table.

“I’m going for a walk into the garden,” Martha told her confidently.

“Good for you. It’s a beautiful sunny day. I’ll bring you your morning tea outside today, then.”

“Thank you,” Leonard said as he opened the door to the garden and held it for Martha to go through.

“That one’s nosey,” Martha whispered in a voice meant for his ears only, yet carried quite audibly to the other occupant of the room. “She always wants to know what I’m doing.” The woman setting the table grinned at them, her eyes twinkling as she completed her task.

The garden was delightful, clearly well maintained and bursting with colourful blooms. The winding paths invited exploration, but Martha’s steps began to falter and she puffed a little as they walked. Ever the gentleman, Leonard led them unerringly to a small table with two seats tucked into an arbour.

“Thank you,” Martha said as he gently assisted her into a chair. “I don’t seem to be as fit as I once was.”

“But you are as beautiful as ever.”

Martha smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Do I know you?” she asked, her voice lost and confused.

Leonard nodded, unable to trust his own voice in that moment.

“How do I know you?”

“I’m your husband.”

Martha’s eyebrows ascended toward her hairline. “Really?”

“Really,” Leonard confirmed.

“Oh.” Just one word that summed up so much of their lives right now. Leonard held his breath. He knew what question was coming next, but hoped that he was mistaken. “What’s your name?”

The breath left his body in a long, low, voiceless sigh. “My name is Leonard.”

“Leonard?” She tried the name out, her mouth exploring the syllables and drawing out the consonants. “Leonard who?”

Leonard paused for a moment before replying, “Leonard Whitlock.”

Martha searched his face, her rheumy eyes filled with confusion. “I don’t remember. Who am I?”

“Martha Whitlock.” There was no hesitation in Leonard’s reply this time. “You are Martha Whitlock, my wife.”

Martha just stared at him with a blank expression that slowly began to dissolve into horror and disbelief.

“Why don’t I remember?” She shook her head as she pressed trembling fingers to her mouth.

“It’s OK, Martha. Your brain has had to remember so much over the years. And I wasn’t much help. You kept everyone organised and on task, kept the whole family together. You had so much to remember that I think your memory is all worn out. But I’m here for you now.”

She shook her head more forcefully. “But I don’t know you.”

“That’s Ok. I can introduce myself.” Leonard smiled gently, masking his own feelings with a gentle expression and consoling tone. “My name is Leonard Whitlock, and you are Martha. How do you do?”

Martha frowned in confusion. “I don’t know?”

“It’s a lovely day today, isn’t it? Have you ever seen such beautiful flowers?”

Martha looked around her and focused on the pink blooms growing in a ceramic pot. “I like the flowers.”

“I can never remember what they’re called, but the pink ones are quite striking.”

“They’re geraniums. They don’t like wet feet.”

“Wet feet?”

“There’s too much water. The saucer is full.” Martha pointed to the pot, and sure enough, Leonard could see that the saucer beneath the ceramic pot was full of water. “Don’t over-water geraniums.”

“I’ll be sure to tell the gardener to sort that out.”

“I don’t remember… How do I know you?”

“I’m a friend.” Sometimes it was easier for everyone if he didn’t push her to remember, and he smiled gently at her. “But if you’ll let me, I’d like to be something more.”

She giggled, an almost girlish sound he hadn’t heard for such a long time, and it warmed his heart.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Would it be a bad thing if I said yes?”

They were interrupted by a lady with the tea tray. “It’s tea and scones today, fresh out of the oven. Would you like me to stay and help, or are you happy to assist her yourself?”

“We will be fine, thanks.”

Martha giggled. “We’re fine,” she echoed, then added mischievously, her eyes twinkling with glee, “He’s flirting with me!”

“You’re very lucky. He’s a handsome gentleman.”

“Yes, he is.” Martha’s shine dimmed, her eyes losing focus for a moment as she frowned. “I can never remember his name.”

“Leonard, my name is Leonard.”

“Leonard, that’s a good, strong name.”

“That’s what you said, the very first time we met.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You were laughing with your brother and a few friends outside the Meadow Tea Rooms. I was drawn to the sound and because I knew Peter a little from school, I asked him for an introduction. You smiled at me as I took your hand and you said, ‘Leonard, like a lion? That’s a good, strong name,’ and I was smitten. Right then, I told myself that this was the woman I would marry. A year later, you became my wife.”

“How long have we been married?”

“Sixty-four years.”

Martha’s mouth opened as if she would speak, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened with distress. Leonard hated that expression. The lost soul that peeked out from behind those cloudy blue eyes tore at his heart.

“I don’t—”

“—remember, yes, I know. But I will remember for you.”

“Tell me about our life. Do we have children?”

This was the part Leonard hated the most. Every time, it broke her heart to realise that she had forgotten Sarah and Leo. “We have two. A girl called Sarah after your mother, and a boy—”

“—Named Leo after his father.”

It was like the clouds parting on a winter day to let the sun shine through. The memory broke through and her face became animated for a wondrous moment in time.

“Yes, our Leo. A strong name for a strong young man.”

“Where are they?”

“Sarah is looking after her grandchildren in Melbourne at the moment. Her oldest daughter had an accident and can’t drive so Sarah has flown over there for a few months. Leo lives in America now with his wife and children.”

Leonard took his phone from his pocket, a smart device that Leo had given him last Christmas. He could barely work all the fan-dangled settings, but he knew how to bring up photos. Shuffling his chair around the table, he flicked through the photos showing Martha the snaps the kids had taken and sent him over the years.

“This is Layla on her recital night. She sings like an angel. Here I think it plays…” Leonard clicked play and the sweet voice of their youngest grandchild sang Memory, from the musical ‘Cats’. Her voice was a wonderful instrument that always caught Leonard by surprise. It was so like her grandmother’s. Martha smiled and hummed along.

“…‘Touch me, It’s so easy to leave me, All alone with the memory, Of my days in the sun’…” Martha’s voice, once trained, now lacked power, but she recalled all the words as she sang along to the video. ‘Cats’ was a family favourite, one that Leonard and Leo had suffered through on numerous occasions. Now, as he sat next to her in the sunshine, listening to her paper thin voice singing each word with perfect recollection, seeing her face alight with memories, Leonard was glad Martha had made him sit through the production multiple times.

“Oh Leonard, she sings so well!” Martha said, tears in her eyes as the last powerful note lingered in the air. “Did she get into that Performing Arts School?”

“No, but she kept auditioning all over the country, and was accepted to some fancy place in Sydney.”

“Such a talented girl,” Martha said, pride in her voice. “I would have loved Sarah to have continued with music. But she never had the passion, not like Little Layla, who was singing before she could talk.”

“She takes after her grandmother.”

“Who does?” And just like that, the curtain in her mind closed, the memories hidden once again.

“No one.” Leonard pasted a gentle smile on his face, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes. He put away his phone and set the now cool cup of tea with its protective spill proof cover in her hands. “Here, drink your tea before it gets cold. Would you like me to put jam on your scone?”

Martha sipped from the cup, and when her hands shook so much that a dribble of tea escaped down her chin, Leonard carefully wiped it up with a gentle caress. He offered her a scone, which she ate absently, her eyes fixed on the path of a butterfly as it fluttered from flower to flower. She didn’t notice the crumbs as they fell on her lap, but Leonard carefully brushed them away.

Warmed by the sunlight, her head nodded softly until her chin rested on her chest and her eyes closed. She wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping in the chair and so Leonard called for an orderly who came with a wheelchair to whisk her back to her room. Leonard followed along behind and once she was settled into her bed for her nap, he leaned over her to place a soft kiss on her wrinkled brow. Her eyes fluttered open, just like sleeping beauty.

“Oh, hello?” she murmured, confused and disoriented.

“No, don’t get up. I was just leaving.”

“Who are you?” Her voice raised in a high-pitched cry of alarm.

“It’s just me, Leonard. I brought you the flowers.” He pointed to the daisies. As her eyes focused on the white and blue blooms in the vase, her expression softened in a warm smile.

“Oh daisies, they’re my favourite.”

“I know.”

She looked back at him in surprise. “How could you know that?”

“I just do.”