Short Stories Runner-up: Laura Harper with ‘The Fog’

They sit in the warm room, framed by the window, both looking out onto the calm dark water.

“I have two daughters” he says softly, looking to enter the quiet that had occupied the space between them. He says this as a statement but there is a lingering question to his fact. It’s not clear whether he wants confirmation of this or if he just hopes to start up a conversation, inviting her to enquire further.

When she doesn’t respond, he continues: “They are such good girls, we’re so proud of them. I had a son too, but he died as a baby so I never got to know him. I wonder sometimes which of the girls he would be most like or whether he would just be entirely of his own making.”

He pauses for a moment, turning into the room, looking for something or someone.

“Ali went to church a lot after that and found comfort there, but I never had a faith. I didn’t have anyone to blame or question why.” Time has eased but not erased this heartbreak, so he continues: “I have grandsons now. Two of them. My youngest daughter’s children. They could not be more different.”

He stops and it is clear that he has drifted back into the fog. His concentration’s shifted and he starts to read the titles of the books on the shelf quietly to himself. She nods and tops up his coffee cup from the cafetiere, takes a sip from her own cup, not sure how to respond to this stranger, despite knowing his life story.

“You saved the lives of a lot of children” she reminds him, keen to reinstate a brighter mood. “That time a lady brought her distraught toddler to the surgery and you identified the meningitis rash immediately. You said she was burning up, but instead of getting redder, she turned paler and more withdrawn by the minute. You bundled them into the car and drove them to the hospital yourself.”

He let slip a wry smile at this and she knew what was coming next, that she’d given him an opening, a shaft of light to dive headfirst into.

“I got pulled over for speeding on the way, you know” he boasted.

She couldn’t help but grin back at him and let her shoulders rise and fall with the suppressed laugh at the pride he still took in having gotten caught breaking the rules.

“Luckily, one of the officers had just done her first aid course. When I explained the situation and severity of the symptoms, she recognised them and insisted on giving us a police escort to the hospital. It was so exhilarating driving in the shadow of those blue lights and sirens, snaking in and out of the traffic.”

As though excitement and adrenalin rush of the memory had winded him, he added quietly “made me wish I’d been a paramedic” but in that moment he sounded too tired to drive anywhere.

His gaze shifted to the clutter that had gathered on the table. “I don’t know where they have put my glasses, they are always moving my things, those kids. It really irritates me”.

The sudden bursts of anger still threw her. Not just because they came from a man who had only raised his voice to his own children less times than a handful of times, but because they immediately followed moments of such warmth. The frustration and resentment of being trapped in a body that couldn’t be repaired, just lurking, ready to pounce, to fell you when your guard is down.

This diverted her attention from the room as well. They had raised so much money, the generosity of friends, family, former patients, even complete strangers, had been overwhelming. There had been fundraising walks, runs and bakes but the cruelty of this disease, particularly in choosing someone who had given so much of his life to others, couldn’t be paid away.

The professional life of a GP is rarely sensational but the calm, kindness and compassion he had offered with such consistency had made him popular in the community. He made time for his patients, far in excess of the ever-decreasing time allowance the authorities expected him to be able to complete a full assessment in. It was frustrating for his family that everywhere they went someone would stop and ask him medical questions, at birthday dinners in restaurants or immediately after the school play. These would-be patients dressing it up as a joke and saying “so you don’t think my foot will fall off?” or a concern for a friend. Yet, he would respond warmly “not today but make an appointment to come and see me if you wake up and it’s not there tomorrow – in the meantime, ice it, elevate it and rest it”. He always found the time.

Now time is a concept alien to him. His memory awakens him in different decades with no warning or pattern, a cruel menace played not just on him but on those around him too.

Sitting surrounded by photos taken across the globe, she is glad that he had been so courageous before being so ruthlessly ravished of his capabilities. That as a young doctor he leapt out of his comfort zone and volunteered for Médecins Sans Frontières, travelling to Nigeria in the wake of the war and famine. That they had lived in Bengaluru, India for three years to help set up clinics there to alleviate some of the worst poverty. And, that he had made these memories, even if they only came back to him sporadically.

She smiles at him, desperately trying to blink back the burning tears of mutual pride, anger and sadness that come without warning. He smiles back and tells her: “I have two daughters”. She responds this time, having let him tell one of his stories. “I know Dad, we both love you very much”.

Judge’s Comments:

This is a moving and sensitively observed piece that captures the quiet devastation of memory loss with great care and authenticity. The writer’s use of repetition, particularly the father’s recurring phrase, is especially effective in conveying both confusion and emotional resonance. The tone is gentle yet deeply affecting, resulting in a thoughtful and memorable narrative.