I’m not proud of yesterday. I didn’t mean to use that cheap line about going to the police. It came out of nowhere, but I don’t regret it. I’ve always been good at reading a room and knew as soon as Stephanie manifested as the most reserved woman in the world, with a straighter back than my kitchen chairs, that I wasn’t going to get anywhere by being subtle. They were going to bail; it was written all over their faces. And I can’t allow that to happen. This is too big for me to deal with alone. It’s all of our problem.
I get where they’re coming from; honestly. If I could set fire to the letter and never think of it again, I would. Maybe I’d do that if I didn’t love Max so much because I’d be able to set a cheap price for our marriage, valuing it so low that whether or not he had a criminal past was neither here nor there. But that’s not me. I’m going to find the truth, and Priyanka and Stephanie are going to help me.
I’m sitting outside Beechcroft Residential Home, my mother’s care facility, summoning the will to go inside. I’m freezing, the car heater on full blast. My mouth developed wrinkles recently and I’m examining them in the mirror, pulling the skin taut, checking they’ve not got worse. Smoker’s lines, so they’re called—even though I’ve never smoked. Something else to make me look mean and tense.
I wonder if that’s what they thought of me yesterday, especially Stephanie. I don’t know how I didn’t laugh out loud when she sashayed into the room as though it were the Ritz. It’s like someone’s playing a trick on us, putting us together to deal with this. We couldn’t be more different, but then it takes all sorts to make a team. I learned that in netball at school. I was always Center, boundary-less, making everyone’s business my own. Stephanie would be Goal Shooter, not having to run much or break a sweat. And Priyanka... I dunno. Probably on the bench. I don’t mean to be funny but she barely said a word.
I gaze at Beechcroft, a flat cheese-colored building, adorned with hanging baskets of flowers, posters for bingo nights. They make an effort here and everyone’s kind, but still, it’s hard to go inside. I need the human touch, an acknowledgment to make it worthwhile, but Mum never knows whether I’m here or not. That’s what makes it difficult. I can’t help the way I’m wired. Ultimately, I’m a selfish being, just like everyone else.
In that respect, I’m not so different from Stephanie or Priyanka. To them, pursuing this is self-destructive. I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to convince them otherwise. So, why not drop it?
Because I can’t. I’ve always been the same. I was the kid who went through the door marked DO NOT ENTER.
Not only that...it’s rape. You can’t ignore that. The others may think they can, but they can’t, not ultimately.
I pick up the two bouquets of flowers, glitter dusting the passenger seat, and make my way across the car park. I tend to encounter the same faces, and we always do the same thing: ignore each other.
It’s not rudeness. It’s just that no one wants to put down roots here. It’s easier to pretend you’re passing through, even though it’s the fourth time this week I’ve seen that man with the leather Aussie Outback hat.
As I go along the corridor, I think of all the times we walk along in straight lines, carrying flowers: weddings, funerals, hospital wards. You’d have thought by now we’d have come up with other ways to express love and guilt, but the buckets of flowers outside every petrol station up and down the country say otherwise.
I don’t know why I feel guilty about Mum. She doesn’t know she’s in a care home, and it’s the best place I could find. Dad died eight years ago, but if he were here now, he’d approve of my choice.
Yet still, I feel horrible about coming here and especially about leaving. Every Sunday I bring fresh flowers and take away the old ones, throwing them over the wall in the car park. It’s not litter; there’s a convenient compost heap there. Maybe a kindly neighbor knows about the guilt flowers.
“There you go, my lovely,” I say, handing one of the bouquets to Olivia.
She dips her nose inside the cellophane, inhaling. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yeah, but I want to.” It was slim pickings today at the garage. I had to get garish ones. I’ll have glitter all over my face for the rest of the day; so will Olivia.
She’s a sweet girl, too young to be dealing with the sick and elderly, in my opinion. But maybe that’s the best age. She doesn’t take it too much to heart—doesn’t see herself in them.
“How is she today?” I ask.
“Not so good. I don’t think you’ll get much out of her.” She smiles consolingly. “Probably just an off day.”
“Probably.” I glance at the clock above the desk. Normally I like to chat, but today I’m using part of my Mum time to go to Stone’s Storage, so I can’t hang about.
Her room is way warmer than usual; I’m not surprised she’s unconscious. I go to the radiator, touch it, recoiling. Sitting down in the bedside chair, the cushion making its customary sighing noise, I set my bag on the floor and gaze at Mum.
Her hair is wispy, balding, her scalp pink and flaky. I think her hair makes me the saddest; that and the green cardigan—the one she bought half-price. As she snores faintly, her chest shifts rhythmically, her hands crossed over her torso in a way that I don’t like. No one needs to have their hands crossed over them while still breathing. I sort that out right away, then sit back down, cushion sighing.
I do a lot of thinking here. I never bring anything to do. It doesn’t seem right, getting out the newspaper as though in a waiting room. The man with the Outback hat will be doing the same thing, somewhere along the corridor. The whole place is full of middle-aged people like me, on their own, sitting there, pretending not to be waiting.
Today, I’m thinking about my parents’ marriage, as I often do here. I don’t compare it to my own—that would be stupid—but I do think about how it made me the way I am. You don’t want to acknowledge that you’re a product of your childhood because everyone likes to think they’re their own person, forging their own path. But we all know deep down that’s rubbish, and you’re molded for life by ten years old.
I loved my parents very much, had a happy childhood—ordinary. I never went hungry, had friends, boyfriends. It was just that my parents hated each other’s guts. Unofficially. In front of everyone else, you’d have thought they were auditioning for a Hallmark TV special. But behind closed doors, they went at each other like snakes.
To give me my due, I played along for seventeen years and you can imagine that wasn’t easy for someone like me.
I shift position in my seat, looking at Mum, whose snoring has stopped suddenly. Drawing closer, I listen, watching.
The snoring resumes, and I feel so miserable that I go to the window to watch the elderly and their carers outside. It’s sunny today, and I wish I could show Mum the sensory garden and lead her along the path. There’s row upon row of lavender, still in flower, and the smell must be beautiful. But she doesn’t go outside anymore, not since the last stroke.
Dementia and stroke. One would have been enough, surely.
Max was right when he said my parents were to blame for my behavior at those dinner parties, back when I used to try to peck the truth out of people like a greedy seagull. Yet I can’t blame them entirely. In a funny way, they cared for each other. Dad would have told me to put Mum in Beechcroft, no matter the cost. And Mum used to worry herself sick about Dad’s asthma, with good reason so it turned out.
But this just made it all the more confusing for me. None of it ever made any sense. “I bet it never made sense to you either, Mum,” I say, returning to my chair.
I hold Mum’s hand for a while, telling her I love her, hoping she’ll forgive me for leaving her here.
My phone beeps and I pull away to read the message. It’s from Priyanka.
13.48 P.M. >
You haven’t sent me the address?
I meant to, forgot. I’m pleased she’s chasing me—that she wants to show up today.
I reply, and then take my leave of Mum, Beechcroft, Olivia, the man with the Outback hat, and it’s only when I’m out in the car park that I realize I forgot to put Mum’s flowers in water and to chuck the old ones over the wall.