“Mom!” I said brightly as I walked in. On some days she recognized me and knew who I was, and on other days she didn’t. But she was never afraid of me, like she was of other people. In fact, on the days she didn’t know me, she always told me what a nice and polite young man I was. Something that I both loved and hated to hear. But whatever her mental state was that day, she always looked the same, and it always took my breath away.
Only a year ago she’d been on her feet, lucid and full of life. Now she was so thin that her skin hung off her bones and her body no longer looked as if it could support life. A lot of the time she used a wheelchair, but on other days she was able to stand and wanted to walk around.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m a friend of yours,” I said. “And someone told me you want to go and see Lucy and the chickens.” She’d named her llama Lucy and always remembered her, even when she was far from lucid.
“I want to see Lucy,” she agreed. “And I need to feed the chickens, or they won’t give us eggs. Daddy says a happy chicken is a laying chicken.”
“Your dad sounds very wise,” I said, going along with whatever she said. She was clearly remembering her childhood today.
“Right then, let’s go.” I pushed her wheelchair towards the door. I’d had a wheelchair-friendly path built right across the garden, so she could still go outside whenever she wanted to. My mother had loved gardening, had loved being outside, and I wanted her to still be able to enjoy those things. I pushed her down the path. The weather was beautiful today mainly because there was a slight breeze cooling everything down. There was a clear view down to the sea and the mountains, and a flowery perfume hung in the air.
“Why are the gladioli not blooming? Has someone not been giving them water?” my mom asked.
“They’re not blooming because it’s summer. They only bloom in winter,” I explained.
“Oh. Why did we become friends?”
“I think we became friends because we like the same things,” I said.
“Like what?”
“We like watching the wildlife channel together, we like jelly and custard, and we like llamas,” I said, listing the things we still did, or ate together. She barely ate, but I could always get her to eat jelly and custard.
“That’s nice, dear,” she said sweetly. She was in a good mood today, which I was relieved about. Because sometimes she spent all day in terror and panic, not knowing what was going on around her.
“Here we go.” We reached the large enclosure that I’d built for Lucy and the chickens. Previously, I’d just let them wander around the garden, but I’d soon discovered that both Lucy, and the chickens, were very fond of sneaking inside the house. Lucy was particularly fond of eating whatever she found in the kitchen. On one specific occasion, she’d caused me to call an emergency vet over after she’d ingested my mom’s entire birthday cake, and then proceeded to vomit all over the lounge and dining room.
Lucy and the chickens ran up to the fence as soon as they saw us. I’d had no idea when getting a llama just how domestic and sociable they could be. They were like dogs sometimes. I pushed my mom up to the fence, passed her some chicken seed and celery sticks and then sat down in the chair I’d put there for myself and the nurses. My mom could simply sit and talk, or even sing to, Lucy and the chickens for hours. They really did bring her happiness, and I was more than happy to sit out here with her for as long as she wanted to be here. While my mom fed Lucy her favorite celery sticks and the chickens frantically pecked at the seed, I pulled my phone out and reread all the messages Ash and I’d exchanged so far. I’d done this a lot recently. She was still as funny as she used to be. No one had ever made me laugh like Ash.
“Where is that lovely fiancée of yours, son?” my mom suddenly asked me.
I smiled at her, so happy that she’d called me “son” that it dulled the pain of that now-familiar question just a little bit. “She’ll be here just now.”
“Good! Good!” she said, and then looked back at Lucy. Her memory was such that sometimes she seemed to remember the events of her life as they were, and sometimes she believed some alternate version of it. One of the ways that played out was with Ash. On some days, my mom knew Ash and I were not together, and on other days she imagined that I’d proposed to her that night with the ring I’d been saving up for, for a year.
I’d planned on asking Ash to marry me that night. We knew we wanted to be together, and had spoken about our future for hours and hours at a time, but in retrospect, at that age, maybe I’d taken it too far by buying a ring. It had definitely added to the overall stress of that disastrous evening. I was a nineteen-year-old kid with a ring burning a hole in my pocket, waiting for the perfect time to give it to the girl I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, while trying to have sex for the first time too.
We’d waited so long to have sex because we’d both had this notion that waiting for the “perfect” moment would make it even more special. We’d seen most of our friends have sex, and none of them had spoken about it the way that we imagined we wanted it to be. It was almost throwaway for them, we wanted it to be different. Special. Perfect. But it had been the opposite of that, because once we’d done all the things we’d already done, and began heading into uncharted sexual waters, I just panicked.
And the fact that my mother seemed to dwell on this exact moment of my failed proposal—and unbeknownst to her, something else that was also failed—so often was unimaginably cruel. Not that she was trying to be cruel—it was just what her mind went to. But still, it was the most painful moment of my life and whenever she mentioned it I was forced to relive that pain. A pain I had tried to ignore for so many years. And when she brought it up, I had to play along. Her psychiatrist had told me to go along with these fantasies, and so I did. Even if it was painful to imagine this alternative reality in which things hadn’t gone so wrong with Ash. A reality where she had a ring on her finger, and we were happy. A house, a dog, kids even. Maybe a llama or two. I tried not to think about it. But it was very hard right now because after thirteen years of trying to push her away, she was fucking back in my life. The thoughts of what might have been with her were coming crashing back. And I was asking myself—was I ready for how it was going to feel to be in her presence again after all this time?
CHAPTER 13
Ash
“Is that the plane we’re going in?” I pointed at the small propeller plane. It was a stupid question, though, and I knew it. The words painted across the side that read “Matobo Hills” were a dead giveaway. But I’d decided to err on the side of unrealistic hope.
“You can only access the lodge by plane—it’s not accessible by car.”
“Right.” I looked at the plane again, but was not reassured. “And this is the plane we’re going in?Thisone?”
The pilot nodded at me.
“And you’re sure it’s safe?”
“I’ve been flying this plane to and from Matobo Hills for ten years. Sure, the ride is a little bumpy at times, but there’s nothing to worry about, I assure you.”
