Chapter Nine

WHEN I WAS SEVEN, my mother went to the doctor’s, feeling unwell. She took the bus because she has never learned to drive. After she’d been gone for nearly two hours, my father received a phone call from the surgery receptionist, who said that my mother was suspected of having measles and that she was being held in isolation until someone could collect her.

When my father and I arrived, we were directed to the far end of the corridor, and a room off to the left. It was painted white, although the bright, fluorescent lights made it seem almost blue. Along each wall ran a line of cupboards, their surfaces clear. Each cupboard had a black plastic safety lock looped around the handles.

Mother sat on a metal chair in the centre of the room. She still wore her coat, and held her handbag on her lap. Held it as though she would never, ever let it go. Her skin looked grey.

There was a moment before we crossed the threshold when I remember thinking how small she looked with all the whiteness around her; like a child at school whose parents have forgotten to collect them.