Fasoláda
Koula, 69
Perth, 2015
It was time to call the priest. Koula scrolled through her phone and found Father Spiro’s mobile number. She called and it rang out, so she left a message.
Koula dolloped three spoonfuls of blueberry Greek yoghurt into a bowl and tossed a handful of muesli on top. She ate it while skimming through the morning newspaper, waiting for the fasoláda she’d made for her mother to cook on the stove.
After breakfast, she had a shower, dressed, poured the soup into a large Tupperware and drove to the nursing home. When she arrived, she could barely recall driving there. Koula had gone back and forth so many times she felt like her car went there and home on autopilot. She rubbed her eyes and promised herself a coffee from the cafeteria after she’d seen her mother.
Koula had never wanted to set foot in a place like this or send her mother here. It was expensive for what it was. The lemon-coloured paint was unglamorously peeling off the walls and the grey carpet was stained in obvious places. Most of the staff were overweight with nicotine-stained fingers and raspy coughs. The worst thing was that there was always that smell of overcooked food, something indeterminate fried in a bad type of oil or cheap animal fat, lingering at all times of day.
Even when Koula bought fresh roses from her garden, the stems wrapped in silver foil, and deposited them in her mother’s crystal vase, the room still smelled like that horrible food. Yesterday she’d brought a new bunch of roses from home. They blossomed from the corner of the room, next to a photograph of two of her beautiful grandchildren, Clara and Sam. Their smiling faces covered in vanilla ice-cream. American vanilla ice-cream.
When it wasn’t the season for roses Koula had bought expensive fragrance sticks from a gift shop. The ones that stick out of a bottle in all those different scents – French vanilla, musk, spring garden bouquet. Even with the room full of those scents with all their fancy names, it still retained the stench of overcooked food.
Koula shook her head and exhaled as she held her mother’s hand. Her mother’s bones were poking out; she had loosened skin that didn’t fit on her skeleton. Koula reminded herself not to think about skeletons. Not to think about the next part.
Her mother’s veins seemed to be on the outside of her body. Koula checked her own hands. They were heading in the same direction. Koula’s own body was already creeping outwards. She didn’t like thinking about all the ways her body had let her down. It had softened, it had creased, everything had prolapsed (oh, she despised that word). It had all gone bad. She would be seventy next year. Time was cruel, but the thing was – you either get old and crumble, or you die young, still someone’s child. Like Mary.
Koula sighed out loud. She couldn’t believe that her mother was in this awful place, but it had all got too much for Koula. Sia had been living in a ground-floor bedroom in Koula’s house, but she needed constant supervision. Koula couldn’t stay home with her all day, and she had often come back from going out to find her mother walking around outside barefoot wearing only her skin-coloured underwear, picking up rocks, digging holes under trees and looking for her buried treasure.
‘There is treasure, Koula. It’s not for you or Athena. It’s for Clara,’ she insisted.
‘Well, Clara is only five years old and she’s in America. So she won’t be finding your treasure or visiting your island anytime soon.’
And then the next day, and the next, the same thing.
Sometimes Koula drove Sia to the yoghurt factory so she could watch the yoghurt being poured into the tubs. It was somehow soothing to watch the production line. Sia loved the repetition, the flow of milk into the pots, the motion.
Sia could sit there for hours watching it, and sometimes she would fall asleep. But then, one day, she decided to go into the line and rearrange a few things. Evan was cross, but he had always had a soft spot for Sia. Koula was furious.
Koula wanted to visit Athena soon, but she couldn’t leave Sia in the house by herself. And Evan was always at work. Still, after all these years. After all that yoghurt. Sometimes she would be in the supermarket and see people choosing the yoghurt. It was worth it, having a successful business. But everyone thought it was Evan’s amazing commercial acumen. He was the one who was celebrated in all the newspapers. He kept winning awards. It’s a family business, he said. Right.
They had money, but there were some things that money couldn’t buy, even in Australia. Good retirement homes. She had tried having nurses come to the house but Koula didn’t trust them. She didn’t like leaving them there unattended. All the good stuff was locked away, but she didn’t like the idea of it. What if they went upstairs and started going through Koula’s jewellery box? What if they found the safe?
One day after a neighbour had delivered Sia back to her front door (she had been picking lemons off their tree), Koula had Chrissie over for a coffee while they watched Sia in the backyard. Chrissie gripped Koula’s hands and said ‘Koula, the woman needs a nursing home. If you only listen to me once, let this be it.’
And that was that. Koula decided to send Sia here. Summer Glades. The best grape on a bad bunch. The other choices were worse, Koula reminded herself. A lot worse. But there was nothing redeeming about Summer Glades. The best thing about it was the glossy brochure with the serene-looking old English ladies having a tea party. The worst thing about it was everything else.
Koula stroked her mother’s hand. She still wore her thin yellow gold bracelet with her máti. It was the tiniest burst of colour in the otherwise dull bed. Her pale skin next to the grey blanket, folded over with its pleated edge. Maybe Sia’s máti had worked? She had survived a war. She had come to Australia with her aunt. Sure, her husband had died early, but she had Koula, grandchildren (all boys and Athena) and a plethora of great-grandchildren. Even though Clara and Sam were in New York now.
Oh, Athena. Koula’s parenting had worked with the boys but not with her.
Why hadn’t she married someone that Koula had suggested at the very beginning? It would have saved Athena so much trouble. That Richard was a nightmare. Athena was always going to make life harder for herself than it had to be. She didn’t want things to be easy. She wanted to create some ridiculous challenge for herself to prove – what? Why was Athena in New York? Why was nobody else sitting here with Yiayia Sia while she was clearly close to the end? When Koula’s aunt died, they had all sat together – Koula and her mother Sia and her Thea Tasoula, holding hands. Koula was pregnant with Athena then.
Her mother’s eyes fluttered beneath the web of lines.
‘Mama? It’s Koula. Would you like some fasoláda?’
Was there a glimmer of recognition or was it her imagination?
‘Can you tell Trina that I’ll look after the baby?’ she said in Greek.
‘What? What baby?’
‘Her name is Koula,’ her mother said. ‘I’ll look after her. Oh, I’m in pain. It hurts.’
‘What? No, Koula is your baby. I’m Koula. The nurse is coming now.’
‘You must not tell Koula,’ her mother said, grimacing. ‘I promised Trina. I promised her.’
‘The nurse will come soon and give you some pain relief. And I made you soup,’ Koula said, pressing the button again. Where were they?
‘Don’t tell Koula,’ her mother said.
Koula smiled and nodded. Nonsensical circular thoughts. Conversations from years ago. Sometimes she talked about Koula as if she was not her baby, as if she had been given to her by her sister, Trina, who had died when she arrived in Australia. Her mother’s mind was all mixed up the way people’s brains get at the end.
And Koula often thought about Athena, how they would never be like this. It would never be the same. Athena wouldn’t be here for Koula’s last breath in this world. She would be at an art gallery, wandering around with a glass of champagne, worrying about whether her life had enough purpose and if she had experienced enough art. That was who Athena was. She would never sit all day in a nursing home. Koula knew she was destined to die alone. Possibly with Evan? No, he would be at the yoghurt factory. There would still be one more thing that had to be done.
‘Where’s Koula?’ her mother asked, looking right at her. ‘Where’s my daughter? Who are you?’
‘Koula went out for a coffee. She’ll be back soon,’ Koula said, lamenting that there was nobody around to witness her joke. Even Athena would have found that funny. Or cruel. Or both. Where were those nurses?
There was a knock at the door and Dorothy, the nurse in charge, stomped in, wheeling the trolley.
‘How’s our lovely Sia this morning? And Koula, how are you?’
‘Morning, Dorothy. Oh, not well. She’s wincing in pain every few minutes. I’ve called the priest. He should be here soon.’
‘Okay, the doctor said we can up the morphine,’ said Dorothy. ‘Is there anyone else coming today? How’s your daughter in New York? Is she coming home?’
‘Oh, probably. Probably, soon. I think my sons might both come after work today.’
‘You’ve been here all day every day. You might need a break too,’ Dorothy said and wrote something down in her clipboard. Koula exhaled.
‘Well, I was just about to go to get a coffee,’ she said, standing and smoothing her skirt in front.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you want one?’
‘No thanks, Koula. But thank you for asking. I’m loving the yoghurt your husband brought us. That was wonderful. Delicious.’
‘Greek vanilla?’
‘Vanilla swirl.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Koula said, nodding. ‘That’s a good one.’
‘Go and get a coffee, Koula. We’ll do the bed bath and give her medication,’ said Dorothy the nurse.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ Koula said to her mother, giving her hand a squeeze as she stood up. The smell of cooking, starting up from somewhere, wafted into the room. Koula sighed and shuffled out the door.
Koula followed the labyrinth of corridors towards the cafeteria, past men and women, in their rooms, eating, sleeping, mumbling. They had their names on the doors. Sia was the only Greek one here. They all had names like Elizabeth Smith and Albert Jones.
The cafeteria was empty except for an older man sipping a cup of tea, holding it with both hands and looking out the window to the scrubby garden outside. Everyone else had things to do. Jobs, children, life. That was the problem with this place. It was a waiting room for death.
The cooking had already started though. Its smell accosted Koula. She wished she still had a paper fan in her bag, like the one she used in church, all those years ago. It would really come in handy right now.
Koula ordered a coffee from woman who looked like she’d worked here her whole life. Takeaway coffee. This was more Athena’s thing. Koula had never liked takeaway coffee. She liked sitting down, actually having a coffee from a cup and saucer. Taking the time to drink it. Not doing a million things while she carried it around London or New York.
Athena. Mama.
Nothing had happened in days. Koula had been here. Sitting, waiting.
Evan had sometimes come so she could go home and have a break. The boys were busy with work and with their own families. Sometimes her daughters-in-law came in with fruit and cupcakes, but they would get upset and leave.
Really, it was Athena who should be here with her. She had called her and told her.
‘I can’t come, I’m sorry. You know I’m anxious about coming back because of the kids – and it’s just not a good time for me,’ she said. Not a good time for Athena. Nothing was ever a good time for Koula. Having three children was not a good time for her. Having a daughter who lives in New York was not a good time for her. Having a husband who was still busy at work after all these years is not a good time for her.
Koula dialled Chrissie on her mobile.
‘How’s it going, Koula? You want me to come and sit with you? Or make dinner for you?’ Chrissie asked. ‘I just put a píta in the oven. I’ll leave some of it at your door.’
‘No, no, no. It’s fine, Chrissie. It’s fine.’
‘How’s she going?’
‘Still in pain, still going, but I’m not going to leave her. I don’t want her to be alone when she goes, you know? I just don’t know where the rest of my family are. Where is everyone, Chrissie? I bet they’ll start caring when it’s time to hand out the money.’
‘Oh, Koula. Everything’s always left to you,’ said Chrissie. ‘Where are those sons of yours? When is Athena coming back from America?’
‘She’s not coming.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Koula felt some comfort from Chrissie’s words, her sympathy with Koula’s position. Chrissie was a good person. She understood responsibility and obligation. Chrissie’s daughters always did what they were meant to. They had both married nice men with good jobs. They were always smiling and taking the grandchildren to Chrissie’s house for afternoon tea. Neither had ever planed to move to New York with a man they hardly knew. Chrissie’s daughters had never even been overseas without Chrissie. Koula thought that was a good thing.
It started early with Athena. First, she had wanted to go on exchange to France. She won some kind of prize. So after a huge tantrum, they sent her to France to stay with a family who they didn’t know. Chrissie’s daughters never won prizes to go overseas. Koula wished Athena had never won that prize. She wished that her daughter wasn’t so fascinated by the world outside Perth. Thinking that it was somehow better. But she had always thought that. From the day she returned to Perth after France, Athena had changed and not in a good way. She was always dreaming of other places, making up plans to leave.
The sad woman finished making the cappuccino and passed it to Koula. Koula thanked her, although she would have preferred her coffee to be made by one of those young bearded guys with the tattoos. Even though she detested tattoos and fretted about intravenous needles, they always seemed to make good coffee. Why was that?
Koula slouched into a chair and flicked through the local paper but the words blurred together. She sipped her coffee and then felt the pull of her mother’s bedside.
Koula stood up and stretched, holding her coffee and purse, and started walking back to the other end of the retirement home, to her mother. The old man with the tea was gone. The cooking smell was stronger now.
She did not want to end up here. She must make sure of it. Must write it down somewhere or tell Evan. She wanted to stay in her own home. When she couldn’t cook for herself anymore she would rather eat frozen meals every night than come here and smell that cooking and sit in one of those rooms again. Especially not if she was being spoonfed. And who would do the spoonfeeding? Evan? Ha! He would need to leave work for more than twenty minutes.
That was why you had daughters, so you would have someone to look after you later. Your daughter was not meant to live on the other side of the world with her older second husband and your grandchildren, who now had American accents, in that God awful city.
Her phone rang – an unidentified caller.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ said Athena. ‘Are you okay? How’s Yiayia Sia?’
‘Oh, Athena! My phone doesn’t recognise your number. Are you calling from a different number?’
‘No, your phone always does that for international calls. You say this every time.’
‘Athena, Yiayia Sia is very unwell. It won’t be long now. We are trying to make sure she has enough pain relief, you know. It’s been terrible. You should come.’
‘Are you with her now? Can I speak to her?’
‘I just left to get a coffee. I’m walking back now.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘At work.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t come. You know I can’t come back right now.’
‘Athena, I need you to come.’
‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’
‘Not as sorry as me,’ Koula raised her voice and pressed the red circle to hang up. That child.
As Koula turned the corner, she saw Dorothy the nurse standing at the front of her mother’s room. Her face was pale.
Breathless, Koula walked inside and saw her mother. But there was no shudder of breathing. She was still, lifeless.
Koula had missed it. She hadn’t been there.
Koula started to sob and grabbed her mother’s hand, holding it to her mouth, ‘I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry.’
Koula had missed that final moment. Getting a coffee for herself. Talking on the phone to Athena. And Athena should have been here with her.
Her hands shaking, she sent Evan a text. Then she collapsed on the chair and watched the nurses thump around, filling in paperwork.
Her mother was there but not there. Her skin folded back against her body. Her eyes closed forever.
Could she ever forgive herself for not being there at the moment of departure? Could she ever admit that she wasn’t? Apart from the nurses, would anyone know?
Her mother, her dear mother, was no longer here. Koula thought of her whole life and Sia was in almost every frame. She had looked after her and cared for her and helped Koula with everything. She had done so much for Koula and Evan. Wanted them to have more opportunity, a better life.
Sia had helped Koula with the boys and Athena. She had cooked and cleaned for money. She had done everything in the background to help set up the yoghurt business.
And, most importantly, Sia had a good heart. She even helped strangers. That lady married to the football player. That child had survived. Koula still kept in touch with the sister.
Sia had wanted Koula to marry someone nice who would be kind to her. Sia had been so pleased that Koula had married Evan. She was convinced that Evan was a lovely man from a good family.
Her mother had taught Koula everything about cooking. How to bake fish, roast lamb, roll Easter biscuits, scorch butter for piláfi, make sugar syrup to pour over baklavá. Everything. Koula realised that this was stuck with her, this knowledge. Athena couldn’t make a piece of toast. Maybe Athena’s daughter would be the cooking one.
It suddenly seemed so brief. As if Koula’s whole life with her mother had been compressed into a handful of memories, of thoughts, of recipes. And everything they shared was never going to be replicated, was never going to be known by anyone other than Koula.
They had never even been to Greece together. Sia would never return. Sia’s sister, Eleftheria, had died, and after that Sia couldn’t bear to go. She had talked of going and then gotten scared and made Koula cancel the trip. And anyway, Koula could never prise Evan away from the yoghurt factory to go on a trip. They went to Singapore once for five days, but no further.
Koula loved her mother. As she clutched her hands and sobbed, she already missed her. And she hadn’t even been here at the end. What kind of a daughter was she! But, no it’s alright, she told herself, she was here now and she had been here for nearly seventy years. They had had all that time together.
And now Koula would sit and wait for the priest (where was he?) and make sure everything was done properly. They had been on a long journey together, Sia and Koula. And now it was over. Koula couldn’t stop crying. She was shaking. She needed Evan.
As the nurses fussed around, she realised that she could finally smell the flowers she had brought in the day before. The scent of the roses. Their garden perfume. Yes, she could smell them.
Koula took a deep breath. Maybe that had been her mother’s last moment. The smell of fresh roses in a quiet room before a long, dark journey to meet up with her parents and sisters. Maybe it was okay.