Smothering Monday

Smothering Monday

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been born; but I suppose that would have been a high price to pay, and not even an adequate revenge because, come to think of it, she wouldn’t know the difference. If I’d not been born, would she have had another child? Would I be, or even am I, that other child? Was there another embryo somewhere in the universe that sneaked a peek into its own future and backed out, leaving me as the substitute, the understudy, the spare?

She scowls at me.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mum?’

‘Yes please. Black. Two sugars and a biscuit if you’ve got one.’ My hands almost tremble. My lips almost say, ‘You’re my mother. I know how you like your tea!’ but instead I smile. ‘Ah, yes. I remember, and I’ve got the custard creams you like.’ I busy myself around the kitchen, enjoying the opportunity to not make eye contact or scrape the dregs of a conversation from our shallow puddle of common interests. I hand the cup to her and sit beside her on the settee.

‘You’re not having one?’

‘No Mum, I had a drink earlier.’

She takes a sip. ‘Not poisoned, is it?’

Her words slap me into triple personalities: No Mum, don’t be silly. No Mum, that’s not even funny! Yes Mum, I always poison your tea, it’s just slow-acting. I settle on, ‘Not this time. How are the biscuits?’ She’s brushing crumbs off her bosom onto the settee. There’s a blanket across it, so it’s not a problem. I can shake the crumbs off later.

‘Mrghy nishe. Fank you.’ Her eyes are darting around the room, searching for familiar things. ‘Where’s my, my, ummm…’

‘What’re you looking for?’

‘My table. What did you do with it?’

There’s a stirring in the pits. I’ve met this demon before. I think I can deal with it. ‘What table, Mum?’

‘My table. My dining table. Where’s it gone?’

‘What’s it look like?’

She gives me a long and detailed description as her memory recreates family meals and gatherings. Games of cards and scrabble and even a week-long puzzle had hogged its surface in times past. The table takes on a noble history seldom borne by four legs and collapsing sides of laminated chipboard. I enjoy her journey until finally, ‘What have you done with it!’ It’s not even a question.

‘Oh, yes. That one. It’s in the study. I'm using it as a desk, remember?’ I was sure she wouldn’t. ‘I told you. You thought it was a good idea.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s all right then. I thought you’d got rid of it.’

‘Nah! That’s a nice table. Did you want it back? You can have it if you want it. I expect we can get it into your room. But I'd be a bit upset. I was very happy when you gave it to me. I use it all time.’

Her face struggles with the possibility of taking her table back. It will never fit into her room at the nursing home, but… ‘No, I just wanted to know. If you like it, you can have it.’ She smiles, knowing that she has bestowed a great gift – yet again. ‘I’m glad it’s being used.’

We slip into silence. I’m trying to enjoy the lack of repartee, but this is like peace, merely a lull between wars. It won’t be long.

‘I haven’t seen Sabby since I’ve been here.’

‘I think she was in here before you had your tea. Wasn’t she sitting on your lap? Remember, she leapt off when…’

‘Oh yes. But since then. I haven’t seen her since then.’

‘Mum, that was only ten minutes ago. Tell you what, I’ll go and look for her.’ I bounce off the settee, grateful for the diversion. Outside, the air smothers me, the humidity cramps my lungs. I tap the cat’s bowl with a spoon and she appears instantly, crooning and crying. She’s a cute animal but with a god-awful screech that sets my teeth on edge. A nagging bundle of need. I scoop her up and she purrs in expectation, but I hurry her into the kitchen and plonk her on Mum’s lap. Like a child on a trampoline, she springs off and claims the centre of the floor, licking a paw as she considers her options.

‘I don’t think she wants to sit on your lap.’

‘You probably frightened her. Sa-abby, do you miss your mummy?’

‘I think she misses her food more. She never stops eating.’

‘I’m glad she’s alright. I thought you’d had her put down.’

‘Whaaat?’ This time she’s shocked me. ‘I wouldn’t do that! Well, not unless she got sick. What made you think that?’

‘You told me. You said… you said you’d put her down!’ She’s started to cry. I take her hand and wrap an arm around her. She holds me for a moment, then reaches for a tissue, effectively shrugging me off.

‘Mum, no. I wouldn’t do that. You must have dreamed it. That’s all just a dream. Look, she’s fine.’ The cat had finished licking her paws and walked off out of sight and away from the drama. She’s sitting by the back door. I pick her up so Mum can see. ‘She’s here, by the back door. She needs to go out. I’ll put her outside, okay?’ Mum nods. The cat purrs, expecting food. I drop her outside and before she can complain, shut the door.

Mum pulls her cardigan closer and scrapes at the biscuit stain. ‘I’m glad I wore my cardigan. It’s cold today.’

‘I’ll turn the air conditioner off. How’s that?’

‘Much better. It’s all that noise and I was in a draught. When can I go home?’

‘Well, I have to get you back by five o’clock. That’s the rules. Dinner is five o’clock and they like you back before then. So, we will have to go soon.’ I know from experience that it will take half an hour to get her from the kitchen to the car, ten minutes to drive her to the home, and another ten to get her into the dining room, possibly longer for toilet visits and gazes into the middle distance.

‘I mean home in my house. Where I used to live.’

‘Oh Mum, we sold that years ago! That was over five years ago. You lived with me for five and a half years. Don’t you remember? You fell over and Kirsten found you unconscious in the back garden with a broken back and you had to live with me. You were wearing a brace and I had to dress you and help you walk and shower and everything for six months and we decided you couldn’t live on your own, so you came to live with me.’

‘Oh yes. I remember that. What did you do with the money? I suppose you spent it?’

‘Of course I did! Can’t you see all the jewels, gold and silver, the fast car in my garage and the long luxurious holidays I go on? Ha-ha. No, it all paid for your room in the home. Those things are expensive you know. Your room cost as much as your house. Then there’s the cost of everything else…’

‘What happened to Kirsten?’

‘She lives in a home too, now. That’s what happens to old ladies eventually. She couldn’t look after herself so she went to live in a home where she can be looked after.’

‘I can look after myself!’

‘Oh, really. Do you cook, clean, go shopping, do the washing…?’

‘There’s a lady comes and does that. We all get that.’

‘Well, that’s called ‘caring for you’. Because you can’t do it anymore.’

‘I used to do it. I did it all and I drove a car. I drove on the wrong side of the road in Germany.’

‘I remember. You were wonderful. But you’re old now…’

‘Thank you very much!’

‘How old do you think you are?’

She considers this for a while. How old she is doesn’t matter. Birthdays are of no interest. Her days are regulated by meals, tea and amusements, all quickly forgotten as irrelevant. The old days when she climbed Tor Hill with her sister or courted my dad are far more pertinent. ‘I dunno. Sixty-something?’

When you are young, sixty-something is as old as it gets. ‘You are eighty-six!’ I announce. She nods.

‘I suppose John’s gone? What about Mary?’

‘Both gone. You’re the last one. You’re the survivor. Congratulations. That’s because you are cared for. Speaking of which, it’s time I got you back. We need to get going.’ It’s a little past four. We just might make it in time if we start the ten-minute journey now.

‘But I haven’t seen Sabby!’ she wails. Clouds roll inside my head. Thunder presses behind my eyes. A flash of rage blinds me.

‘MUM!’ She jumps in fright and cringes as if I had hit her. ‘Mum,’ I whisper, ‘Mum, you just saw me put her outside. Just a minute ago. She jumped off your lap, washed herself, then she went to the door and I put her outside. Come on. We have to get moving.’

‘But I want to see Sabby. I want to say goodbye to her. She loves her mummy.’

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, nostrils flaring. ‘I know what. You go to the toilet, and I’ll find her and bring her back inside for you to have a cuddle and then I can take you home.’ I’m careful to call The Home, home. I never call this place home, it’s always ‘my place’.

She struggles up out of the settee. I don’t help her, I just watch, ready to catch if she topples. While she can still do things, she must. Already she has lost so much. In the home, she watches TV with her friends. She doesn’t know their names or what they talk about, but they are friends because they sit together.

Outside, the air hangs sullenly across the garden. Sabby rushes out of the bushes and screams for food. Mum hasn’t even reached the bathroom yet so I have time to give her half a sachet. She purrs and sucks up the gelatin slop that I have squeezed into her dish. As she looks around for more, I hear the toilet flush. I fuss the cat, take my time and stroll back inside.

‘There you are! I was wondering where you’d got to. How’s mummy’s big girl?’

I broaden my smile while an old irritation elbows me; I’m her daughter, but the cat is mummy’s big girl. I hand her over for a pat. Sabby puts up with it for about thirty seconds, then struggles to get out.

‘Bye-bye, Sabby. See you next time,’ she calls. She turns to me. ‘Why can’t I stay here?’

I’m prepared for this. ‘Because they will miss you at the home. You have friends there. They will worry if you aren’t there. And I have to go to work. There will be nobody here for you.’

‘I’ll have Sabby.’

‘Yes. But if you fall over, she can’t pick you up or call an ambulance. They care for you at the home. That’s why you live there. That’s where all the old ladies go.’

‘You’ll end up there one day,’ she snaps.

‘Yes I will. And I will do my best to enjoy it, as you should. I’ve even picked out which room I’d like.’ I’ve chosen the one on the second floor above the path. A quick lean over the balustrading, wide concrete below…. Not too difficult. ‘Now come on, they will be dishing up soon.’

‘I have to say goodbye to Sabby.’

‘You just did. She’s there, by the door. Say goodbye.’

‘Bye-bye darling. Mummy will be back soon.’ I manage to shepherd her into the car, cram her walker into the boot and drive away. Everything I do is automatic, muted, careful. A smile plasters my face. Voice so jolly, I could be selling something…

‘What are you smiling about? Glad to see me go, I suppose?’

I smile, smile broader, croon, ‘I’m hoping for rain, so that I won’t have to water the garden. It looks like rain. What do you think?’

She squints out of the window. ‘Looks like rain,’ she agrees. ‘Better get me home before it starts.’

I realise as I park the car that I’ve had a little victory! She’s just called this place home. Fingers crossed!

We drag our way through the humidity to the front door. It’s locked, but I know the code and we get in easily. I know the short cut to her section, cutting off a corner by going through a door marked Do Not Enter. ‘Come on. I can smell the food. Yummy!’ She follows me like a tortoise; I take five steps and wait. She ponders behind, looking at walls, no doubt wondering how they stay up?

The door to her apartment building opens and a refreshing blast of cold air greets us then rushes past like an excited pack of dogs, eager for freedom. Eventually, she steps inside and looks around. Her friends ignore her, already negotiating their dinners. I take her to her seat.

‘This is my place,’ she informs me. ‘I always sit here.’ I help her sit, push her walker to one side and kiss her cheek.

‘Okay, I’m going now. I’ll see you on Friday. What day is it today?’ I ask her.

‘Is it Friday?’

‘No, this is Monday. I always see you on Mondays and Fridays. I’ll come and collect you and take you to my place for a visit. So you can see the cat.’

‘How is she? You haven’t had her put down, have you?’

‘No. She was sitting on your lap, remember? Now I have to go because she will be wanting her dinner. I’ll see you on – what day?’

‘Monday?’

‘No, I’ll see you on Friday. What time?’

‘In the morning?’

‘Three o’clock. It’s always three o’clock when I come. It’s written on the board in your room. You just have to read it.’

‘Three o’clock. How will you find me?’

‘I always find you. Now you eat your dinner. I have to go. See you, Mum.’ I give her a last kiss on the top of her head and leave quickly before she asks another question. I needn’t have worried; she’s already concentrating on the cutlery.

I push the green button and step outside into the smothering humidity. Thunder rolls. It explores the horizon in one continuous rumble. The sky lights up with an enormous flash and the thunder bombs the suburb! Rain finally sheets down, and I am soaked just half a dozen steps out from the entry.

My car is on the far side of the carpark. I dance all the way.