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Caz
Visiting my mother only ever goes one of two ways. There are the days when she can’t wait to see me, excitedly leaping up from her chair the moment I walk in, bombarding me with questions before I’ve even got my coat off, and sharing all the gossip on our street in the weeks since I last visited. Those are the days when her condition is at its worst, when she still believes it’s 2006 and I’m fifteen years old. She’ll ask me about my day at school, and tease me about the boy who sits next to me in maths. She has no idea who Andy is, or that her grandson Kit even exists. If I try to remind her, she gets upset and confused. I’ve learned it’s simpler to go along with her reality, because at least she’s happy there.
Then there are the days when she knows exactly who I am. Those are the days when she refuses to greet me, and turns away when I bend to kiss her. I don’t know which is worse: the bittersweet fiction of her world before the accident, or the harsh reality of a present where she’s locked herself in a prison of sullen resentment and self-pity.
Today, it’s the latter. She’s sitting by the window, staring sourly at the car park below, when I walk in. She doesn’t even acknowledge I’m here. She’s in a wheelchair, although she can walk perfectly well. The accident affected her balance, but otherwise her mobility is fine. The orderlies at the care home indulge her because it makes their lives easier.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, dumping my bag on the coffee table. ‘How are you doing today?’
I don’t expect an answer, and I’m not surprised by one. My mother has few friends, but it’s not companionship or amity she misses: it’s someone to fight with. When no one gives a shit what you think, it’s impossible to wound them. She ignores me because I’m the only one who’ll even notice.
I go over to the small galley kitchen in the corner of her room and switch on the kettle, even though I know she’ll refuse to drink anything I make on principle. ‘Tea, Mum?’ I say, getting out two mugs without waiting for a response. ‘And I brought some chocolate digestives this time, like you asked.’
This finally elicits a reply. ‘I don’t like chocolate,’ she announces, without turning around.
‘Last time, when I brought the ordinary ones, you said you wanted chocolate.’
‘You’ve brought milk chocolate. I said plain.’
‘Sorry about that,’ I say, unruffled. ‘I’ll bring plain next time.’
I make two cups of weak tea, exactly the way she likes it, and put one on the table next to her, then turnher wheelchair around from the window. ‘What do you call this?’ she sneers, peering into the mug as I take a seat. ‘Look at the colour of it. So weak it’s a fortnight.’
‘I can make you another—’
‘Don’t bother. You won’t stay long enough for me to drink it.’
‘Would you like me to stay longer?’
My mother looks up sharply. The unspoken rules of our game mean she can’t admit she wants me to stay, but if she says no, she can’t complain when I leave at the end of our customary hour. Her eyes narrow as she acknowledges the point. First blood to me.
I sip my tea, regarding her steadily over the rim of my mug. ‘Andy’s ex-wife just got a job at Whitefish,’ I say, knowing how much she’ll relish my misfortune. ‘She’s actually working on one of my accounts.’
Mum’s face lights up with sadistic glee. ‘Oh, I bet that’s put the cat among the pigeons!’
‘Don’t talk to me about cats,’ I mutter, still sore about my Peruvian blanket. ‘Turns out my boss on the new account is Louise’s best friend. She tried to get me fired, years ago, when Andy and I first got together. It’s only a matter of time before she gives it another go.’
‘You made your bed,’ Mum says, with evident satisfaction.
‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Married men aren’t fair game, Carol. I told you that when you met him.’
Despite myself, my hackles rise. ‘Don’t call me Carol.’
‘Why not? It’s your name.’
‘Not anymore,’ I snap.
Andy fell in love with Caroline, a Chelsea girl from her pearl earrings to the tips of her Hunter-clad toes. He has no idea where I’m really from, what I’ve had to do to get to where I am. Unlike Louise, Iearnedmy place at the top table. I worked two jobs to put myself through university, and I didn’t just study business management and marketing; I studied the confident, entitled students around me, the way they talked and spoke and ate. I learned to say napkin instead of serviette, and loo instead of toilet; like a latter-day Eliza Doolittle, I picked up my aitches and spoke as if I had a mouthful of marbles. By the time I graduated, Carol was dead, buried deep below her net curtains and royal commemorative plates. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.
Mum reaches for one of the despised milk chocolate biscuits, and I pretend not to notice. ‘Hard man to keep on the porch, that husband of yours,’ she observes. ‘Just like your father. They all leave in the end.’
‘Dad didn’t leave. Hedied, Mum.’
She snorts. ‘Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better.’
I sigh inwardly. Even when Mum is more or less herself, she still has occasional slips into a parallel world, forgetting details and becoming confused. She often insists Dad ran off with another woman. I think it’s more palatable to her than the truth: if he’s alive, there’s still the chance he might come back.
