- © 2007 Canadian Medical Association
Martha spends more and more of her time in the woods these days. After all, she planted every tree herself. She runs her fingers over the rough bark of that ancient oak where Lord Samuel and Lady Veronica swore their oath of eternal love. Martha likes the way the breeze strokes her face as she makes her way through the dappled light to the banks of the brook where, amongst those lindens, Samantha first met the Dark Young Stranger whose child she later bore (to her family's undying shame). On the far side of the brook, you'll find the fragrant patch of juniper where Martha can still hear the sticky crimson gush against the green when Elizabeth, deserted by Sir Charles, used his dagger to take her own life.
Many of the residents cry out from their beds in rage or horror as the amyloid plaques and neurofibrillary tangles gnaw at their withered minds. Martha, though, is quiet. Most of the nurses wonder why. But a few of them have browsed the Romance section of that used book store next to the shopping centre and picked up yellowed copies of 1 or 2 of the 73 novels by Martha T. Drummond. They've carefully turned pages brittle as October leaves. And they understand why Martha's quiet, why a soft smile so often plays about her mouth or why a tear hangs against her eye lid. They know where Martha is.