MONDAY: Wet Brain

BY JAIME GILL

Copyright is held by the author.

“Suzie.”

“Suzie.”

“Suzie.”

Your voice rises with each repetition. I lower my book and force a smile.

You’re sitting in brace position like they teach on airplanes — leaning forward, elbows on knees, head lowered. Your frown pulls your eyebrows down, smoothing your forehead. You briefly look like a man I met 23 years ago. His overweight uncle, maybe.

“I didn’t drink today, did I?” Your eyes shimmer. No. No tears, please. Not tonight.

“No, Pete,” I say. I’ve taught myself to think positive thoughts when I lie — you’re oddly good at detecting insincerity. I think of the walk I took earlier. Just a stroll by the grey, wind-whipped North Sea, but freedom is freedom. “You did well today.”

“Really?” I can picture you as a little kid being told the monster was only a dream.

“Really.” I don’t let my eyes slide towards the empty cans accumulating by your armchair. I don’t want you to notice them.

You lean back and the armchair groans, like it’s suffering. Which will give out first — the chair or you? I’ve tried controlling your weight gain, but whenever I leave the house, you gorge. It’s not your fault. The doctors say your body probably signals that it’s full, but the message gets scrambled in your short-circuited brain.

You return your attention to the TV, face drooping like melted candle wax. I see no past versions of you now.

I try reading again but tonight’s one of my sad nights. The angry nights or fuck it nights are better, it’s easier to block you out.

It’s really not your fault. Neither of us had heard of Korsakoff’s Syndrome, this alcohol-related dementia, before your diagnosis. Before it dismantled your memory and left behind a box of loose jigsaw pieces — most broken, many missing.

Drinking so recklessly for all those years was someone’s fault, of course, but he fled the scene of his crime long ago.

You’ll get up soon, drag yourself through to the kitchen, return with another beer. I buy a six-pack every day. Enough to prevent withdrawal, not enough to risk your life or my safety. Rehab’s failed three times. They wean you off alcohol, release you, and within days you’re in a pub, forgetting why you shouldn’t be.

Some call Korsakoff’s “wet brain”. A cruel but true term. You drowned yourself and now I live with your ghost.

I do have options. Our daughter brings brochures when she can bear visiting. They call it residential care now. We used to say old people’s homes. But you’re not old, though you look it.

I can’t. Not yet.

Instead, I survive on my escapes — books, walks, occasional cinema outings. I feel less lonely sitting by myself in front of a big screen than I do here with you.

I finally find my way back into my novel, but, a few pages later, hear your fretful voice.

“Suzie.”

“Suzie.”

“Suzie.”

***

Jaime Gill is a British former music journalist, now working for nonprofits across Southeast Asia. He writes, reads, runs, boxes, and occasionally socialises. His stories have appeared in Missouri Review, The Forge, Sun Magazine, Trampset, Fractured, Pithead Chapel, and others. He’s won multiple awards, including a 2024 Bridport Prize and the 2025 Luminaire Prose Award, and been a finalist for the Tennessee Williams Prize and Bath Short Story Award. He’s a three-time Pushcart nominee. No pets or children, but he’s keeping a few houseplants alive, just about. He’s writing a novel, screenplay, and more short stories. Website—www.jaimegill.com. Newsletter—www.jaimegill.substack.com