IT’S TIME

by Rachael Dytor

  “It’s not about gaining anything. Your case has haunted me over the years. I know you had gone on to lead by all intents and purposes a ‘normal life’, but I also knew until you knew the truth and faced up to it, you were living a lie and it would all completely unravel. That is part of it. The other part is harder to explain. From the minute I spent time with you in that hospital, I felt a connection with you. What your father did was wicked and callous, and his mark is still being felt today. You were so lost and vulnerable and for whatever reason, it became my mission to help you; to heal you and set you on the right path. The professional code of conduct of not getting attached went right out of the window. For me, you became the son I never had.”

  I turn to him and not for the first time today I am once again rendered speechless.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Following Day

  A

  fter a fitful night’s sleep, I wake to a new dawn, to a new reality. I consider that which is within my control – my relationship with Janey and where we go from here. She is still staying in the apartment I had originally rented and that is a blessing. It has given me some much-needed breathing space overnight and this morning. I was bowled over with her confession. To say I was shocked was a gross underestimate. Entering a serious relationship with someone whom she knew from such a shocking encounter is unconventional to say the least.

  However, we have had many happy years together and there is Michael to consider too. I did briefly imagine what life would be like without Janey in the picture and it felt bleak. Did I want to split our family unit up? Not a chance. Had this revelation come at the start of the relationship would I have carried things further? Unlikely. Janey was right on that count. There wouldn’t have been a good time to tell me at the start. When we met at university yes, I had moved on to a certain extent, but it was all still quite raw. I certainly couldn’t have contemplated having someone in my life with the knowledge of my past which Janey possessed. It would have been a link to a time I wanted dead and buried.

  I waste no time and put her out of her misery as I know she will be agonising about where things stand. I text her. “Make your way over. We will be heading out shortly. Love you loads. T xxx”

  As for everything else, that is not so easily resolved. I researched the usage of the pills I take for my ‘anxiety’ and sure enough they are widely prescribed to people suffering with psychosis. Everything I have been told and everything I have read points to the only logical conclusion there is – the report was correct, I have a mental illness attributed to the trauma I experienced during childhood. However, my heart still aches for my siblings and I still don’t feel ready or equipped to just let them go.

  At least George and I agree on one thing – our itinerary for today which involves going to see mother. She is very much battling her own demons held within the fierce grip of dementia. But she is still my mum at the end of the day and, when I am feeling as low, I know just being in her company will lift my mood.

  I have already rung ahead to find out how she is doing today. Happily, I was told she would be able to see visitors as she is having ‘one of her better days.’ It is a welcome relief. I resolve to put all my worries to one side for the time being, focussing instead on my visit. It has been so long since I saw her last. Would she even recognise me? We have chatted often on the phone, but it is not the same as seeing her in the flesh.

  That being said, I must set my expectations low. Yes, she might well be having ‘one of her better days’, but the reality is she is battling a serious brain disease. She might recognise me but equally she might not have a clue who I am. George and Janey are accompanying me to the home, and I don’t know how I feel about that. I reason that she is used to people going in and out of her room so it should be fine. One sniff of mother getting upset or feeling crowded though and I will give them their marching orders!

  A rather sheepish-looking Janey arrives shortly after I end the call to the care home. I know in my heart I have to put my faith in her. We have so much history together, so many shared memories. I can’t help it; I need to draw a line in the sand. I need her support and love way more than I need to make an enemy of her right now. I hold my arms outstretched. “Come here, love.” The tentative look she had melts instantly into a wide beaming smile and she willingly moves towards me and surrenders into my arms.

  We waste no time in setting off. The general consensus is that it is best to go and see her as soon as possible if she is feeling well. Just the very thought of seeing mother in the flesh after all these years has lifted my mood tremendously. Janey too appears to have a spring in her step. No doubt she feels lighter after shifting the weight of the burden she has carried around with her all those years. “No more secrets,” is what I whispered to her just before we left and she matched my plea, “No more secrets,” being her response.

  There was no question what I was going through since the night George turned up on my doorstep was gruelling. But at the same time, it was cathartic. Even the news which Janey divulged last night. It felt good, almost in a cleansing sense. Everything was out in the open. Nowhere left to hide. “No more secrets.”

  It felt courageous ‘coming home’ to Skye. I had never been truly honest with myself for although I have remained living in Scotland, it was blatantly obvious I was in a sense on the run, fleeing from my past. Without George’s constant cajoling there was no way I would have returned here. I had smothered down feelings of guilt when I thought about mother, reasoning what could I feasibly do to help her now and that she was in the best place. Regular phone calls to the home had helped to quash these feelings somewhat but it is no substitute for seeing her in the flesh. This felt right. To be able to visit her, to see her, not just a voice at the end of the phone. Perhaps it might even be good for her mental health to see me, to help her memory come back even if only temporarily. Or perhaps I am expecting too much, I must keep reminding myself she could just as easily be locked into her own little world.

  When we arrive at the care home a ‘Beatrice’ is there to greet us. She doesn’t even need to speak. She needs no introduction. She looks exactly how I pictured she would following the many conversations we have had over the years.

  “Thomas! It is so good to finally meet you! Mary will be thrilled, I’m sure.”

  “The feeling is mutual. I am so looking forward to seeing her but before we go through please, I need to extend my heartfelt thanks to you and your team for all the work you do with mother. It is so greatly appreciated.”

  “Oh no, not at all, we are just doing our jobs.”

  “I understand that, but it can’t be easy at times and it is a great comfort to know she is being well looked after.” I pause and take a sharp intake of breath. “One more thing, Beatrice …”

  “Yes?”

  “She hasn’t had any more unwanted visitors?”

  “Aah, your father?” I nod in acknowledgement. “No don’t you worry, Thomas. He hasn’t shown his face and if he did, believe me the Police would be notified. All our staff members here are well aware of the situation and trust me, there will not be a repeat performance.” I release an audible sigh of relief and Janey reassuringly squeezes my hand.

  Beatrice senses my nervousness. “Are you ready to see her, Thomas?”

  “Of course, lead the way.” We dutifully fall in line with Beatrice at the helm and eventually reach her room. She asks us to wait outside for a minute as she lets mother know we are here. I can only hear muffled voices but after a short time we are ushered through.

  It feels surreal. I do a quick mental calculation and realise it has been some twenty years since I was last in the same room as mother. I am a 34-year-old man, and I was just a 14-year-old boy when she saw me last. Even without her illness I am quite sure it’d be difficult for her to recognise me.

  All at once I feel a great wave of protection wash over me and I motion to George and Janey to hang back for a minute. Just until I am sure she is OK with havi
ng me in the room. I am only too well aware she could take fright, especially after her recent nasty visit from father.

  I take tiny little tentative baby steps in her direction. She hasn’t seen me yet since the back of her chair faces the door, and she is positioned looking out of the window. I am momentarily distracted as I take in the view. Another silent prayer of thanks to Beatrice and her team. The view mother has out of her window is nothing short of spectacular. In the forefront are the well-tended gardens of the home. Not so much colour at this time of year but beautiful none the less. There is a large holly bush off to the right teaming with red berries. And, directly in front of her window sits a bird bath and bird feeder so no doubt she will see plenty of wildlife. However, it is the view beyond this which captivates me. Loch Portree is visible in all its splendour. The morning sun causes sparkles and shimmering light like a blanket of stars right all along its surface. And, if I am not mistaken, off in the distance sits the Isle of Raasay.

  I snap back to reality as I realise I have reached her chair. My heart is hammering in my chest. I continue my slow inch forwards then start to walk around the side of the chair. This is it. I am now stood face to face with mother. Only she hasn’t looked up yet, seemingly unaware of who might’ve come to see her, so I take the opportunity to sit down in front of her, not wanting to intimidate her by standing towering over her. Her eyes are still cast downwards, fixated on the action of rubbing one palm and then the other. She is thoroughly engaged in the action.

  I pluck up the courage to speak and it comes out as a very weak “Mother.” The hand rubbing ceases and she slowly raises her head. Eventually we lock eyes, and I am immediately despondent. There is nothing there. She is completely vacant as though a ghostly presence is inhabiting the frail body of my mother. Although twenty years have passed, she is instantly recognisable. She hasn’t changed much at all. What she suffered at father’s hands aged her I’m sure, but she almost looks as though since she’s moved here, she has been frozen in time, still very much like I remember her. All the anxiety and stress having left long ago. She no longer has to fear for her life or for mine. All her needs are being taken care of here and for once she is being property cared for.

  The tension in the room is palpable. I sense George and Janey eagerly anticipating my reaction – has she recognised me? I put them out of their misery with a shake of the head and signal for them to come and sit down beside me. Mother looks quite at peace. I feel sure she won’t be too concerned if they come over. They flank either side of me and I can’t help but hang my head in disappointment. I absolutely knew this could be the case, that she might not recognise me. I thought I had mentally prepared myself for this eventuality, but it still came as a disappointment.

  Then I felt it. Janey frantically rubbing my thigh to get my attention. “Thomas; Thomas! Look!” she said animatedly. I looked up and again directly towards mother. The ghost had vanished, and my mother’s beautiful features were illuminated in a beaming smile.

  “Thomas? Thomas? Is that you?”

  I wanted to leap towards her, to hold her so tightly, but refrained myself from doing so. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her witless, so I opted instead for a calmer approach. “Yes mother, it is me! It’s your Thomas!” I held my hands out towards her and she reciprocated, placing both of her hands in mine. The joyful tears flowed freely. We had an unshakable bond unbroken by time or her illness. I could feel the years melting away in that short time. Internally I cursed myself for never coming back.

  I have built a life for myself, yes. But at the same time, I have been in denial about a lot. When I think about what mother and I have been through together I am utterly ashamed of myself for leaving her alone. Never visiting. Appeasing myself with the thought that a few regular phone calls to check in on her were enough. Clearly that’s not the case. She has recognition. She has recognised me, and I have felt that closeness to her once again. Things can never go back to how they were before. Seeing mother – this has to become a part of my life and undoubtedly Michael’s life too. It is only right that he should know about his heritage and he needs to meet his grandmother too.

  She averts her gaze. It lands upon George and she extends to him the same radiant smile. He beams back. Then like a thief in the night she quickly steals her hands out of my grasp, clutching them anxiously close to her chest. The veil of confusion has descended. Her eyes glaze over, the eyes of a stranger. I know in that instant when she’s looking at me, she is looking right through me. She doesn’t have a clue who I am. Breathe, Thomas. You knew this could happen. To even have that fleeting moment of recognition was simply something to be treasured.

  I sit back in my seat to try to give her some breathing space too. It is blatantly obvious she has retreated into her shell. But, at the same time, she is as timid as a new-born lamb and needs to be treated as such. Seeing her look so fragile makes me want to reach out to her all the more. There is nothing else to do but sit tight and wait to see if she comes out of it. At the very least I pray she doesn’t take fright and start screaming for one of the carers.

  It gives me the opportunity to scan around the room. This is mother’s world. A place I know very little about, but it has been her home for many years now. How cruel that she has finally found a place to be at peace but at the same time, thwarted with such a debilitating illness. This first thing I notice (and it would be impossible not to notice since there were so many) are all the framed pictures of me when I was a young boy. They adorn the walls and sit proudly on her table. Curious. There are none of Caroline, Juliet, and James.

  This is yet another clear indication staring me literally square in the face. It screams at me – they are not real, you have made them up. They are figments of your imagination. George has been silently watching me take all this in and I can tell he knows what I am thinking but at least he shows some decorum and refrains from saying so. Janey has also remained silent throughout the visit but then her reasons are slightly different. She is terrified to knock the status quo any further by putting a foot out of line so is instead waiting on a cue from me.

  We sit like this in silence, all tentatively waiting to see if mother is able to free herself from her fugue but to no avail. After twenty minutes or so I put the other two out of their misery. “Come on, let’s leave her in peace.” We rise and I resist the urge to get too close to her still fearful that she might take fright.

  George and Janey reach the door before me and it is barely audible but even still, I am sure she said it. As quick as a flash I reposition myself in front of mother, but she is back to being thoroughly engrossed in rubbing her palms again. Eyes downcast, not wanting to entertain anyone. The other two sense the commotion and want to know what’s happening but I want to give her a little bit more time. Nothing. She is lost in her solitary world. Did I imagine it, or did she really say what I think she said?

  I wait until we are outside in the carpark. “Look at your birth certificate … that’s what she just said to me.” Two blank unbelieving faces stare back at me. “Well, come on then, what are you both waiting for? Let’s do it! And while we’re at it, I’d like to see if there are any records on Caroline, Juliet, and James.” Neither of them heard her utter a word, but I heard it. I believe mother was trying to communicate with me, to convey an important message and it simply cannot be ignored.

  CHAPTER 25

  W

  hen we settle into the car, I waste no time. I type ‘births, marriages, and deaths – Isle of Skye’ into a search engine and bingo, a telephone number is produced. Without hesitation, I hit the button to make the call then end it abruptly before it is answered by the recipient – George was frantically making a gesture for me to cut the call by slicing his hand back and forth across his throat.

  “What? Why can’t I make the call, George?”

  “There is no need for you to arrange an appointment to see anyone. You will only be able to arrange a replacement birth certificate which will take L
ord knows how many weeks to arrive. And in any case, I have a copy at home in your file.”

  “OK perfect! What about checking to see if my siblings’ births are registered?”

  “Again Thomas, there is no point in discussing that with a registrar. They cannot divulge confidential information. I think we both know you are not going to find anything anyway. However, if you insist and if it goes some way towards further cementing in your head that they do not exist, why don’t you have a look online? There are many websites where you can get information on family trees.”

  I consider this and decide that it is sound advice. I also consider that fact that I haven’t seen hide nor hair of either Caroline, Juliet, or James all day. I allow myself to imagine that they do not exist. Will this help my mental state? Will it help me on the road to recovery from this psychosis I am apparently blighted with? It seems inconceivable not to have them in my life.

  Yet, as I open the internet browser on my phone and select the first website which appears, boasting it is ‘the UK’s No.1 go-to website for researching family trees,’ it hits me like a brick. Alongside asking for their full names, undoubtedly the next question I will be asked is to provide their dates of birth. What are their dates of birth? I do not have an earthly clue. How could I not know my own siblings’ dates of birth?

  I involuntarily drop my phone and it hits the footwell of the seat with a loud thud, causing George to stir.

  “Everything OK back there?”

  “You are right, George.”

  “Right about what, Thomas?”

  “They don’t exist. Caroline, Juliet, and James – I don’t know their dates of birth! I’d never considered it before, but I don’t know their dates of birth!”