My mother was propped up on a bank of pillows, staring out of the window, when I walked into her room. I could see that the ravages of her stroke had receded a little more. What that meant for her recovery I would need to ask her doctors, but not now. This meeting was about something else entirely.
All the way down in the car I’d questioned the wisdom of visiting her while I was in my current state of mind. What if I set off another stroke? Each time the question rose in my head I answered: So be it. This was the moment I had to do this, for my own sanity. If her reaction caused further damage to her health – if she became collateral damage – I was not responsible.
The justification of the morally compromised.
‘It’s been a while, son,’ she said. Her words were clearer. They didn’t run into each other as they had when I first visited her, but one of her eyes was still shut and her left hand was still frozen in a claw.
Before her stroke, and certainly since Dad died, my mother appeared to hold everything in tight control. Her short, grey hair was thick and always beautifully cut, her clothes precise. Time had trod carefully around her, imposing on her only a gentle ageing.
But time’s kindness had now deserted her. Although she had recovered somewhat, the stroke had aged her. It was there around her eyes, in the dull grey-white of her hair, the slackness of one side of her mouth, and the tremor in her arm as she tried to hold my hand.
I shrunk from her touch.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, her voice sharp with worry.
‘You must have known this day would come,’ I said. The words were out before I could stop them. All of my carefully rehearsed speeches lost in the sudden wind of my anger.
She looked stunned. ‘What’s going on, John?’ she asked.
‘It’s a process, apparently, Mother,’ I answered. ‘Face your fears. Name them, and they no longer have a hold on you.’
Puzzlement creased her eyebrows, deepening her wrinkles. She opened her mouth as if to question me, her face adopting a benign expression.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Why, what, son?’
I reared back from the title. But, mindful of her health, I fought to keep my tone even. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t call me that.’
She reached out with both hands, looking unsure of herself.
‘You abused me, Mother. Repeatedly, when I was a boy.’ Somehow I managed to keep my voice level, while inside my guts were twisting.
‘What on earth…?’ she shouted, and I was surprised at the loudness of her voice. I didn’t think she had the strength. ‘How dare you—?’
‘How dare I? How dare you?’ I interrupted, each word clipped, my voice deliberately quiet.
‘John, son,’ she said, her voice low in an attempt to cajole me out of my anger. ‘What’s happening? Where’s this coming from?’
‘I remember everything. My new room. The birthday cake…’
‘Pfft,’ she said. ‘You never liked birthday cake. You were such an odd child.’
‘The birthday cake I vomited all over the carpet after you abused me.’
Her voice just above a whisper she said: ‘How dare you come in here and accuse me of such vile things, while I’m lying here in my sick bed? What kind of a man have I raised?’ Her lips were a thin, tight line, her skin puce.
‘A man in your own image, perhaps? How could you, Mother? What on earth could have happened to you that you’d think what you did to us was appropriate?’
‘I refuse to listen to this. Have you gone mad? Or is this where you blame all of your problems on your parents, but conveniently Dad isn’t here, so Mum will do?’ Shaking with anger, she managed to lift a hand to her mouth and wiped at the saliva she’d sprayed down her chin. ‘Is that it, son? Let’s conjure up some false memories and dump the crap on Mother Dearest.’
‘Do you know what it does to you when the person that you first run to for love and safety is the one that you most fear?’ A solitary tear was slipping down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. ‘Yes … I was terrified of you, but I also wanted you so much that the ache was…’ I shook my head as if that would rid me of the memory of that sensation. ‘And don’t try to tell me that some shrink planted false memories, when you provided very real ones.’
I straightened my back and looked away from her. As I did so I noticed a group of photographs on a low table in the centre of the bay window. They were photos that had previously taken pride of place in our house. Someone must have gone in and brought them to her. One of the neighbours, perhaps. An image in the middle of the row snagged my attention. It was framed in silver and showed me having just reached thirteen, filling my lungs in order to blow out the candles on top of my cake. The colour had faded somewhat, but my eyes sparkled with youth and promise. A promise that was to be extinguished as quickly and as callously as I extinguished those candles. I walked over to the window and nudged the top of the frame so that the photograph fell on its face.
My mother took advantage of my moment’s silence. ‘Time for you to go, John. And don’t come back until you’ve got this stuff out of your system. I don’t know what has come over you. I never harmed a hair on your head. I gave you nothing but unconditional love. If your father could hear you now he’d be turning in his grave.’
I turned to face her. ‘How did you keep it from him?’
‘Shut up and get out! I refuse to listen to any more of this.’ Her lower lip trembled and tears shone in her eyes. Her upset was so convincing I almost doubted myself.
‘Please, Mum, please admit it. You need help. We need help.’
‘I’m begging you, Mum. Help me make sense of this. Please…’
‘Get out!’ The sinews on her neck stood out like rope around a maypole as she screamed at me.
At this point the door opened behind me and I turned to see that one of the staff had come in.
‘Please,’ she said to me. Her voice was respectful but I could see in the way she was holding her hands rigid by her side that she was outraged on my mother’s behalf. ‘You have to leave. Your mother is not well. You can’t be—’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ I made my way to the door, feeling animosity bristling from the woman who’d come to my mother’s rescue. Her opinion of the situation was plain in her stare. Big strapping son verbally abusing a frail, old lady. ‘Don’t let appearances fool you,’ I said to her.
When I reached the door I remembered that I hadn’t told my mother everything that I’d intended to, so I turned and faced her one more time. What came out of my mouth next was pure spite, but I couldn’t help myself.
‘Oh, by the way – remember your firstborn? He’s living in Glasgow. And not that you’ll ever see them, but he made you a grandmother.’