The Art of Forgetting

My nerves have been shot for weeks. A trip to the hospital confirmed it: Alzheimer’s. The doctor tried to be comforting.
“Look at you,” he said, gesturing at my clothes. “Dressed in designer labels from head to toe. You must have a very happy life.”
“The progression can be slowed,” he continued. “Tell your husband and children not to worry too much. Why don’t you call them in? I’ll go over the necessary precautions with them.”
I opened my phone and stared at the contacts under the ‘Family’ tab.
My son, who had cut ties with me the moment he moved abroad.
My rebellious daughter, who hated me for breaking up her and her delinquent boyfriend.
Or my husband, who was probably with his mistress right now.
For a moment, I had no idea who to call.
I closed the phone. “It’s fine,” I said softly. “Let’s not tell them.”
This way, I can finally forget them all.

1
After I left the hospital, a rare snow began to fall over the city.
I grew up in the North, in a place of deep winters. But in the thirty years since I’d married and moved south, I’d never seen a blizzard like this so early in the season. They say a good snow promises a good year. A good omen, perhaps.
I squinted, the familiar route home suddenly blurry in my mind.
I ended up taking a taxi. The payment app had updated, and I fumbled with it for so long the driver started yelling.
After a few more struggles, I was finally home.
The house was as it always was: vast, cold, and utterly silent. Not a trace of life.
I numbly cleared the dining table and reheated last night’s leftovers. I’d let the house staff go a few days ago. There was no need for so many people to look after just me. Halfway through cooking, I zoned out, forgetting to turn off the stove. The pan started smoking, and I rushed to put out the small flame before it could catch.
The resulting meal was a blackened, unappetizing mess.
I forced down a few bites and went to bed.
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that Arthur came home.
I heard the door open in a haze of sleep and pulled on a robe, heading downstairs. He was sitting on the living room sofa, smoking.
He’d dyed his hair recently, covering the distinguished threads of silver at his temples. His face was still handsome, well-maintained with few wrinkles, and his body was lean. At a glance, he looked almost the same as he had in his youth.
No wonder he has a constant stream of young women flocking to him, I thought wryly.
He noticed me and stubbed out his cigarette. “Still awake?”
I nodded, trying for a light tone. “Getting old. My nerves are shot these days.”
For years now, Arthur had treated me with a polite, almost formal respect. A flash of guilt crossed his face. “I’m sorry. If I know I’ll be late next time, I won’t come home.”
I could smell a woman’s perfume on him, a scent that was faintly familiar. I vaguely recalled it was the one his little mistress wore.
Silence stretched between us.
He hesitated, then decided not to hide it. “Ross came back today. We threw a welcome dinner for him. He… he probably still doesn’t want to see you after what happened, so I took Lily.”
I nodded again. “Oh.”
I congratulated myself internally. It was his mistress’s perfume. My memory wasn’t so bad after all. Not as bad as the doctor made it sound.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, a pang of guilt in his voice. “If not, I can make you something.”
I cut through his pretense. “Arthur, I need to talk to you.”
I put on my reading glasses, fumbling in my handbag for a moment before I found what I was looking for. I handed him the file.
He flipped through it, his expression souring as he read.
I sighed. “Arthur, my mother passed away at the beginning of the year, didn't she? I was thinking… our marriage doesn’t have to count anymore either. We’ve both lived such constrained lives, forced to marry without love. We’re old now. Let’s give each other the freedom we’ve always dreamed of, shall we?”
Arthur said nothing. He simply lit another cigarette. Through the haze of smoke, I couldn’t read his face.
I gave a strained laugh.
“As for the children… neither of them wants me as a mother. Ross came home and I didn't even know. You and your mistress went to his welcome dinner instead of me. I suppose I’ve been a failure in that department, too. But we’ve raised them. Their futures don’t need me anymore. There’s nothing left for me to hold on to here.”

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