I am intrigued. ‘You mean she’s making up stories?’
‘In a sense. Except she doesn’t know it. Confabulation isn’t lying. Your mother believes she’s telling the truth. With many patients there is some truth, mixed with fantasy. It’s like her brain is playing tricks on her.’
‘What is she saying?’
‘Different things. She talks about your sister a lot. She says loving things and then . . . other things.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘It’s quite ridiculous. Sometimes she says she is trying to kill her.’
‘But Rose hasn’t seen Mum for more than ten years.’
Teresa laughs. ‘It sounds stupid, but in the moment, she believes it. The best thing is to not make a fuss and just try to keep her calm.’
‘What else does she say?’
‘Lately she’s been talking about a little boy called Billy.’
I feel myself stiffen. ‘What did she say about him?’
‘She’s brought it up a number of times. She says that Billy drowned. Or apparently drowned. But it was actually murder.’ She laughs sadly before I have the chance to react. I glance back through the door at Mum.
‘She was getting herself quite upset,’ Teresa says, needlessly.
‘What should I do?’
‘The best way to handle it, in my experience, is to act as though what she is saying is true and you are taking it seriously. Most likely, she will then forget about it and move on.’
‘Okay.’
Teresa smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Fern. I know it sounds strange, but honestly, confabulation is very common. In a few minutes, she’ll have forgotten the lot.’
I look back at Mum, still dabbing her eyes. But what if it’s not confabulation? I wonder. What do we do then?
*
That night, Rose and I make spaghetti bolognaise. I wear the goggles Wally gave me while I chop the onion, and I don’t cry a single tear. Rose rolls her eyes at me, but I don’t care. I like wearing them.
‘I saw Mum today,’ I say to Rose as I dice.
‘Hmm?’ Rose pauses from grating a carrot and fiddles with her rose bracelet. ‘Ugh. This clasp is driving me crazy.’
‘You need to fix it,’ I say. ‘We’re not supposed to ever take them off.’ The only time we’d ever taken them off, in fact, was when I’d got them adjusted to fit our adult wrists, as an eighteenth birthday present to us both.
‘What did you say about Mum?’ Rose asks.
‘Oh. She was talking in sentences,’ I say. ‘Actual sentences. She’s been having electromagnetic therapy. It’s the new speech therapist she’s been seeing.’
Rose stops fiddling with the bracelet. ‘What is she saying?’
‘She can repeat things that Teresa says–’
‘Who?’
‘Her speech therapist.’ I feel a whisper of irritation. ‘You would know if you’d visited her.’
Rose blinks. For a moment I think she’s going to argue with me but instead she says, ‘So she’s repeating things?’
‘Yes and she can ask for a drink, say she’s hot, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh.’ Rose turns her back to me, slicing the top of a zucchini.
‘Teresa also said she mentioned Billy, Rose. And murder.’
Rose keeps her back to me, but she becomes still.
‘I’m worried, Rose. What if someone suspects something?’
Now Rose turns. ‘Well, what did Teresa say? Did she seem concerned?’
I shrug. ‘She says confabulation is common among patients with acquired brain injuries.’
‘Confabulation?’ Rose’s bracelet falls off her wrist and clatters against the floor. She swears under her breath.
‘She thinks Mum’s brain created a story. She says it’s common for people with acquired brain injuries.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
Rose exhales. ‘Of all the things Mum could talk about with her new-found speech. She really does have a gift for ruining our lives.’ Rose bends over and picks up the bracelet.
I hesitate. ‘Rose?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Was she really a bad mum?’
Rose looks at me. ‘You know she was.’
When I don’t respond, she looks aghast.
‘Fern, she neglected us terribly. She dragged awful boyfriends in and out of our lives. For god’s sake, she overdosed on pills leaving us without even one parent who could care for us!’
‘You’re right.’
‘Hallelujah.’
‘But . . .’
‘But nothing.’ Rose groans.
‘I get the sense that she’s sorry for what she did. I think she loves us, Rose.’
Rose throws up her hands. ‘Agree to disagree, then. I know that you want to have a relationship with her, Fern, but trust me, she’s not a good person. There are things you don’t understand.’
Rose waits for a response from me, so after a few seconds, I nod. After all, there must be things I don’t understand. Because as I look back over my memories of Mum, at least ninety per cent of them are good.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
As I’ve been reliving my childhood in excruciating detail for this damn journal, walking down Memory Lane – or Nightmare Avenue – has brought back all kinds of details, in vivid technicolour. But my therapist doesn’t want me to skip over anything – not a single thing – including the night that everything changed, and the hours leading up to it. So . . .
Fern didn’t talk to me the day after she saw Billy and me kissing . . . She made basic conversation (‘Pass the tomato sauce’, ‘No thanks, I don’t want to go to the river’), but things were frosty enough that even Mum and Daniel noticed something was up.
‘What’s going on with you kids?’ Daniel asked over lunch.
‘Nothing,’ the three of us said in unison.
‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked.
‘Yep.’
That was our line and we were sticking to it, at least where Mum was concerned. But even in private, Fern wasn’t talking. It was strange. I was starting to get the feeling that I was right when I suspected Fern liked Billy. And now she was mad at us.
‘Come on, kids, snap out of it,’ Daniel said, finally. ‘It’s your last night. Go swim. Go on. Off with you.’
We tried to protest, saying we were tired, but Mum and Daniel were adamant. I think they wanted some privacy.
We walked to the river in single file. Billy got straight into the water, keen to get away from the obvious tension. I sat on the riverbank beside Fern and waited. One thing I knew about Fern was that she wouldn’t talk until she was ready.
After an hour had passed and she still hadn’t talked, I felt nature call. Billy was showing no signs of getting out of the water – splashing and swimming and swinging from the rope – so I headed deep into the trees. After everything that had happened, I didn’t want Billy seeing me pee. It was slow going; it was dark and I was barefoot – I had to watch every step I took.
When I returned to the river, Fern was gone.
‘Fern,’ I called. ‘Fern! Where are you?’
It was strange for her not to be in the spot I left her. It might have been that, combined with the fact that I was a worrier, that put me instantly on guard. ‘Fern?’
‘Here,’ came a small voice.
And then I saw her, illuminated by a patch of moonlight in the shallows of the river. She was standing eerily still.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked. There was something about her facial expression . . . it gave me a bad feeling even before I saw what she’d done.
I took a step toward her and she lifted her hands. Something rose to the surface of the water beside her. A sliver of pale, unmoving flesh.
‘Fern,’ I whispered. ‘What have you done?’
FERN
Time passes. It’s one of the few things in life that I can rely on. The library is my solace. Once my colleag
ues recover from their initial shock at my pregnancy, their questions about the paternity of my baby cease and they are extremely supportive. Gayle knits me a pair of baby booties and Linda gifts me a bunny-rug. Carmel purchases me a book of 10,001 baby names. I haven’t told anyone yet that I’m not going to be the one naming the baby, or putting booties on it or wrapping it in a bunny-rug. It feels like the sort of thing that I’d be better off waiting to tell them. If I tell them at all.
At home, Rose vacillates between pestering me – about what I am eating, how much I am working, whether I am exercising – and pampering me. Last night, for example, I came home and found Rose on her knees setting up a foot spa for me – ‘to relax, after being on your feet all day.’
Owen, Rose tells me, is finishing up his contract and will be back in time for the baby’s birth. I’m looking forward to having him back, and it’s clear Rose is too. She thanks me, profusely and often, for giving her her life back. It occurs to me that this is exactly what I wanted to do for her in the first place – give her a baby and restore her relationship with Owen. I don’t understand why it doesn’t feel as good as I expected.
Every day, I think about Wally. I don’t pause to think about him or ‘allow’ myself to think about him, he’s merely in the periphery of my every thought, like the smoky edges of an old photo. He’s there every time I stare at someone, every time I arrive somewhere fifteen minutes early, every time I put in my earplugs or put on my goggles. Every time I feel a movement in my belly. He’s part of everything.
Every now and again, after Rose has gone to bed, I hop on the iPad and search his name. I usually only ever get hits for old articles about Shout! But one day, when I’m about seven months along, a new article about him pops up, along with a photo. He’s wearing his navy suit with the tapered pants. His hair is combed with a side part again and his glasses are new and he looks positively terrified. The article is announcing FollowUp, his new app, the headline declaring that he has ‘smashed back onto the scene with an app that makes Shout! look amateur’. I don’t read the article, I’m too taken by the photograph. I touch the screen, half-expecting to feel the stubbly skin of his cheek under my hand. Then, after checking that Rose is nowhere to be seen, I lean forward and kiss the screen, right where his lips are.
*
I survive the next couple of weeks mostly thanks to Rose – who feeds me, cares for me, even ties my shoes when I can’t reach. When I become too pregnant, Rose offers to shave my legs. It is hard to describe the intimacy of this. I can’t imagine having anyone in the world but Rose do this for me. Nor can I imagine the alternative – leaving them unshaven. In this way, as well as many others, my sister holds the key to my sanity (even though I never gave it to her).
Owen’s return is delayed, and then delayed again. In the meantime, Rose and I busy ourselves with what she’d previously deemed to be ‘Owen’ tasks – such as assembling the crib and the changing table and painting the nursery. I relish the opportunity to be busy to take my mind off the baby, Billy, Mum, Wally – all of the things I’ve lost or am losing.
In the ninth month, I’m still working at the library. With all the excitement of my impending delivery, Rose seems to have abandoned her quest for me to give up work and rest around the clock, which is great, even if I do spend more time than usual in the secret cupboard. It’s tiring, the third trimester. Aside from the Braxton Hicks contractions I get periodically, my legs have become quite swollen and I get terrible pelvis pain if I’m on my feet for more than an hour or two. Carmel doesn’t seem to mind it when I disappear, she doesn’t even ask where I am anymore. It’s funny how at first I’d thought Carmel was so different from Janet, but now, as it turns out, I think they would have liked each other quite a lot.
One morning, at the library, I find myself making small talk with Gayle. It starts out normal, with her asking me how I’ve been – a question that I’ve always found difficult to answer. Usually I ignore this kind of question, pretend I didn’t hear, but today, on a whim, I decide to indulge her.
‘Are you enquiring after my physical health, Gayle?’
She appears to think about this, as if she herself isn’t entirely sure. After contemplating for a few moments, she says, ‘I suppose I’m asking if anything of interest has happened to you lately?’
‘But how am I supposed to know what is of interest to you?’
Gayle thinks again. ‘You know, that’s a good question. Perhaps you can tell me if anything of interest to you has happened lately.’
I think about this. ‘Well, let’s see. I read Kelly Rimmer’s new novel, The Things We Cannot Say, over the weekend. I thoroughly enjoyed it.’
Gayle beams. ‘I read her last one and loved it. It must have been out last summer because I remember sitting outside on my garden swing with a gin and tonic while I read it.’
Before I know it, Gayle and I have discussed gin, garden swings and her new herb garden, as well as Kelly Rimmer’s other books, and none of it has felt like a chore in the least. The fact that we are focused on our work as we talk assists with this, I believe. We are still chatting comfortably when the automatic doors slide open.
‘Isn’t that your sister, Fern?’
I glance up, instantly annoyed. Rose hasn’t been back since the last time I told her it wasn’t convenient, and I’d thought she’d got the message.
‘Rose,’ I say, before she can speak. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m working.’
Rose shoots a look at Gayle. ‘I know. But this is important. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?’
‘At home,’ I suggest. ‘Tonight?’
She shakes her head. ‘Now, Fern.’
Rose and I appear to have come to something of a stalemate. I let out a long sigh.
‘Go into the courtyard,’ Gayle whispers. ‘I’ll cover for you.’
Carmel has been so lenient with me lately that I’m not sure I would need anyone to ‘cover’ for me, but I appreciate the sentiment, so I don’t point this out. Instead, I thank Gayle and head outside to the courtyard with Rose. As we walk, Rose peppers me with inane questions about my day, the weather, if Gayle has recently changed her hair, and by the time we reach the courtyard, I’m feeling a little uneasy. Rose doesn’t typically make small talk with me. She knows I dislike chatter for chatter’s sake and the rapid fire of today makes me wonder if something is wrong.
‘What is it, Rose?’ I say.
Thankfully, Rose doesn’t draw it out. ‘It’s Mum.’
It is perhaps the very last thing I expect her to say. Rose doesn’t impart information about Mum to me, it’s the other way around. Rose hasn’t seen Mum for years.
‘What . . . about Mum?’ I ask.
I notice Rose’s face is unusually sombre. ‘I just had a call from Sun Meadows.’
This is odd. Why would Sun Meadows call Rose?
‘Why would they call you?’
Rose looks a little sheepish. ‘I’m Mum’s emergency contact.’
I stare at her. I have been visiting Mum every week for sixteen years and Rose is Mum’s emergency contact?
She takes a long deep breath. ‘It’s not good news, Fern. Mum . . . she died.’
I hear the words. I understand them. And yet, I feel . . . nothing. I become oddly aware of all the sounds around me. The birds in the nearby tree. My breath whooshing past my ears. My heart beating.
‘There aren’t many details yet,’ Rose says. ‘They will probably have to do an autopsy. They think it must have been a stroke.’
‘But . . . she couldn’t have had a stroke. She was in good health. Better than ever.’
Rose shrugs. ‘Unfortunately, even healthy people have strokes sometimes.’
‘No.’ A tear slips from my eye and I wipe it away quickly with my shirtsleeve. Another immediately takes its place.
‘I know this is hard for you, Fern. I know you loved her.’
‘Can I see her?’ I ask.
Rose shakes her head. ‘They’ve already t
aken her . . . for the autopsy.’
I stare at her. ‘Already?’
‘Yes.’
‘But . . . when did she die?’
‘The hospital called me yesterday. Apparently, she didn’t wake up in the morning.’
‘Yesterday? Mum’s been dead for a whole day and you didn’t tell me?’
Rose looks surprised. ‘Please don’t get upset, Fern.’
I try to fathom how I could not be upset. It is, after all, exquisitely upsetting.
‘I’ll take you home,’ Rose says, placing a hand on my arm. ‘Why don’t you wait here a minute and I’ll explain what has–’
‘No,’ I say, pulling my arm free and wrapping it around myself. ‘I’m staying here.’
But Rose is already walking back toward the door to the library. ‘I’m sure they’ll understand, Fern.’
‘NO!’ It comes out louder than I intend, but at least Rose stops walking. ‘I don’t want to go home. I have work to do . . .’
Rose stares at me. ‘Really? You want to stay here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I am.’
Rose looks confused. I’m not sure why. The library has been my home for as long as I can remember. After a lifetime together, you’d think she would have known that. But more and more lately, I get the feeling that Rose doesn’t know me at all.
I feel agitated as I walk back into the library. I don’t pause as I pass Gayle and Carmel, I just continue straight into the secret cupboard. Inside, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Sun Meadows.
A receptionist named Jessica answers the phone. ‘Good morning, Sun Meadows, how many I assist you?’
‘My name is Fern Castle. My mother, Nina Castle, was a patient there and I have just been informed that she has passed away. Can I speak to someone about this please?’
The receptionist tells me she’s sorry for my loss and then asks if I can hold the line. I’ve always thought that was a stupid saying – after all, what line do they want me to hold? – but today I am too upset to worry about it. After a minute, she patches me through.
‘Hello?’ says the voice.
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