Page 56 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

Simon hovers for a moment and it’s so strange to see him hold the hand of a woman I’ve not seen for so long: a stranger. Then he says he needs to phone Diana as she hadn’t been feeling well. He wants to check on her.

‘What’s wrong, not the baby?’ I ask, kicking myself for not asking about her before. I need to get my head back to what’s important.

‘No, I think it’s just the effects of pregnancy,’ he says.

‘Just is a big word,’ I say. ‘Pregnancy wreaks havoc on your body, but I know you’ll be looking after her. Give her my love,’ I add as the door swings closed behind him and I’m alone with Elizabeth Fitzgerald.

I walk over to the bed and sit down in the chair that Simon has just vacated. I lean my elbows on my knees and stare at her, take in the lines on her face, her slack jaw, the way her thin hair is tucked around her ears. I wouldn’t know this woman if she was able to pass me in the street. I can’t imagine this woman sipping cocktails and laughing at jokes that handsome men make. It’s impossible to think that she danced and sang, read me stories when I was a small child, painted her nails and made up her face to always be the most beautiful woman in the room.

I choke back a sob when I think of all the times she has tried to contact me over the years, written letters that other family members passed on, left messages on my answering machine that I would delete before listening to more than her first couple of words. The imagined image of her at my father’s funeral is too much and I lean forward.

‘Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s me, it’s Constance.’

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her lungs desperately trying to keep her alive, but that is the only movement from her body. All of a sudden I have so much I want to say to her. I take a deep breath.

I will never know what Dad did to make you so distant and unfeeling. I won’t know why I always played second place to your friends, shopping and drinks parties. I thought I was quite easy to love and would have been very loving in return. I don’t regret not answering your calls and letters; it was all about self-preservation.

Because, you let me down. When I needed you the most you chose to send me away. I know that you realise what really happened that night, because I saw it on your face before you shut it down, before you decided it was better for all concerned if it was a matter that could be packed away on a train and out of sight.

When I came back from Scotland – I won’t say home because it was clear I wasn’t welcome – that was your opportunity to make amends, to find some way to help your only child and you couldn’t even do that. Throwing cash at me and sending me away again was an unforgivable thing to do to me. I needed you and you couldn’t bring yourself to put me first.

You are so lucky to have had that time with Simon, and you didn’t deserve it. I adore my son with a deep and unflinching love that you could not possibly understand.

This is the speech I’ve run through in my head for years. This is what I wanted to say if I ever saw her again, but now, sitting by her side, I realise that I will have to be the bigger person yet again. And, perhaps I’m not such a bad person after all.

I lean forward and take her hand in mine, careful not to harm the papery skin or catch her wedding ring that hangs loose on her finger. Suddenly a glimpse of a memory works its way into my brain. Me as a small child holding my mother’s hand. We had a game, how could I forget? Three squeezes from her: I Love You. Four squeezes from me: I Love You Too.

A sob bursts up from me and tears come unbidden, flowing down my cheeks in torrents. My mother’s eyes suddenly open. She doesn’t turn and look at me, but stares up, seemingly vacant. I quickly squeeze her hand three times.

‘Mum,’ I say. ‘I love you and I forgive you.’

28

I walk out of her room and back down to the reception area on wobbly legs, my head full of regret and sadness. I don’t get much time to process it though because there are two people sitting side by side on the bank of plush sofas next to the reception desk: Alex and Leo.

They both look up as I approach, Alex’s smile warm and friendly, Leo’s a little more apprehensive. His left leg is jiggling up and down, his hands folded tightly in his lap. Two strangers who have no idea they share a connection.

‘Leo, what are you doing here?’ I say, as lightly as I can. Alex immediately turns to look at him and I see every emotion behind her eyes as she takes him in.

‘I came to see you of course. Simon phoned me to say you were here. I didn’t think you’d come to be honest. I know there was no love lost between you and your family, but it’s wonderful to see you’re here to forgive.’

‘Leo,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t have the headspace for this at the moment. Can I call you tomorrow? I’ve only just got back from my trip.’ I keep my voice as light as I can, the tone you’d use with a friend, just a friend.

‘Ah, yes, your trip. So lovely to give your friend a helping hand. So like you, Connie. You’ve always been such a kind and generous woman. And so forgiving too,’ he adds, in a way that makes me want to shrink. Alex stares at me pointedly; now is the time for an introduction that I don’t want to make.

‘Why don’t you go now, and I’ll phone you tomorrow?’ I suggest, feeling ever more anxious. I don’t want to be in this position where I’m introducing my ex-fiancé to the love of my life.

‘I’m Alex,’ she says, turning and holding out her hand. ‘I’m the friend.’

Leo takes her hand instinctively and there’s a long ten seconds of silence while every wraps their heads around the situation. I’d much rather be back by my mother’s bedside right now. Whatever else Leo is, he’s a very intuitive judge of character. He reads people so easily, apart from when he’s trying to mould them into his late wife, of course. To help his thought process along, Alex pushes her arm through mine, linking us together.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Leo says. ‘So, you’re an artist, I hear.’

‘Yes,’ I jump in. ‘Alex painted the picture of Loch Ness that’s on my living room wall.’

‘Oh? The one that used to be above your bed?’

‘Yes,’ I say, nearly choking. ‘That’s the one.’