Days in the History of Silence

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At three o’clock I drive to collect Simon, I drive the usual route, parking in front of the low building with benches outside. And there he is. It is always astonishing that he has managed, that he has got through the day and emerged at the other side. Sometimes he smiles and seems almost secretive. Other times he is exhausted and falls asleep in the car on the way home.

If I go inside, I find him in the room with the people in whose company he spends the day. A young caregiver who is always there, I cannot hear his voice, but through the glass door I can see that he is talking to Simon, at one point he kneels down, and his white trouser legs are stretched at the knees as he explains something and Simon looks at what he is showing him.

Simon himself is sitting between two women as if between two soft rocks, one with hair like white foam, he seems to participate with pleasure in the making of a rug, but they are obviously talking above his head. I see their mouths moving as they work. Or is it two parallel monologues, I can’t know that of course, I can’t hear through the door. I look at his hands. The hands I loved to feel on my spine, my breasts. The same hands that examined patients, comforted our children.

A skinny woman, one of the patients, suddenly begins to clap, and the similarity to an assembly at kindergarten is striking. At the same time I see that Simon is involved, it seems as though he considers it is not too bad.

He looks at me as I come in, they all look at me, as though I am intruding. He makes a grimace. Of happiness or displeasure? Or does he see my embarrassment, and is making fun of me? You always worry too much.

They call out their goodbyes, see you tomorrow. He smiles.

I STOP OFF at a few stores on the way home. He is clearly content to accompany me on the shopping trip, as though I have devised something for his entertainment. We have now developed the habit of him waiting in the car, I’ll be back soon, I say and he nods. But today I open the door at his side and wait for him to stand on his feet, we walk between the aisles and both of us pick up items, as we have always done. He still walks slightly too fast, I have to call to him to wait. Why do you take so long, he used to say, we have a list with us you know, the food will be out of date before we get home. His teasing. You’re always running a marathon, I said, there’s nobody here giving out medals. He liked that I answered back. Now he gathers apples into a bag, weighing them on the scale hanging above the counter. He enjoyed charming the girls at the checkout, cracking jokes. They knew him in this supermarket, before. Now there’s a new girl here, someone who works part time, I usually say hello to her, she doesn’t have that bored expression most of the other checkout operators adopt, we chat a little, once I almost asked her if she ever tired of her job. Fortunately I didn’t say that. Simon wants to help me with the bags as we are packing them into the car, he lifts them up, one by one. It strikes me that he is trying to demonstrate his presence. And then we are home again. After dinner I have the feeling that he is watching me as I load the dishwasher, but when I turn around he has already left the room.