“Veronal, chloral, paraldehyde. A sleeping draft to overcome the ill effects of the digitalis. Bromide to ward off the sleeping draft. A tincture for the headache brought on by the bromide. All this to be washed down by fifteen glasses of milk a day.” You spin round and look at me.

“You know he wants to pull out my teeth.”

I suddenly feel ashamed. I picture myself writing the letter to Dr. Savage, authorizing him to go ahead with his treatment. His description of the pockets of bacteria that gather in teeth and the impact these can have on the nervous system seemed entirely convincing. You open the Hakluyt.

“Thank you.” Your voice is humble, a small child grateful for a favor. I can bear it no longer and hold out my hand.

We curl together on the bed. The walls of the nursing home vanish as we return to a time when we were little girls alone in the night nursery. You are my billy goat, my wombat, my mouse. I stroke your soft silky fur and feel you nuzzle my cheek. Your greedy ape lips are hungry and your teeth nibble playfully at my throat. I reach up and unfasten my dress and your baby mouth suckles my breast. I am your dolphin mother, glistening and sticky from your kisses. I will take you deep into the ocean where no one can harm us.

I walk through the deserted rooms, my notebook in my hand, and stop in front of each item of furniture, each painting, each silver-framed photograph and ornament. I must decide which of these items from our old life to carry with us and which to discard. I have the oddest sense, as I scrutinize each object and make my choice, that I am leaving the past behind. It is as if the process of appraisal peels away the layers of memory. I must disregard the image of Mother that floats into my mind as I consider her chair. The criteria I apply are practical and aesthetic. Is the chair useful or beautiful? If it is neither I resolve to sell it. I refuse to let my recollection of Mother sewing in her chair influence my judgment.

Bloomsbury has become so infamous! At the time, its main attractions were that it had a house we could afford and that it was not in the neighborhood of our aunts. As I look back now I see that moving there was a turning point. Yet I chose it almost by chance.

I cannot get used to the light that pours in through the windows of the new house. I kneel down on the bare floorboards and let it flood over me. I want to bask in it, purge myself in its rays, let its luminosity spur me.