by Jane Green
‘I didn’t desert her!’ Frustration took the form of a hot lump in Grace’s throat. ‘I’ve been looking for her for months.’
‘She’ll be glad you’re here,’ Margaret said in a tone conciliatory enough that Grace, correctly, took it for an apology.
‘How is she? How long has she been here? Is she taking her medications?’
‘Come in here and sit down,’ said Margaret, leading her into a small, dark, windowless room lined with institutional green chairs. ‘I can give you her recent history, at least what I know, then we can go to see her.’
COTTAGE PIE
(Serves 8)
INGREDIENTS
450g minced beef
1 tablespoon oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 large carrot, finely chopped
1 stick celery, finely chopped
½ teaspoon cinnamon
2 sprigs fresh thyme, finely chopped
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
275ml chicken stock
1 tablespoon tomato puree
Salt and pepper
900g potatoes
25g grated cheddar cheese
50g butter
Seasoning
Preheat oven to 200°C/gas mark 6.
Heat oil in a frying pan, add onions, sauté for around 5 minutes, until slightly brown. Add carrot and celery. Cook for 5 minutes, then remove from pan and set aside.
Turn up heat, add more oil, season beef well before adding, then cook, breaking up with spatula, until brown. Return onions to pan and add rest of vegetables, cinnamon, thyme, and parsley.
Stir in flour, then stock and tomato puree, mixing well. Turn heat down to low, cover, and cook gently for around half an hour.
While meat is cooking, peel potatoes, dice into roughly even-sized cubes and add to pan of cold water. Do not add salt as it breaks down the starch in the potatoes. Bring water to boil and simmer for around 25 minutes, or until potatoes are cooked.
Push potatoes through a ricer, or mash with a hand masher, but do not use a blender or the potatoes will turn into a sticky mess. Add butter and salt and pepper.
Transfer meat to casserole dish, cover with potatoes, sprinkle cheese over the top. Bake for around half an hour, or until top is golden.
Eight
Sally, it seemed, had recently been in a housing and treatment programme. She was calm, not drinking, neither agitated nor unhappy. If you didn’t know better, you might even think her entirely normal.
The hostel was very familiar with Sally, said Margaret. When Sally was in a programme, or in a psychiatric hospital, as had happened before, they didn’t see her for months. But her pattern was always the same – she would seem to be normal, before mania would strike and everything would go wrong.
Lithium was the accepted medication for people like Sally. She had taken it sporadically, but complained of feeling ‘flat’, the drug making her lethargic, tired, lazy.
‘People don’t understand medication for manic depression,’ said Margaret. ‘They think that people start to feel so good they think they must be better, and that’s why they stop taking the lithium, but it isn’t that. It’s the opposite. Generally these medications make people with this kind of depression feel completely flat, and these are people who are used to the highs of mania, so to them, it’s tantamount to being dead.’ She stopped suddenly, peering at Grace. ‘This may all be stuff you know,’ she said tentatively ‘I know how difficult it can be for families of those who suffer.’
‘I know a little,’ Grace said. ‘She has tried taking lithium for years, but it never seems to last long.’
‘She definitely hasn’t taken anything recently. We got her back here two weeks ago. She’s in one of her more manic phases, although she did seem a little calmer yesterday. We’ve put her back on the lithium and we try and monitor it to make sure our residents are taking their pills, but it’s impossible to keep track of all of them.’
‘So she’s . . . manic? Still?’
‘It may just be that they haven’t got the dosage right. Or she’s hiding the pills.’
‘And there’s nothing you can do?’
‘We do the best we can. Are you ready? We can go and see her now.’
Grace said nothing when she walked into the room. She should not have been shocked at what her mother looked like, but nothing could have prepared her to face this woman who gave birth to her, who was now almost unrecognizable.
Sally was sitting in the front row of chairs facing a television, holding the remote control, zapping quickly through television channels, never settling on one for more than a few seconds, much to the frustration of the four other women in the room.
Grace stood off to the left, devastated at the toll living on the streets had taken on her mother. She had remembered her as young, pretty, normal looking if not always normal acting, but this version of her mother was years older than Grace would have expected, and so much bigger than when she had last seen her, almost a year ago.
Her pretty features were masked by doughy cheeks and a double chin. If Grace hadn’t known it was her mother, she would have walked straight past her.
Unexpectedly, Sally laughed. Grace saw her teeth, one missing on each side. She looked exactly as she was: a toothless, homeless woman with a glitter in her eye and a forcefield of energy around her that had a buzz that was almost palpable.
Grace remembered this buzz, this energy, from her childhood. This was when her mother would go on huge shopping binges, or drive Grace miles from home on a quest for some sort of treasure. It was exhilarating being in her company, and exhausting. And completely unsafe. Grace never felt she was in the company of a responsible adult during those times, would pray that nothing would go wrong.
‘Mum?’ Grace ventured after Sally paused to look at Grace, her eyes sweeping over her dismissively before going back to the television. ‘It’s me. It’s Grace.’
‘I know who it is,’ said Sally. ‘Are you coming in? What are you doing standing in the doorway? You look like I used to look, years ago. I may not have seen you for a while but I’d know you anywhere. I thought you were too busy in America to bother with me. I know you’re living it up in New York. What are you doing here? Nice of you to come and see me. I’m surprised you’re not off with your other mother.’ She gave a gap-toothed grin before handing the remote to a woman sitting next to her and standing up. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Sally said, walking towards Grace. ‘You can give your old mum a hug.’
What had I expected? she thought. A Waltons-esque reunion? The two of us flying into each other’s arms, tears of gratitude and joy rolling down each of our cheeks.
Well, yes. She had expected something like that. Had hoped her mother would be pleased to see her after so, so many years, but perhaps this is her mother being pleased to see her. Perhaps this is as good as it gets.
She felt her mother’s small body against hers, incredulous that she came out of this woman, that this was the woman present for the first eighteen years of her life. She expected to feel a huge bond, the invisible umbilical cord still stretching between them after all this time, but holding her mother, feeling the boniness of her spine, her soft, distended stomach, noting her wiry grey hair, Grace was astonished to feel little other than tremendous sadness.
‘Come and see my room!’ Sally disengaged, tugging on Grace’s arm. ‘I have a picture of you on my wall.’
‘You do?’ Grace was momentarily thrilled, reaching the room to find an old photograph of Grace as a child with Sally, one she didn’t even know her mother still had, blu-tacked to the faded yellow walls of a room that contained three iron single beds and three lockers, each carefully locked.
‘See?’ Sally said, proudly pointing out her room. ‘There you are. And there I am.’ She moved closer to the picture. ‘Not ageing so well, but I’m not running around America without a care in the world, am I?’
‘You look well,
’ said Grace. ‘I have spent a long time hoping to find you. I didn’t know about this hostel. I’m glad I now know where you are.’
‘Here for the time being,’ said her mother brightly, spinning around and pulling a small key from a string tied around her neck. ‘With all my worldly possessions. Want to see?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Grace, but Sally was already on her knees, pulling things wildly out of the locker and flinging them on the bed. There was nothing of value in there. A tennis ball; mismatched socks; an oversized, filthy sweater with holes all over it; a plastic doll with a missing leg; a green plastic bowl; a child’s plastic tiara with one remaining red gemstone stuck in the middle; a lipstick; a scarf; trainers that looked to be at least three sizes bigger than Sally would wear; and an empty plastic bottle that had once contained Coke.
‘That’s quite a collection you have there,’ said Grace, sitting down on the bed.
‘I know!’ Sally was proud. ‘This is my favourite.’ She pulled the lipstick out and inexpertly applied it over the lines of her lips as Grace felt a twinge of pain. Everything she had always dreaded was right there in front of her – her mother with lipstick all over her face, glittering eyes, appearing to be the craziest of crazy old ladies.
When she wasn’t even old.
‘And this!’ Her mother perched the tiara on her head and laughed, dropping into a curtsey.
‘Very pretty,’ Grace said. ‘Mum, I know it’s been a long time since we saw each other, and I’m only here for two weeks, but I’d really like to help you in some way. I have a job now, in publishing, and things are going well. How can I help? What can I do for you?’
Sally seemed not to hear. ‘I loved it when you were young,’ she said suddenly, her eyes whirling around the room, settling on Grace every few seconds before darting off somewhere else. ‘Didn’t we have fun, Gracie? Remember when you and I would climb in the car and go off and have adventures? Wasn’t that the best? Just you and me?’
‘It was,’ lied Grace, astounded her mother had such fond memories of a childhood that was so completely disappointing to Grace, so completely unsafe.
‘Mum? Margaret tells me you’re not taking your medication. She says you were doing really well until that point. I was wondering whether you might be willing to go back into a treatment centre, just to get you back on the straight and narrow again.’
It was like watching a cloud descend over Sally, a veil drop over her face, and instantly Grace knew she had said the wrong thing. Instantly she regressed to a little girl, knowing that she had set a foot wrong, that her mother was about to embark on one of her terrifying rages. There was no place to hide.
‘Why?’ barked Sally, her voice loud and aggressive. ‘You think there’s something wrong with me? You all think there’s something wrong with me! All of you lot who want to drug me up with pills that make me feel like I’m half dead, who tell me there’s something wrong with being who I am. Look at you, all fine and fancy in your fancy American clothes. Who do you think you are, coming here to sneer at me? You don’t know anything about my life. You don’t know what makes me happy and what I need to get by. You don’t care. No one cares.’ Her voice dropped as her mood changed from rage to self-pity. ‘I don’t need some busybody do-gooder swanning in and telling me what I need to make me better. I’m fine. Better than fine, and I don’t need anyone’s help.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to . . . help.’
‘Everyone wants to help,’ she spat. ‘I don’t need help. I don’t need you, do I? Can’t you see? I’ve managed perfectly well all these years without you and I certainly don’t need you now.’
‘I’m your family, Mum. I’m your daughter. Daughters are supposed to take care of their mothers when they get older. It has nothing to do with me thinking I know what’s best for you, it’s just . . . biology.’
‘Hmph.’ Sally turned away, busying herself sorting through the pile on her bed. ‘Like my bottle?’ she said, brandishing the Coke bottle with sudden delight. ‘It’s my water bottle. I fill it whenever I find a tap. Or a half-empty beer bottle. Beer. You don’t have any beer, do you?’ She looked at Grace hopefully, who shook her head wearily. ‘Vodka’s my favourite,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘But not much chance of getting hold of vodka these days. That’s my treat. That’s the thing I really look forward to.’
Grace desperately tried to distract her, even knowing what a futile exercise that had always been when her mother was . . . like this. What is it they say about the definition of insanity? she remembered thinking. Ah, yes. The definition of insanity is doing what you’ve always done and expecting different results. ‘What about food?’ she offered. ‘Can I at least buy you something to eat for lunch?’
‘They feed me here,’ said Sally. ‘Are you staying for lunch? Soup. It’s good. You should stay for lunch. Dinner’s usually leftovers, or something pretending to be different to lunch, but it all tastes much the same to me.’
‘Would you like to go out for lunch?’ Grace ventured. ‘We could go to a restaurant. You always used to like fish and chips. Maybe we could find fish and chips nearby?’
But her mother wasn’t listening, was busy pulling things frantically out of the pile, organizing them, messing them up again, then starting all over again, all the while muttering to herself.
‘Mum?’ Grace said, leaning forward. ‘Mum? Do you want me to stay?’
‘No!’ Sally said. ‘I didn’t want you here in the first place. Why are you here? What do you want from me? Do you want to take my stuff?’ She snatched the tiara from her head and cradled it against her chest. ‘Is that it? You think you can come here and help yourself to my precious jewels? Get out of here! I can’t stand you, Grace. I never could. Always whining, whining, whining. Why are you here? What do you want from me? You always want so much from me, you always make me crazy. Get out.’ Her voice rose to a shout. ‘Go on, you stupid bitch! Get out of here!’
Grace stood, fumbling for words that might appease her mother, but there weren’t any, or if there were, she didn’t know them. She left the room, went back downstairs and rounded the corner, almost walking straight into Margaret, barely seeing her, her eyes misty with tears.
‘Oh dear.’ Margaret took her by the arm and led her back into the room they were in before. ‘Sit down, love. Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘No. I just . . . I didn’t expect her to be so hostile.’
‘That’s the illness, my dear. You never know what you’re going to get. She may not be registering happiness today, but she will be happy you came. She talks about you a lot, you know. My daughter, Grace, in America!’
Grace attempted a smile. ‘Isn’t there something I can do? Can’t I pay to put her in a treatment programme? Or send her somewhere to get help? Hire a nurse? I don’t know . . . something!’
‘You could do all of those things,’ said Margaret, ‘and none of them would help. She has to get to a point where she wants to help herself. Until then throwing money or programmes or pills at her won’t do anything. She’ll leave, flush the pills down the toilet, end up back on the streets. There isn’t anything you can do, except maybe visit her. It doesn’t look like it makes a difference, but I believe it does.’
Grace nodded, unsurprised by what Margaret had said. Margaret left, and although Grace knew Patrick was outside in the car, waiting, she didn’t go out straightaway. She thought of her mother, her volatility; the glitter in her eye that could lead to fun or anger or any other emotion that was stretched to its limit.
I can’t change her, Grace thought again, only this time the thought floated through her body and settled in her bones. I am powerless over her, she thought, walking out of the hostel and heading for the car.
‘Well?’ Seeing Patrick was comforting, safe, and it was only when she sat in the passenger seat, closed the door, and turned to Patrick to try and talk that she found she couldn’t.
Shaking her head to dislodge th
e lump, instead tears leaked out of her eyes and Patrick leaned over and took her in his arms as she sobbed.
‘I’m okay,’ she said, attempting to smile when the sobs had calmed down. ‘I should know by now that I can’t ever expect anything. I should know by now that nothing has ever changed, nothing will ever change. I can’t help her. I’ve spent my life trying to help her, but I can’t.’
Six months later, Sally was dead. A heart attack. Shocking in someone so young, but the alcohol abuse had aged her and worn her body down to the point where it couldn’t tolerate life.
Relief. That was what Grace felt when she got the news. Swiftly followed by guilt. She never told anyone about her mother. Not even Ted. It is, she supposes, her guilty secret. The shame of having a mother who was mentally ill, and the fear that this too may happen to her.
Nine
‘Where have you been?’ Ted is thundering up the path from his barn, his face a mask of frustration, as Grace gets out the car. Immediately, she feels her body start to tighten. Tingling starting in her arms and legs.
It is exactly what used to happen to her when she was a child, in the face of her mother’s rages. Grace is well aware that each time this happens she regresses to that same, scared child, but there doesn’t seem to be anything she can do to change it.
Ted’s anger, his dissatisfaction, his rage, even when it has nothing to do with her, even though she should be used to it after all these years, still causes her to tighten, her breath to shorten as her throat constricts, as her mind searches for the perfect words that will calm him down.
‘Is everything all right?’ she calls, her arms filled with shopping she picked up after Harmont House.
‘Does everything look like it’s all right?’ he says, disdain and derision in his voice as Grace concentrates on keeping her breathing steady, on staying calm, for one of them has to remain the adult here and it is never, ever Ted.
‘What can I do to help?’
‘You can buy some goddamned ink for the goddamned printer,’ he says. ‘I needed to print my first draft today and it ran out after twenty-eight pages.’