Obliquity

1. n A mental deviation or perversity.

Claire was listlessly channel-hopping when her mum’s odd behaviour caught her attention. Mal, a septuagenarian, had climbed onto her feet, perched at the edge of her orthopaedic-armchair, thrown her shawl over her head and was fidgeting erratically with a box of felt-tips.

Claire watched with curiosity as her mother removed all the pen lids, mixed them up, then replaced them again in such a way that the lid colours no longer represented the colour of the ink inside.

“Having fun there, Loopy-loo?”

Her mum had always been an oddball though. In fact, the whole family, including Claire’s dad, Brian who had passed away abruptly two years ago, were the sort of family that ‘normal’ people would describe as ‘eccentric’ while over-enunciating the adjective and miming derisive finger quotes in the air.

Claire ought to have been more concerned though. This wasn’t the first ‘incident’, and these sudden attacks of restive angst were becoming more frequent. Mal had her own suspicions too. There were things she couldn’t explain, flashes of weird memory and periods of blackout.

Claire flicked the channels again, arbitrarily stopping on a rerun of a Bruce Springsteen concert when suddenly, as if triggered by a hidden signal embedded in the music, Mal stood up, walked to the centre of the room, and began to dance.

“Mum? You’re such a weirdo!”

She continued to dance, carefree, and then, while swaying to the beat, the spry seventy-one-year-old started to undress. She unbuttoned her cardigan, let loose her shawl, and allowed both to fall from her shoulders. Her blouse and skirt were next and by the time Claire looked up to see what she was doing; her mother was almost naked. Claire stood urgently.

“Mum? What the hell are you doing?”

“Aren’t we lucky we got these tickets?”

With a Cheshire Cat grin Mal tugged at her daughter’s sleeves, coaxing her onto an imaginary dance floor.

“Can I tell you a secret?” She whispered, “You’ve got to promise you won’t grass me up though! Brian is bringing a strip of acid for us to share!”

“Mum, you’re scaring me!”

Panic was rising but Claire dug deep and with persistence, she eventually persuaded her mum to sit down, then she fetched her a large gin to stupefy her while she quickly called 999.

They shared a forty-minute ambulance ride and a further three hours in waiting rooms, before the various tests were administered and results validated. The neurologist gave his diagnosis.

“Marylin…I’m afraid our tests confirm that you have Alzheimer’s Disease.”

His silky-smooth voice was comforting, “but life doesn’t have to end with this diagnosis.”

He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a brand-new, cellophane wrapped Moleskine journal, and handed it to Mal.

“Take it!” he nodded, “You might not understand now but trust me; this little life-line became a treasure map to hidden memories for my mum.”

2. n A non-parallel plane.

I wake with urgency, forced awake by a hidden internal agency, like an ancient biological warning system. It threatened danger if I didn’t listen. I can’t explain why but I believed it with unwavering faith. I open my eyelids, try to observe, to collect data, but I don’t recognise this world. Nothing. Karma of a misspent youth?

Perhaps there is something I recognise, I’m just not sure how to explain it. An empathic emotion? Mother’s intuition? Then it hits me; I do know where I am. I’ve felt this before, and I’ve only ever felt it here. I’m inside the Obliquity.

It’s just…I don’t remember what happened last time I was here. I try to look around, but my senses are so hard to decode. I smell movement, hear colour, feel the heat of time passing. Suddenly there is a voice. It tastes of motherhood. Three words are born.

Two. Bloodline. Dartboard.

There must be an entity before me, and that must be its name. The Two-Bloodline-Dartboard is speaking, but I don’t recognise the language.

“I don’t understand.”

I tried to speak clearly but what came out was a trifle recipe from the 70’s. Angel Delight. Tinned Mandarin. Hartley’s Strawberry Jelly. Whipped Cream. Ladies’ Fingers. I need a decoder to understand this world – need a map to find my way.

As I think ‘map’, vibrant colours burst forth, unlocking an old memory within me. I try to flesh out the memory and start to hear Frank Sinatra singing. I can picture that handsome young doctor. He called me a marvel. That was nice. Was he in love with me? No. It felt more childlike, as though he was fascinated by me.

“There’s no scientific precedent for your Synaesthesia.”

That word feels like holding a slippery trout.

“And there’s no immediately obvious relation to your Alzheimer’s”

Wrought Iron. The smell of mud.

“No synesthete has ever developed this many sensory pathways links. Never in medical history. You’re a miracle.”

Old woman blushing. Bed springs. Bubblegum flavour.

“Obviously this is no quality of life though, and I promise I’m going to do everything I can to help treat this, but I need you to promise me that you will populate your journal at every given opportunity. Fill it with sounds, smells, feelings. Create roadmaps to your memories.”

Journal. The word echoes like the stacks in the British Library. I can reach out and touch it. It’s in my fingertips. I turn over the first leaf. Page two. The smell of bleach. A picture of a house is glued to the page. Two-Bloodline-Dartboard! It was never an entity. I feel weightless as the journal carries me on a river of memory to the image. Room two, Dynasty Alzheimer’s Residential Trust.

3. n A divergence from the course ahead.

“How is she today?” Claire asked as she passed the nurse in the corridor.

“Good. Your mother’s feeling lucid but I should tell you that…”

Claire continued down the corridor before the nurse could finish but her warning became obvious soon enough. Claire opened her mother’s door revealing two other visitors in the room. Her mum was lying down in her bed and directly across the room, there was an officious looking man in a suit gazing out over the grounds, but confronting her immediately, standing face-to-face, was a distant memory she didn’t expect.

“Sean? What the fuck are you doing here?”

He was dressed in scruffy jeans and an oversized t-shirt. Even now her estranged middle-aged brother still looked like a teenager.

“Keep your knickers on Sis. Mum invited me.”

“Well, you look…” she searched for a neutral adjective, “well rested.”

“You too. What’s it been? Fifteen…Sixteen years?”

“Nineteen! You still dealing drugs?”

He smiled wryly but chose not to continue the repartee. Claire took a breath. She felt ambushed so she turned to her mother for answers. Mal sat upright, a firm pillow between her back and the headboard.

“I’m sorry sweetie but if I’d told you, you wouldn’t have come.”

“What’s this all about Mum?”

The man in the suit turned around.

“Why don’t we all take a seat and I’ll try to explain,” he said, pointing to the three waiting-room chairs, positioned around Mal’s bed, “Your mother has instructed me to execute a Pre-death Agreement, or PDA. It works much the same as a will, but they’re a popular choice now for those with degenerative conditions such as…”

He realised he was about to be impolite and stopped, then there was a moment of awkward silence.

“Well, they’re not doing this after I’m gone,” Mal scoffed, “I want to see your faces when I give you my gifts.”

This was all too frank and sudden for Claire and she started to cry.

“There’s no point crying sweetie,” said Mal, candidly, “we all know what’s going to happen.”

She gestured to her solicitor to continue, and he began reading from a document in front of him.

“With the executive authority of Ms. Marylin Susan Dexter, henceforth addressed as ‘the client’, in the presence of ‘the client’, Miss Claire Sydney Dexter, and Mr Sean Peter Dexter, I hereby execute the pre-death agreement of ‘the client’.”

A quiet fell in the room.

“To my beautiful daughter, Claire, I bestow my most valuable possession; my memory journal. I hope it reminds you of the beauty in the everyday.”

Claire wiped away her tears. She met her mother’s gaze and together they spoke silently.

“Sean. I regret that we left so much unsaid and I want you to know that I bear you no ill-will. To you, my son, I bestow what is left of my life savings, the total sum of twenty-thousand dollars.”

“You what?” Sean said, dumbfounded.

Claire nearly fell off her chair. She tried desperately to disguise her disappointment, but she couldn’t, not from her mum. Mal started laughing inappropriately.

“How odd. You know sweetie, your avarice tastes like salted popcorn.”

4. n An intentionally obscure statement in speech.

Mum was weird. She was the oddest, kookiest most eccentric person I’ve ever met, so it was no surprise that she’d fall ill with a medical condition that was previously unknown. Around the same time as the Alzheimer’s, she developed a strange sensory broad-church; the first ever diagnosis of what they called, Sudden Dynamic Synaesthesia.

She was a fiercely independent woman which, as a young girl many years ago, I saw as cold-hearted. She wasn’t an easy mother to love-back either, but I grew up believing that sometimes she didn’t even like me, let alone love me. Then, four months ago, she reinforced my doubts at the reading of her will, which in very mum fashion, she arranged to happen whilst she was still alive.

To my brother, the once criminal, and life-long pariah, whom she hadn’t seen in two decades, she bequeathed every penny she had. Whereas to me, who had bathed her and fed her for months, she bequeathed this journal. I thought it was a practical joke at first. I was furious with her until I learned why.

Finding the right memory to share was…challenging. I kept coming back to the same family holiday. I was seven. Dad, Mum, Sean and me, together, camping – but my recollection was too matter-of-fact. Too utilitarian. Did she remember that time?

In a cardboard box, at the bottom of my wardrobe, under the dusty photo frames, was the answer I had been too ashamed to look at until now. I untied the string, unwrapped her plaid shawl, and took her journal in my hands, then I flicked through to some resonant pages. Suddenly I could taste marshmallow and chocolate, smell cowpats and rain. It was visceral. Tactile. The colours on the page started dancing and David Bowie’s China Girl started blaring through an invisible, crackly-sounding, car stereo. I was there. It was real.

I tried referencing other memories and each time I was submerged in vivid colour, sound, taste and smell. Enlightened, I realised the book she bequeathed to me was so much more than a map of her memories; it was a magic-spell which gave me access to meta-senses and meta-emotions. It was the most valuable artefact on the planet and to my shame I almost threw it in the skip with the rest of the house-clearance. To my shame she had to watch me resent her.

What is a eulogy supposed to be? A celebration? A farewell? I’ve never really known. However, it seems immoral for me to keep that magic to myself, so before I come away from the lectern, let me ask you all to picture a poignant memory and whilst you do that, I will describe a special page in her journal. Don’t be scared. Don’t try to control it. Just let it happen.

Ready?

Felt-tip – Avarice – Obliquity.