Page 74 of The Mother-in-Law

I find her in the den, horizontal on the couch.

‘Diana?’ I say, but she doesn’t so much as lift her head from the pillow.

And that’s when I realise. Something is very, very wrong.

Diana stares out the passenger window of my car, trance-like. She’s wearing her normal ‘uniform’—navy slacks, white blouse, pearls—but her clothes look rumpled, like she wore them yesterday and dropped them on the floor before putting them on again. She’s also wearing black runners instead of nude pumps or ballet flats, and her hair is flat on one side (presumably the side she slept on) and she hasn’t bothered to fluff it up. She hasn’t said a word since she got in, not even to comment on the biscuit crumbs I wiped off the seat before she sat down.

‘Are you okay, Diana?’ I ask when we stop at the traffic lights. She’s staring at the beach-side of the road, at the kite surfers zipping along the horizon, but I get the feeling she isn’t seeing any of it.

‘I’m fine,’ she says when enough time has passed that I’m about to repeat myself. I offered to call Ollie (‘No, he’ll be too busy at work’) and Nettie (‘All she’s worried about lately is babies!’), but it appears she’s happy enough for me to be around. She says she’s not ill, but she’s clearly not well. And so I’m taking her to see her family doctor.

But when I pull into the parking lot, Diana still doesn’t move.

‘All right,’ I say in a faux jovial voice that makes me cringe at myself. ‘Here we are.’

Finally she moves, but slowly, like a much older woman. She goes straight to the waiting room and sits down, leaving me to report to the desk. This is not the Diana I know. She’s been sad since Tom died, but today she seems almost childlike. She’s much easier to deal with this way, admittedly. But I don’t want to ‘deal’ with her. It’s a shock seeing someone so in control become so . . . helpless.

I report to the desk and then I sit beside her and wait. Diana takes the magazine I offer her but doesn’t open it. I don’t open mine either. When her name is called a few minutes later, I turn to her. ‘Would you like me to come in with you?’

She shrugs, which I take as a yes.

Dr Paisley appears to be in her mid-fifties, plump and smiley, dressed in a brightly coloured kaftan. Apparently Diana has been seeing her for years.

‘Hello,’ she says, sitting at her desk. She swivels her seat to face us and stretches her hand out to me. ‘I’m Rosie. Nice to meet you.’ She looks back at Diana. ‘I heard about Tom, Diana. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What can I do for you today?’

I look at Diana who looks at me. Finally she sighs. ‘Well, I haven’t been feeling myself since Tom died. Which I imagine is to be expected. But Lucy wanted me to come and see you.’

Dr Paisley’s eyes touch mine for a second. ‘You’re right, no one feels themselves for a while after losing a partner. Sometimes a long while. But we need to be keeping an eye on your health through this period, so Lucy was right to bring you in.’

Diana shrugs. ‘Good then.’

‘How has your sleep been?’

‘Broken.’

‘Have you been doing things you normally do? Catching up with friends, seeing your grandchildren?’

‘I had drinks with the girls at the Baths last week.’

‘And how was that?’

Diana looks out the window. ‘It was all right, I suppose.’

As we chat, Rosie wraps a blood pressure strap around Diana’s arm and the machine starts pumping it up. Diana barely notices.

‘Has your mood been low in general?’ Dr Paisley asks her.

‘You could say that.’

‘Any issues with memory?’

‘I don’t remember,’ Diana says, deadpan, and I chuckle.

Rosie asks a few more questions, nodding at each answer as though it makes perfect sense.