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‘How is that any better than me giving her sleeping tablets?’ It’s the first time either of us has mentioned the pills. So now he knows for certain that I’m aware of the stories he’s spread through the village about me drugging her. ‘And besides,’ I continue, ‘I thought you shared that room?’
‘Some nights I need a break.’ He shrugs. ‘The lock ensures she can’t do herself any damage. You’ve seen how violent she can get.’
Her decline over the last few weeks has taken me by surprise. I assume she’s displaying what the experts call the behavioural and psychological symptoms of dementia. There’s more shouting, screaming and agitation. And it’s awful of me to admit, but I’m a little pleased that Paul is bearing the brunt of these incidents, not me. I’m hoping that any day now, he’ll think ‘Sod this’ and move on to his next sitting duck.
He leaves us, and for the first time in ages, I have her all to myself. ‘Mum?’ I whisper. She is asleep on her back and snoring gently. I notice for the first time how sunken her cheeks are becoming. That’s another sign of dementia’s progression. I approach the bed, kick off my trainers and lie next to her, curling up into a foetal position. My hand clasps hers. She is lukewarm and her skin is paper thin. I hate to think what state she might be in when I return.
I’ve already told her that I’m returning to Italy to work for a few weeks, but I doubt she remembers. I’d hate it if she thought I was abandoning her. Then she unexpectedly opens her eyes and stares at me. ‘Connie,’ she says and I smile at her, delighted she’s recognised me. She smiles back and a warmth spreads across my chest.
‘Hi Mum,’ I say. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Tired,’ she says, ‘I’m sure after a good night’s sleep I’ll be right as rain in the morning.’
‘It is the morning,’ I say.
‘Is it really? Oh. Perhaps I should get up. Bill’s driving me to Saint-Tropez.’
She pushes herself to the edge of the bed and tries to swing her legs over the side but she doesn’t have the strength. I position myself next to her and place an arm behind her back for support. She starts to move again, then stops herself. And I remain where I am, just holding her. Our physical connection chokes me and I push my tongue against the back of my teeth to try and hold the tears back. It doesn’t work. I turn my head to look at her and she rests her cheek on my shoulder.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she says softly. ‘Everything is going to be okay. It always is in the end.’
For the first time since I became her carer, she is the one caring for me. And I feel every bit as vulnerable as she does. I cling on to her and don’t want to let go. But a presence behind us shatters the intimacy.
‘Dr Chambers said she needs bed rest,’ Paul says.
He makes his way towards her and I reluctantly move to one side. He lifts her legs up, manoeuvres her body around and tucks her under the duvet with the efficiency of someone who has done this many times before. Defiant, I remain where I am until he has left and she closes her eyes again and begins to drift away. I lean over to kiss her on the forehead, stroke her hair and tell her that I love her.
‘Don’t forget to let Meredith know that I have Tom,’ she whispers, eyes still shut.
Once again, I have no idea who she’s referring to. ‘Who are Tom and Meredith?’ I ask.
Her fingers move until they connect with my sleeve. She tugs it. ‘Will you do that for me? It’s important she knows.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
I might be mistaken but it sounds like she’s just given a short, sharp laugh. Sleep follows quickly and I stroke her hair again before I’m back on my feet.
The window catches my attention. There’s something different about it. Only when I move closer do I realise that Paul has affixed a reflective film across it. I can see out, but I assume no one outside can see in. I head downstairs with him following behind me and realise every room that can be overlooked by the street or by a neighbour’s home has been sealed from the view of the outside world. I think I want to be sick.
‘Why have you done this?’ I ask.
‘For security.’
‘You mean to stop anyone from seeing what you’re up to.’
Paul shakes his head in mock offence. ‘Where do you get your suspicious nature from? It’s certainly not from Gwenny.’
‘I didn’t have one until you came along.’
‘And remind me, how long did you say you’ll be in Italy for?’
‘Not long,’ I reply. ‘But the neighbours will be checking in on Mum regularly.’
‘How about your social worker friend? Will she be coming back?’
He hasn’t mentioned that visit before but I don’t see the point in denying I reported him. ‘I have her number,’ I say. ‘She takes the safeguarding of vulnerable people seriously, as do her colleagues.’
‘Be assured, you’re leaving her in very safe hands.’
