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‘Fine.’ Megan sagged under the weight of the crockery. ‘I can take a hint.’
Beth laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
Connie left them to it.
She passed by the lounge door and noticed her mother crouching on the floor, with the contents of her handbag emptied out in front of her. Her mother was frantically searching through the items.
Connie went over and knelt beside her. ‘What are you looking for, Mum?’
‘The thingamajigs,’ she said, sounding confused.
Despite being eighty-four, Doris Emerick could roll around on the floor like a five-year-old. She’d been blessed with a body unravaged by age. It was remarkable. Shame her mind hadn’t fared so well.
‘Can you be more specific, Mum? What is it you need?’
‘You know… the thingamajigs.’ Her mum’s cheeks were red and she was getting flustered. Being unable to recall basic words you’d once used so effortlessly was a cruel twist of the mind. Made worse because her mum was with-it enough to know what was happening.
‘Purse? Hanky? Lipstick?’
‘No.The thingamajigs. You know, for opening the whatchamacallit.’
‘Corkscrew?’ Although why her mum would be carrying a corkscrew in her handbag, she didn’t know.
‘No, the… the…’ Her mum’s upset was increasing.
‘Keys?’
‘That’s it! Keys.’ Relief flooded her face. ‘I can’t find my keys.’
Connie picked up the keys, which were right in front of her. ‘Here they are, Mum.’
‘Oh, bless you. You found them. What would I do without you?’
Good question.
She kissed her mum’s powdery cheek. ‘Put everything back in your handbag now. Dinner’s ready.’
A loud bang reverberated from the kitchen.
Oh, hell. What now?
‘Mum!’ Alex came rushing into the lounge. ‘I’ve had a bit of an accident with the potatoes.’
And this was her life post-Kenneth. The shitty ‘after’ version. A stress-filled, mournful existence, whereby she’d reverted to being everyone’s slave. Running around after them, worrying about money and feeling aggrieved. Cheated. Powerless. Abandoned.
Yep, her ‘after’ life was a steaming pile of crap.
Fifteen minutes later, having rescued the potatoes from the kitchen floor and burnt her hand on hot fat, they were seated at the dining table eating lunch. Not that she had much of an appetite. The gaping hole ahead of her, where her husband used to sit, was another painful reminder that their once tight-knit family unit had been blown apart. A husband who up until six months ago had been her everything, but who now wanted a divorce.
The knot in her stomach contracted. It sat there, heavy and solid, an indication that all was not okay. Outwardly, she looked the same. Inwardly, she was in torment.
She pushed her plate away. The dark grey walls accented by white woodwork seemed to close in on her. The expensive marble fireplace no longer filled her with pride, and the large silver mirror hanging above the mantelpiece merely reflected the image of a sour-looking, depressed woman. Even the large double window that bathed the room in light offered no comfort. The room felt cold. Lacking. Like everything else in her life.
Not that anyone else seemed to notice.
Her family – what was left of them – were tucking into their food. Oblivious to her suffering.
Her elderly mum was staring at her plate, frowning at the carrots, like they’d committed some awful sin. She looked small and frail these days, like a doll. A well-kept doll, mind you. Her white hair was always set, her cheeks were rouged and her lips were pink. The emerald-green blouse she wore was pristinely ironed and she appeared to the outside world to be in ‘good nick’. Yet her mind kept short-circuiting, dulled by age. Some days it was worse than others, but it was becoming more noticeable as the months passed.
