As long as I remember you

But staying in complete isolation was impossible. Rachel called every day, first with cheerful, detailed inquiries about the weekend («So, how was your escape to Kent? I expect a full report with pictures! Did you find that perfect shade of purple?»), then her voice became light, with feigned nonchalance («Hi, it’s me. Where have you disappeared to? Luca is mumbling something about fatigue and deadlines. Check in, or I’ll start to worry!»), then her messages took on notes of growing, unconcealed anxiety. The last message, received yesterday evening, was short and direct: «Amelia. Something is wrong with you. I can feel it. I’m coming over tomorrow morning. Be home.»

And Amelia understood she had to speak. Not over the phone, not in a text. Face to face. It was a duty of friendship, a final act of strength and trust before the inevitable plunge into the maelstrom of hospitals and examinations.

She invited Rachel over, purposely choosing a time when Luca wouldn’t be home. She needed to do this alone. Like the last line of defense she had to hold herself.

Rachel rushed over, as always, swiftly and noisily. Her sports car purred to a halt by the curb, and a moment later she burst into the hallway like a hurricane, filling the space with energy, noise, and the thick, complex scent of her perfume with notes of leather, bergamot, and something woody.

«Well, finally!» she exclaimed, tossing an expensive coat of an indeterminate grey-green, marshy hue onto the coat rack. «I was starting to think you and Luca had secretly run off to Bali, forgetting all your loyal subjects! What’s happened, my dear? You look…» her quick, sharp, gallery-honed gaze instantly scanned and assessed Amelia’s pallor, the slight tremor in her hands, the dark, bruise-like shadows under her eyes, "…not just tired. You look drained. Is this new project sucking you dry? Or has Lucaš driven you to it with his eternal perfectionism? Talk. I’m all ears.»

She walked into the kitchen, habitually, as if at home, took the jar of her favorite Earl Grey tea – the one with cornflower petals – from the shelf and began clattering cups, filling the kettle.

«If it’s that pompous idiot from the gallery in Whitechapel again offering you to exhibit in a basement with graffiti artists, I’ll go and have a word with him myself. I have a couple of concise but very compelling arguments for him.»

Amelia stood by the large oak table, hugging her elbows as if she were freezing, though the kitchen was warm. She watched Rachel move – such confident, precise movements – and tried to find the words. Any words. They scattered like frightened cockroaches, making way only for a lump in her throat.

«Rach…» her voice broke; she cleared her throat. «It’s not about work.»

«What, then?» Rachel turned around, and her lively, mocking smile slowly faded, giving way to wariness and a slight frown. She saw the real expression on her friend’s face – not fatigue, but fear. «Is everything okay with Luca? I mean… did something happen between you? No, it can’t be. You two… you’re the perfect couple. You complement each other like…» she hesitated, searching for a comparison, "…like a canvas and paint.»

«Luca is fine,» Amelia replied quickly, almost sharply. «Absolutely. It’s me, Rachel. Something is… wrong with me. Has been since the beginning of summer.»

She forced herself to speak. Slowly, with agonizing pauses, stumbling and finding the thread again. She told her about the first, barely noticeable lapses – the numbness in her fingertips, as if she’d slept on her hand. About starting to drop brushes, tubes, cups. About the strange vibration that suddenly appeared in bright colors on her palette, especially in cobalt blue, which would start pulsating like a living, blinding, red-hot ember. She told her about the visit to the GP, the referral for the MRI, the terror of the confined space and the deafening thunder that still echoed in her ears. And finally, about the cold, sterile office of Dr. Reed, about his dispassionate, measuring voice listing terrible, impossible, alien words: «neurodegenerative,» «progressive,» «rare disease,» «symptomatic treatment,» «unknown etiology.»

She didn’t cry. She just spoke in an even, monotonous voice, looking somewhere towards the window, where a fine autumn rain was falling slowly, lazily, turning the street into a shiny, wet canvas.

When she finished, a deathly silence hung in the kitchen. The only sounds were the ticking of the old wall clock with a pendulum left by the previous owners, and the hiss of a car passing outside, its tires swishing on the wet asphalt.

Rachel stood motionless, the porcelain teapot frozen in her hand. Her face, usually so lively and expressive, instantly reflecting every emotion, became a mask of utter disbelief and mounting shock.

«This is… this is some monstrous, absurd mistake,» she finally breathed out. Her voice, usually so resonant and confident, trembled, grew quieter. «They know nothing. These doctors… they see hundreds of patients a day, they hand out diagnoses left and right, you’re just another case to them. You’re stressed! Chronically overworked! You work too much, you take on too much! You’re a perfectionist, for God’s sake! You could have that same neuropathy from a pinched nerve that… what’s his name… Reed talked about! Yes, he said it himself – there are manageable conditions!»

«I can’t smell your tea, Rachel,» Amelia interrupted her, quietly but very clearly. «I know it’s here. I see the steam rising from the spout. I see the color – dark, amber. But I can’t smell it. Not a bit. And your perfume… your favorite perfume… I can barely smell it either. Only a faint, flat, papery echo.»

That simple, terrible, irrefutable statement hit its mark like a knife thrust. Rachel slowly, as if in slow motion, put the teapot down on the table. Her slender, always so confident hands were trembling slightly. She took two steps towards Amelia, hugged her with such strength, such desperate tenderness, that it took Amelia’s breath away.

«No,» she whispered into her hair, and her voice broke. «No, no, no. This can’t be. This mustn’t be. You… you’re made of sensations! You live by them! You see right through the world, you feel it with every pore! It’s your essence! Your core! Without it, you’re not… without it…»

And that’s when Amelia broke down. For the first time since the moment they had stepped out of Dr. Reed’s office on that cold, bright day. In the embrace of her friend, who now smelled to her only like a faint, fading echo of bergamot and the warmth of her own skin, she wept bitterly, inconsolably, with a child’s helplessness. She wept for herself. For the self that, just a couple of months ago, had run barefoot through a lavender field and felt every stalk, every grain of warm earth under her feet, every sunbeam on her skin. She was mourning herself.

Rachel didn’t utter empty, comforting words. She didn’t say «everything will be alright.» She just held her, tight-tight, rocked her like a small child, and her own cheek was wet with silent, bitter tears.

When the storm subsided a little, replaced by muffled, hiccupping sobs, Rachel led her to the living room, sat her down in a deep, cozy armchair by the (cold and empty) fireplace, wrapped her from head to toe in a soft, heavy camel-hair blanket, and brought her the very tea that Amelia could not smell.

«What does Luca say?» she asked practically, sitting down opposite on a low pouf and looking her straight in the eye, wiping her own wet cheeks with the back of her hand. Her commercial acumen, her ability to solve unsolvable problems, was already awakening, suppressing the initial panic. «What’s the plan? What is he proposing?»

«He’s looking for the best specialists in the world,» Amelia’s voice sounded tired and hollow, like that of a person after a long illness. «Writing letters, calling, arranging consultations in Oxford, Zurich, Boston. Ready to fight to the end. Says he’ll be my eyes and hands, my memory. As long as he breathes.»