‘Yes, Mum. It’s me, Nina.’ Looking around, she realised that the single unshaded bulb – the only source of light – was behind her head, meaning that her mother could only see her silhouette. Nina circled the table, moving into a position where her face was in the light. ‘See, Mum? It’s me.’ But she couldn’t reassure Helen, who leapt out of her chair and veered between the benches, a trapped bird trying to flee. Unable to calm her, Nina tried to contain her.

Standing in the doorway watching, Ronnie started to cry, then stopped. He looked through his tears, aghast at his nanna’s behaviour. Here she was, a full-sized adult needing care and attention! His nanna, a full-sized adult having a meltdown! He couldn’t say, but must have felt, that he was being upstaged.

Nina made a snap decision. She couldn’t manage them both, and she judged Ronnie to be the more capable. ‘Go outside and play,’ she told him, even though it was already dark. He looked at her, astonished, but did as he was told. He went outside with his frisbee (a lightweight, travel-friendly toy). Nina tried to calm her mother, but when the frisbee bounced off the neighbours’ fence it set the dog barking, further agitating Helen.

‘Where’s Ronnie?’ she asked. ‘I can’t find Ronnie. I don’t know where – I’ve lost him.’

Ronnie was the one person she never failed to remember, thought Nina.

‘He’s outside playing, Mum. He’s fine.’ God, why was Brent so late?

Helen wouldn’t be consoled, no matter what Nina said or did. She flailed, wheezed, cried, and started hyperventilating.

And then finally Brent was home, coming in through the back door. Standing framed in the doorway, with the weight of his laptop bag dragging at his shoulder, he looked handsome, even heroic, in a creased sort of way. He sized up the situation, saw the state Helen was in. ‘Right, hospital,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right. It can’t be.’

They all went to the hospital together. To Ronnie, this part of the crisis was a big adventure. Off to Emergency, a waiting room with hard plastic seats, a triage nurse, quite stern, other children to inspect. Two nurses came out with a trolley, and with some cajoling and manhandling got Helen onto it. Then the doctor, a slim woman with a tic in one eye from fatigue, examined Helen carefully, looked over her file and prescribed antibiotics.

‘UTI,’ she said. ‘Urinary tract infection. These infections make them crazy.’ She grimaced before adding, ‘With this kind of Alzheimer’s, there’s no gentle forgetting, is there?’

No, there was not, thought Nina.