Page 111 of Forever, Maybe
“It’s just a check-up,” she said, her voice steady, hoping it was enough to keep Cate’s fleeting confidence intact for a little while longer.
Hospitals always made Nell’s skin crawl. The sterile smell, the hushed urgency—it all set her nerves on edge. Her heart felt lodged in her throat, leaving her jittery.
“I’ll find us coffees,” she said abruptly, not waiting for a reply.
The receptionist directed her to the main building, where signs on the walls pointed toward various out-clinics and wards. She walked briskly, trying to focus on the arrows and names, but the atmosphere pressed down on her.
Near the entrance, a gift shop sat with buckets of flowers propped outside, cheerful bursts of colour against the hospital’s muted tones. As she hesitated by the door, a teenage boy collided with her.
“Sorry! I’m—I’m a dad! A little girl!” he blurted, his voice trembling with excitement. His eyes burned bright, almost feverish, as he grabbed one of the more extravagant flower arrangements. At the counter, he hovered by the teddy bear display, picking one up and then putting it down again.
He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, his smooth skin betraying his youth. Was his girlfriend the same age? Younger? What was their story—were they still together? Was the pregnancy a surprise? Whatever the circumstances, the boy’s joy was unmistakable, bubbling over and spilling into every movement.
This baby was wanted. This baby was loved.
Nell entered the shop, her attention drawn to the teddy bears. The price tags made her wince—some of them cost as much as a weekly grocery shop. She picked the largest one, dark brown with soft fur and a pink t-shirt that read,I’m Daddy’s Princess.It was roughly the size of a newborn. She paid for it, shoved the receipt into her pocket and dashed after the boy.
“Here,” she said, holding out the bear. “Give this to your daughter.”
His mouth fell open as he accepted it, his hands cradling the bear like it was made of glass. “Thank you. Thank you so much!” he exclaimed, his voice breaking with gratitude.
He raced off toward the lifts, glancing back once to send her a smile so full of pure joy it almost broke her.
“Everything okay?” Bobby’s voice cut through the moment. He had caught up with her, his face marked with concern. “I didn’t realise until now that this would be your first time back in this hospital.”
“Yes, fine,” she said, blinking quickly, trying to hold herself together. “I couldn’t find the coffee vending machine.”
“We’ll get something afterward,” Bobby said gently. He hesitated, lifting a hand to scratch the side of his head—a gesture from years ago, when there’d been more hair to rake through.
“Nell, you were so young at the time, just a child. Your mum and I were the ones who had to make decisions for you, and one of them… well, we thought it was the right thing to do.”
Nell listened as he explained further, knowing that if she’d learned this back in her student days—or even in her twenties or thirties—she would have been furious.
She exhaled, her eyes wandering back toward the young man. He was still by the lifts, clutching the bear and flowers. The button above the lift pinged at last, and the doors slid open. As he stepped inside, he turned back to catch her eye, sending her another radiant smile and a little wave just before the doors closed.
“Thanks, Dad,” Nell murmured, touching Bobby’s arm. “That was thoughtful of you. He’s never reached out to me, but I’m glad he can.”
What was she meant to do with that nugget? Was there even anything to follow up on? And did she want to? God, oh God, oh God… Today wasn’t the day to untangle it.
Back in the waiting room, she forced herself to observe the other patients. Most of them were couples, people like her parents in their early seventies or older. A few seemed younger, perhaps in their late fifties, but the room was a stark reminder of time marching on. Time that didn’t slow down for anyone, no matter how much you wished it would.
Nell scanned the waiting room, trying to pick out who might have dementia. With some, it was obvious. They were the ones who seemed “not quite all there”—that old euphemism. One older man sat staring straight ahead, his gaze vacant, oblivious to the hum of conversation around him. It was doubtful he even knew where he was or why he was there.
Others were harder to pin down. A few were seated with who Nell assumed were their daughters. Did sons ever take on the practical caring role? Driving Mum or Dad to hospital appointments, picking up groceries, handling housework? Ah, of course… Artie did, though rarely without complaint.
“Cate Stephenson?”
The three of them stood. Nell felt her mother’s quick, darting glance—a silent plea for reassurance. She squeezed Cate’s hand gently, anchoring her.
“Doctor Marsden?” Bobby asked.
The woman who had called her name shook her head, extending a warm hand first to Cate, then Bobby and finally Nell.
“No, I’m Joan Stirling,” she said with a broad smile. “I’m a dementia specialist nurse.” Her tone was calm and friendly, though Nell caught the subtle pause after the word “dementia,” as if she were trying to soften its impact. “Come on through. Let’s find somewhere comfy to sit.”
The room Joan led them to was a world apart from the sterile, utilitarian environment of Cate’s GP surgery, with its yellowing posters and unmistakable NHS vibe. Here, armchairs were arranged in conversational clusters around a low coffee table, and framed pictures—though nothing Nell would consider art—hung on the walls. There were no glaring notices about flu jabs or blood pressure checks.
The only hint that this was a medical space was a corkboard tucked discreetly to one side, partially hidden when the door was open. It bore the usual mix of reminders and notices, quietly present but not intrusive.
