My Husband Came Back a Changed Man

When My Husband Came Back Different

Did you buy the bread?

He looked at me as if Id spoken in a foreign tongue. Not with confusion, exactly; simply with a pausea long, uncomfortable silence that had never quite had a place in the cadence of our ordinary life.

What bread? he finally said. It wasnt a question. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, uninflected.

Just the usual. Brown bread from Maples, you always get it there.

He set the bag he’d been carrying on the linoleum, and gazed around the kitchen like a man entering for the very first time.

I didnt go to the shop.

I nodded and turned back to the stove. Nothing unusual, I told myself. He was tired. Hed been away all weeka conference in Bristol, hotel rooms, unfamiliar food, unfamiliar air. Of course he was tired.

But hed always bought the bread. Seventeen years, whenever he came back, even from the shortest trip, he stopped in at Maples on the corner of Roman Road and brought home brown bread. It wasnt out of agreement between us, or simple necessity. It was just part of who he was. How he came home.

I stirred the soup and let it go, said nothing more.

His name is Stephen. Stephen Walker. I am fifty-eight, hes sixty-one. Weve lived in Norwich for years, up on the fourth floor of a little two-bedroom flat wed managed to buy back in 99, when our daughter, Emily, was a child. Emilys all grown up nowoff to London, rings most Sundays. Im the librarian at the local secondary, Stephens been retired for three years but took up giving lectures on building codes at the technical college. We lead a quiet, steady existence, quarrel little. That’s important to know. There was never anything that could explain what began after his return.

We ate supper in silence. He ate carefully, eyes on his plate. I waited for him to look up and commentabout the conference, the colleagues, the unreliable hotel lift, how much hed missed proper home-cooked stew. He always remarked on something at the first supper after coming home.

How was Bristol? I ventured.

All right.

The seminar went well?

Yes.

I laid my spoon down.

Stephen are you all right?

He looked at me. His eyes, pale grey, were just tired.

Im fine. Just tired.

I cleared the table. He slipped off to the lounge, stretched out with his phone, as though he were perfectly at ease. Nothing odd at all. Only there was no bread. No conversation. And something else I couldnt have named.

The first night, I blamed it on exhaustion. The second as well.

On Fridaythe third dayI noticed the first truly odd thing.

I was sitting by the window with a coffee, watching the little square below. He left the bathroom, went to the kitchen, poured himself some water. Then he reached up, took the jar of barley from the shelf, opened it, sniffed, and set it back. I said nothing. But Stephens never eaten barley. Never. When we first met, he used to chuckle that barley was the dullest food in the world, invented by the uninspired. We laughed about it. Id always cook him rice, pearl barley, milletanything, really. But never barley.

And yet, there he was, considering it. As if tempted to taste.

You fancy barley? I tried to keep my tone light.

No, he replied, and left for the lounge.

I looked at that jar a long time.

On Saturday, Emily rang.

Is Dad back? She always started with Dad.

He came back Wednesday.

How is he?

I hesitated for a momenta breaths pause.

Hes just tired. Alls well.

Good. Mum, were on leave in October, me and Tom. Well come down, all right?

Of course, love. That would be lovely.

I said nothing else. What could I have said, really? That her father hadnt brought bread or had sniffed at the barley? It didnt sound serious at all. Didnt sound like anything.

But I knew something was wrong. Not with my mind, not with logic; deeper down, somewhere in my ribs or my guta silent alarm.

On Sunday, I suggested an outing. Sometimes we walked to Jubilee Park on Sundaysnot every Sunday, but often. He liked the old bench by the duck pond, would buy us cups of dandelion and burdock from the stand if it was open, complain about his aching back after a long walk, Id say he should exercise more, hed wave me off, wed laugh. A small, insignificant ritual among our many.

Shall we go to the park? I said.

He glanced up from his phone.

Which park?

Jubilee. Its lovely out.

He thought it over. That was odd too; usually hed say go on, then, or just let me grab my jacket. There wasnt really anything to consider.

All right, he said at last.

We walked in silence. I didnt push for talk, just watched. He looked about himcalm, but with none of the easy familiarity of our Sunday walks. Like someone walking an unfamiliar route, trying to memorise each turn.

At the park entrance, an old man stood with a spaniel. A solid, russet dog.

Look, Baxter, I said. Wed called all chubby spaniels “Baxter” since Mrs. Arnold in the next building, years back, had one just like it with the same name. Our private little joke.

Stephen looked at the dog. There was nothing in his face.

Baxter, I repeated more softly.

Nice dog, he said. Politely, blandly.

Later, by the rosehips, I stopped and pretended to examine the berries. My heart beat more quickly than it should, on a quiet walk.

He didnt remember Baxter. Or he was pretending not to remember. But why would he pretend?

By the pond, the drinks stand had gone. Out of season. Stephen sat on the bench, looked at the water.

Its good, here, he said.

We come here quite often.

Do we?

I turned to look at him.

Stephen, weve come here for ten years or more.

He nodded. Calm, untroubled.

Yes, I suppose. I mean, its nice, thats all.

Something inside me clenched, stayed tight. I didnt put words to the feeling until the still of night, listening to him breathe beside me. Hed not said, of course I remember. Just yes, in the same tone you might use to agree with a strangers fact.

That night, sleep wouldnt come. I thought about what they called it, when someone you love is present, yet something in them is lost. Id read somewhere that even without visible trauma, stress could change people so much it felt like the person had been swapped for someone else. There was a proper word for itmedical, clinical. I couldnt recall it. But thered been no trauma, as far as I knew. A building regulations conference in Bristol: not enough to make someone unrecognisably changed.

At three, I crept from bed, drank some water at the window, and looked out at the empty street. The old lamp flickered over the pavement. I watched, telling myself to wait, to give it time. Perhaps hed kept something to himself on his trip; maybe hed been ill, or had an argument, or simply felt adrift. It happened, especially past sixty, when life has already demanded so much, but there is no knowing how much more is to come.

I went back to bed. He lay curled, facing the wall. I placed a hand lightly on his back as I always used to. He didnt stir.

On Monday morning, I called my frienda good friend since university, Nina. She lived at the other end of the city, worked as a receptionist at the surgery. Nina is blunt and unsentimental, and I rely on that.

Nina, mind if I come over?

Whats up?

I dont know. Maybe nothing. Id just like a chat.

Course. Come round after five, Ill be home.

Ninas flat is always warm and smells of baking, even when she hasnt been baking. We settled in her kitchen, drank tea. I told her about the bread, the barley, Baxter, the “yes” at the pond.

She listened quietly, didnt interrupt. Then she was silent for a while.

Jane, sounds like depression, perhaps. Or early signs of memory loss. Sixty-one isnt so young.

Nina, hes always had the sharpest memorydates, names, everything.

Everything changes, Jane.

I stared into my cup.

Nina, its not just forgetfulness. He looks at mewell, its like Im someone new, and hes being polite.

Nina broke off a bit of cake.

Have you slept?

Not well.

There you are. Jane, youre winding yourself up. Hes come back from a trip, might have his own trouble at work, and men never talk about these things. Give him a week.

I nodded. Perhaps she was right. Most likely.

But on my way home, I thought about the jar of barley. Such a trivial motionyet there was something alien in it, still catching in my throat.

He was there when I returned, sitting at the kitchen table with some paperwork, writing. I put the kettle on, unpacked groceries. He didnt look up.

I was at Ninas.

Hmm.

I brought cake.

He glanced at the cake.

What kind?

Cabbage and egg. Your favourite.

I dont care for cabbage.

I set the bag downslowly, very slowly.

Stephen.

Yes?

You loved cabbage pie since childhood. You always told me your mum baked them.

He looked at me, untroubled.

Mum baked apple pies.

Silence.

His mother, Ann Walker, passed away a dozen years ago. I knew her well. Watched her make piesmany times, in her tiny kitchen with the floral tablecloth. Always cabbage and egg. It was her pride.

Stephen, Ann baked with cabbage, I said quietly. I remember.

Well, perhaps. Its a long time ago, he shrugged.

I walked into the lounge, stood by the window, staring out at the streetcars passing, people as usual on an autumn day.

I remembered Ann’s cabbage piesthe scent, the cramped little kitchen. He’d always remembered that, better than I did. He’d told me about it with an odd fondness. You dont forget the smell of your mother’s kitchen.

I found Vals numberStephens sister. Lived out in Lincoln, only saw Stephen once a year or so, but they kept in touch. I rang.

Jane! How are you all?

Fine, Val. Just a little thingI wanted to ask. Do you remember what your mum baked most?

Pause.

Oh, yes, piescabbage and egg. Why?

Oh, just trying to recall her recipe. Thank you.

I hung up. My legs felt like jelly. For a piethats absurd. But I couldnt move for a while.

Somethings wrong with his memory, I told myself again. Maybe its neurological, maybe just age. Id need to get him to a doctor. Sit him down for a proper talk.

That evening at supper, I broached it.

Stephen, have you had headaches lately?

No.

You sleep all right?

Yes.

Would you like to see the doctor? Just for a check?

He set his fork down.

Why?

To check your blood pressure. Its been a while.

I check it at home. Its fine.

I worry for you.

He stared at mea long, almost investigative stare.

Do you think theres something wrong with me?

I just worry.

Im fine, Jane. Please stop.

He resumed eating. The conversation was ended. Stephen had always been able to close a subject in one sentence, no raised voice, just a clear line. I usually left it.

But now, as he ate, I found myself assessing, as if to comparehe held his fork in his right hand, as usual. Sat just so, but maybe his back slightly rounded, perhaps less straight than before. Or was I imagining?

I washed our plates and went to the bathroom. Looked in the mirroran older woman stared back, grey hair she no longer bothered dyeing, crows-feet Stephen used to call mirth lines. I looked at myself and thought: Jane, youre overthinking. You dont really know how he sat or held a fork. Youre just unsettled by the unfamiliar. People change. Especially after things we never see.

I washed and went to bed.

I woke deep in the nightnot at a noise, but at a hush, at the sense of being alone. I reached outhis side of the bed was cool.

Down the hall, the kitchen light was on. He sat writing in a notebookby hand, strangely, because Stephen hadnt written anything by hand for ages, apart from a signature.

Stephen?

He looked up. Not startled, just measured, as if expecting me.

Couldnt sleep, he said.

What are you writing?

Thoughts.

May I see?

Pause.

Its personal.

I watched him carefully. He held my gaze.

Stephen never said its personal to me before. In seventeen years, I could ask anything. Of course we had our own corners, but he never said it quite like that.

All right, I said, and went back to bed.

I heard the pen scratching, the soft click as the kitchen light went off, his return. He lay beside me, awake a long time.

In the morning, the notebook was gone.

I looked for itdont ask me why. I rummaged through cupboards, through his bedside drawer (which I never touched beforeever, it was sacred). Just old spectacles, a coin, a slip of phone numbers. No notebook.

Hed taken it with him.

I went to work. The school library comforted mesteady, quiet, scented with old paper and dust and someones aftershave. I shelved borrowed books, fielded requests from Elizabeth, our young librarian, helped an older boy find some science annuals. An ordinary day.

At lunch, alone behind the door, I thought: how do you know when someones changed, not just in small things or with age, but truly? When after years together, you know the way he smiles, the way he smells, the things he fears and loves, and now, something in him has shifted and you cant say where it went.

Psychological substitute, I rememberedthe term Id read. When someone so close changes so that you feel the person is simply not there. Sometimes its medical. Sometimes, its just life; people change, especially past fifty or sixty, when the children are grown, work is nearly done, and you find yourself just the two of you, wondering whos beside you.

But I knew Stephen. I was certain.

That evening, he was already home. Standing at the kitchen window, just looking.

Stephen, what are you doing?

Watching.

What is it?

Just watching.

That would sound odd from anyone, but from Stephen most of all. He was always doingif standing idle, it was because he was thinking, muttering to himself, scribbling on paper. Standing and looking out the windownever.

How was your day?

Fine. Lectures. The usual.

The students?

The same.

I passed him, took the chicken from the fridge and began preparing it.

Stephen, tell me about Bristol, I said, not turning.

What do you want to know?

Anything. Where did you stay, what did you see? You were there a week.

A pause.

Stayed at a hotel. Ordinary, really. Seminar in the university conference room. We went to see some new housing estate they were showing off. Thats about it.

And the people? Old colleagues? Anyone you knew?

Yes, a few.

Who?

Silence. I glanced back; he was facing away.

Well, one or two from college. Some from other towns.

Was Michael Brown there?

Michael Brown, the colleges head of department. Stephen worked with him the last three years; theyd gone fishing last summer, Stephen talked about him often.

Brown? No, he wasnt.

He always goes to these.

Not this time.

I turned to the stove. Fine. Maybe he hadnt.

That night after he slept, I texted Michaels wife, Annethough we weren’t close friends. I asked, carefully, Anne, good evening. I just wondered if Michael got back from Bristol all right?

She replied quickly, Evening Jane. Michael wasnt in Bristol, he wasnt invited this time, he was home all week. Why?

I apologised and said Id mixed things up.

Put the phone under my pillow and lay there in darkness.

He didnt know Brown wasnt there. Someone hed worked with for years, and fished with, and he couldnt say whether the man had gone or not.

Or, he knew and lied. But why?

I turned it over. Maybe a falling out, maybe something personal he didnt want to share. Maybe maybe he hadnt gone to Bristol at all. Maybe hed spent that week somewhere else.

Stop. Thats too much. Thats paranoia.

But now the idea was there.

The next dayWednesdayI created an excuse. Said we needed new curtains for the bedroom and suggested a trip to Home Style, the big homeware shop on Magdalen Street. Occasionally we browsed there; Stephen always seemed bored, shuffled about, said take what you like, I wouldnt know, and wed stop for pasties at the café next door when finished, our little pattern for such shopping.

Shall we go today? I said.

Where?

Home Style. Curtains.

Theyre not that old.

I fancy a change.

He shrugged. Fine.

We went. I dawdled round aisles, asked his opinion, he replied absent-mindedly. Afterwards I said, Lets get a pasty?

Where?

Next door, the café. We always do.

He looked blank.

I dont know that café.

I smileddeliberately. Trying to look casual.

Youve just forgotten. Come, Ill show you.

We went round, small and bright with a yellow sign. The Cosy Caféit had been there twenty years.

Here we are. See?

He looked at it.

Oh, he said, studying it. Never noticed it before.”

We bought our pasties. I watched him. He ate as normal, looked out at people, asked if I was cold. Everything seemed ordinary.

Only once, he stared long at the sign. As if trying to memorise it. Or forcing it to stay.

Stephen, I said quietly, Do you remember me?

He stared, surprised.

What do you mean? Youre Jane. My wife.

I know that. But do you remember us? Who we were?”

Whats wrong, Jane?

Nothings wrong. Youre just changed.

Everyone changes.

Youre quoting me. You always insisted ‘people dont change.’

He chewed his pasty in silence.

Maybe Im changing, too, he said eventually.

On the bus home, I watched the drizzle on the glass and thought about the terror of losing someone you love while theyre still right there beside you. It happened; people didnt always say everything.

Thursday, after hed left for the college, I slipped into what we called the studya tiny converted box room, made when wed knocked two flats together. His desk, bookshelves, files.

I didnt want to prybut I sat at his desk, opened the top drawer.

There it was. The notebook.

I opened it. The first few pages blank. In the middle, the writing begansmall, tidy, not Stephens broad, rushed scrawl, but fine, almost calligraphic.

Lists. Notes. Jane. Wife. 58 years. Librarian at secondary. Daughter Emily, London. Coffee, no sugar. Wants new curtains. Friend Nina, GP surgery. Then, Cabbage pie, supposedly favourite. Sundays at Jubilee Park. Spaniel, Baxter, private joke. Further: Ann, mother. Cabbage or apples. Verify.

I couldnt breathe.

These were the notes of someone mapping a strangers life. Memorising clues.

I closed the book and returned it. Poured water in the kitchen, drank it standing.

My thoughts were sharp, practicalwhen too much piles up, you need them to be.

Who is this man?

He lives in my flat, looks like Stephen, speaks in his voice, knows my name, knows about Emily, knows coffee (no sugar). But he takes notes, memorises us. As though learning the part.

I called in sick. Sat in the old armchair, staring at nothing. Tried to reason.

Amnesia. Dissociative disorderlosing part of oneself, trying to rebuild it. Maybe something happened in Bristol. Or not Bristol, if hed not gone. Maybe something wiped some of his memory, and now he quietly rebuilt it from scratch, ashamed, afraid to ask for help.

It was plausible. It explained nearly everything.

Except the writing. Different writing. That wasnt Stephens.

Id never focused much on handwriting. But I knew hisdozens of shopping lists, birthday notes. It was so messy I always moaned I couldnt read them. This small, neat hand was unmistakably someone else’s.

People do change handwritingafter a stroke, perhaps, but then other symptoms would be clear. Hed falter in speech, movement. Hed need help.

I rubbed my face.

He returned at seven. By then Id cooked, set the table, tried to look normal.

Tired? he asked. You didnt go to work?

Headache. Better now.

He nodded, put down his bag, went to wash up. The evening went on, quiet.

Over supper, I thought about how losing someone can mean their absence inside, not just a physical going away. When someones shell is there, but what made them themthe heart of themhas vanished, shifted so much it becomes unrecognisable.

Stephen, I said.

Hm?

Tell me something about us. About meeting me. How do you remember it?”

He put his fork down, thought a moment.

We met through friendsat a birthday party. You wore a blue dress.

That was true. Blue dress, the party at Sue Morleys, the 23rd of September, ’97. So far, all right.

We saw each other a few more times, he continued. Then started going out.

Pause.

Thats all, he added.

I looked at him.

And then?

We married. Emily arrived. Bought this flat.

Stephen. When you proposed to me, where did we go?

Jane

Just tell me.

He was silent for a long while.

I dont remember every detailit was a long time ago.

You told me you remembered every minute. You repeated the story on our anniversary in front of everyone.”

Silence.

Stephenwhen did you propose, where did we go?

He stared. His eyes empty of irritation or shame. Instead, something elsecalculating, or weary.

Jane, he said quietly. Why does it matter so much now?

Because I want to know if you remember.

Im tired. It was years ago. People arent obliged to remember everything.

That wasnt a small thing.

To me, its minor.

I got up, cleared the plates though wed not finished, and neither of us protested.

Wed gone to the riverbank at Wensum, a tiny spot in Norfolk countryside; made a day of it, got lost, he carried me across a puddle as I wore daft shoes, and on that bank, in August ’98, he asked me to be his wife. He used to tell the tale proudly.

This man, sitting at my table, didn’t even know the story.

Later, I wrote Nina a long messageabout the notebook, the writing, the lost river trip.

She replied after midnight: Jane. Both of you need to see a doctor. This could be anythingon his side, or yours. Call me tomorrow.

I put the mobile away and lay in the dark. He lay beside me, breathing softly, reassuringly present. I faced the ceiling.

I thought of what it means to lose someone close, not in body but in spirithow they vanish while right by your side. That is harder than any leaving.

On Friday morning, I resolved to tell him honestly. That Id found the notebook, Id checked with Val, written Anne, learned Brown wasnt in Bristol. That I had questions, wanted the truth. I wasnt his enemy, but I needed answers.

He was already up, brewing tea.

Stephen, I said.

Yes?

I need to talk.

He turned, met my gazesteady.

I know, he said.

You know what? I faltered.

That you know something. I saw you in the study.

We sat. He held his mug with both hands, staring into its depths.

Its hard to explain, he began.

Try.

What youre thinking is, in a way, mostly right. Partially, at least.

What do you mean, partially?

I dont remember everything. He paused. Not as youd think. Not all, but big things.

Like the river? I said.

He looked up.

What?

We were at the Wensum when you proposed. Do you remember?

Something moved in his face, faintly.

No, he replied.

Do you remember Baxter?

A pause.

No.

Do you remember your mumAnn?

I see her face. Hear her voice. But not the rest.

I watched him; he watched his mug.

When did this start?

I dont know exactly. It crept up.

And you didnt tell me?

I didnt know how.

You kept notes, so youd keep up.

Yes.

Your handwritings changed.

A long silence. He set the mug down.

I know, he said quietly.

How do you explain that?

He didnt answer, looking only at the table. I waited.

Stephen. Look at me.

He did, finally. Grey eyes, familiar.

Are you Stephen? I asked, quietly. My Stephen?

And for the first time in this new life, I saw somethingpain, perhaps, or deep confusion, some third thing unnamed.

Jane, he said. I dont know how to answer that, truly.

I looked at himhis hands, the crease by his mouth, now grey at the sides.

Is that honest?

The only honest answer I have.

Outside, rain fell. Gentle, steady, autumn rain pattering at the window. An ordinary sound.

What do I do with that? I said aloud, not to him.

He answered softly, I dont know.

I poured myself coffee, black, unsweetened, stood by the window. He stood behind me, close but not touching.

Jane.

Yes?

I remember your voice. From the beginning. The way you say things. I do remember that.

I didnt turn.

Thats not much, I said.

I know.

More rain. A car tooted, the street quieted again.

I need time, I finally said.

All right.

I dont know what well do.

I understand.

I looked round at him. He looked back, wishful, words failing.

Tell me something. Do you want to be here?

He didnt answer at once. The rain beat at the windows.

Yes, he said. I do.

I lookedat this man who lived in my flat, knew my name, kept a secret notebook, forgot our river and spoke in a new script, but still cradled a mug the same way Stephen always had.

Go and get some bread then, I said. Brown bread. From Maples on Roman Road.

He nodded, pulled on his coat, headed to the door, paused on the threshold.

Jane.

What?

The river. Will you tell me the story one day?

I stared at him.

Well see, I said.

He left. I listened to his steps down the stairs. Fourth floorsixteen steps. Id always counted.

Sixteen.

He crossed the courtyard. I watched him from the window. He turned up his collar against the rainjust an ordinary man, on an ordinary wet day.

At the corner, he turned right. To Maples.

I stood by the window, holding my cup, feeling only the hush that comes after noise, not peace, not reliefjust quiet, when theres no need anymore to pretend you dont need answers.

The phone buzzed, Nina.

How are you? she asked at once.

I dont know.

You spoke with him?

I did.

And?

I looked outsidethe corner was empty now.

Nina, could you live with someone who doesnt know who he is?

A pause.

He told you that?

More or less.

Jane, he needs help. Proper, medical help. You two need to see someone, not just talk over tea.

I know.

So what now?

I put the cup down.

I havent decided. Hes gone for the bread.

What bread?

Brown. From Maples.

She went quiet.

Youre scaring me, Jane.

Its fine, Nina. Ill ring you later.

I hung up, sipped my coffeenow lukewarm, but still good.

Sixteen steps. Id always counted.

Twenty minutes later, the main door sounded below. Footsteps up the stairs. Sixteen steps.

I didnt move.

The key turned in the lock. The door opened.

Here, he said from the hall. Brown. Last loaf, too.

I turned. He stood in the kitchen doorway, bread in hand, wet from the rain, hair stuck to his brow.

Put it on the table, I said.

He did.

We looked at each other.

Tea? I asked.

Yes, please.

I set the kettle to boil. He hung up his coat, sat at the table. I stood at the counter, his silenceneither oppressive nor anxiousjust there.

Jane, he said softly, will you tell me our river story?”

The kettle began to whisper, louder and louder.

I stood there, thinking.

Not now, I said at last. Maybe later.

All right, he said.

The kettle boiled.