A Good Enough Mother

by Bev Thomas

  ‘The films,’ I type, ‘they are all linked. Linked by suicide.’

  *

  Robert’s call comes in first thing Monday morning.

  ‘I’d been thinking about your case,’ he says, ‘even before I got your email. Do you have some time to talk now?’

  I have fifteen minutes before my first patient.

  ‘I was left with something,’ he says, ‘after our last session. A sense of shame. It was in the room with us. Between the two of us.’ He’s speaking slowly and carefully.

  I feel myself redden.

  ‘It was focused on the notes, but it was palpable. Something very powerful in the counter-transference. Something about shame. It got me thinking about his shame.’

  I can’t tell him that the shame was real. That it was in the room. But that it was my shame. My shame about the notes. The lie. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘The notion that his mother despised him?’ he says. ‘Is this his perception? Or real? I feel this might be linked to his shame. The missing piece? The something else you felt he hadn’t told you?’

  ‘But what about the films,’ I ask suddenly, ‘the suicide link?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Robert says quietly. ‘I think we should keep an open mind.’

  I feel a sudden stab of irritation that he’s not taking it as seriously as I imagined.

  ‘Tell me about your last session with him?’

  ‘He got in touch with his mother. He just rang her.’

  There’s a silence on the end of the phone.

  ‘They didn’t speak. He hung up. He was very distressed. Angry. Let down. Confused about his feelings for her. He cut himself,’ I say. ‘But he said it didn’t help.’

  Robert is quiet for a moment.

  ‘His defences are breaking down,’ he muses.

  ‘I advised waiting,’ I say, ‘before making further contact with his mother. To talk things through in the sessions with me.’

  ‘Well done,’ he says.

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Any news on those notes?’

  ‘Chased them up last week.’ I say, relieved to have made the calls.

  ‘Good. Let’s arrange a session. To talk further. He’s going to need a lot of containment. He’s a complex chap,’ he says.

  I hear the sound of pages flicking in his paper diary.

  ‘I have a slot this Friday. Any good?’

  ‘I’m actually on leave,’ I say, ‘how about early next week?’

  When we’ve agreed a time, he asks if I’m away for the weekend.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘just the day off. A family birthday.’

  ‘Enjoy,’ he says. And then, ‘Take care of yourself.’

  *

  For the rest of the week my focus is getting to Friday, and Nicholas’s birthday party. After deliberating long and hard about a present, I go up into the loft and find Tom’s old cars. There’s a complete set of metal Dinky cars – all still in their cardboard boxes. I feel a pang as I remember Tom’s fastidiousness, the care he took over his toys and belongings. As the day draws closer, I frequently find myself opening my purse and looking at the picture of the small boy, sitting on a beach in his gingham hat, patting his hands on the sand. So often, I’ve felt the burn of envy when I see other people casually open their wallets or purses. In my grimmest days, it has felt wilful, punishing. Salt in the wounds of my own broken family. One afternoon, in the café across the road from the unit, I am standing in the queue, and I find myself opening the wallet flap of my purse unnecessarily. I hold it open as I pass over my coins. Not closing it even after I have reached across for my coffee. Look at me. Look at my life. Look how normal I am. As if by saying it loud enough to those that might listen, I might start to believe it myself.

  *

  Our family harmony was short-lived. I knew it would be, but not that it would end so abruptly. Back at home, Tom’s mood darkened. The GCSE results were predictable. Carolyn couldn’t have done any better, and if anything, Tom exceeded expectations, but still needed to retake three exams. It was agreed he’d do these, and defer A-levels for a year. It wasn’t long before our trip to Devon seemed surreal, a holiday that had happened to another family we once knew. It was as if the isolation at the cabin had heightened Tom’s sense of his inadequacies in ‘the real world’. A reminder that the stiff, uncomfortable coat of his real life increasingly didn’t seem to fit. I wonder if, looking back, he simply decided he wasn’t going to force his arms into the sleeves of the coat any more.

  It was a few weeks after the half-term break when I came back from work to find him in the kitchen. He didn’t look up as I came in, and spoke quickly.

  ‘I haven’t been to college,’ he said, ‘not since half term. I just can’t.’

  He was hunched forwards over the table, digging his thumbnail into the grain of the wood.

  He looked pale, thin and very tired.

  I clicked on the kettle, and braced myself against the worktop. For the past two weeks, he’d been leaving for college in the mornings. Then after supper, retreating to his room to do his coursework.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ I said gently, ‘to get back into work mode after a break.’

  Absentmindedly, I reached for the slab of leftover lasagne and a fork, and ate a mouthful. It was cold, like a boulder in my mouth. I swallowed it down.

  ‘I bumped into Finn’s mum the other day. On the tube.’

  Tom sat very still. I picked up the fork again.

  ‘Finn’s joined the football team at college. She said the new coach was very welcoming – you know,’ I nodded, ‘to new players—’

  ‘I can’t go back to college,’ he said flatly.

  I put down the fork.

  ‘Perhaps I could come in? Speak to your tutor?’ Already I was turning around, glancing at the calendar on the wall, thinking how I could schedule a meeting into the week.

  ‘Mum,’ he said quietly, ‘I just can’t.’ He paused, twisting his hair around his fingers. ‘There are just so many things – so many things to worry about. I just can’t deal with them all.’

  It was then that I allowed myself to look at him. To really look at him. To see the terror on his face. My heart lurched. A brief glimpse into the darkness that was his world. The sudden horror, the realisation of what the bleak alternatives might entail. In that frightened face of my son, I saw the white of the ICU. The blue of his lips. I felt the pain of it all thudding on my chest. The robustness, yet flimsiness of life. The frailty. Life. Death. Sometimes unfathomable. I saw small decisions and moments that can be utterly irretrievable, like dropping a stone into a deep dark lake.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, smoothing the cling film over the lasagne and putting it back into the fridge.

  In that moment, I had caught a glimpse of something dark, and I wanted to look away. I didn’t wait for him to elaborate. I didn’t want to hear what he might have wanted to say. It scared me and I wanted to shut it down.

  ‘Then you must leave,’ was all I said, reaching for his hand across the table. ‘You must leave. And I will help you.’

  It’s then I had a memory. Christmas as a child. My mother in her smart purple dress, the slide of make-up on her face, the stain of red wine at the edge of her lips. The twinkle of Christmas lights. A table with gold and red decorations and the empty place set for my father. When she slumped at the table, the cooking fell to me. I piled the plates high; turkey, roast potatoes and bowls of steaming shiny vegetables. ‘Two different types of stuffing!’ I said. Somehow, behind my back, her glass was refilled, with the deftness of a magician. My mother lurched forwards, glassy-eyed, knocking over her wine; it seeped across the table like an open wound. ‘Let’s eat,’ I said, jauntily, ‘before it gets cold,’ and I picked up the serving spoon.

  Very quickly, my thoughts were racing forwards, running through the alternatives. A different course … an apprenticeship … work experience with one of our friends. Something else we could offer up to him – so we c
ould smooth over the unpleasant painful feelings in the middle. There I was again, decorating the table with shiny Christmas baubles and piling plate after plate on the table, trying to make everything look normal. I made many suggestions to Tom that evening. Some were wild and fanciful. I was scrabbling around in the dark. ‘What about carpentry?’ I said suddenly, and his eyes lit up.

  Of course, it was a mistake not to have discussed things with David. There was the opportunity and occasion, but I chose not to. My logic was that David wouldn’t be able to handle the problem well, and I wanted to wait so I could serve it up with a solution. Something more palatable.

  At earlier points in our marriage, David would pace up and down in front of me. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’ he’d say, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. ‘I could have helped, if you’d talked to me.’

  It might be small things I’d hidden: a problem at school that prompted a drive to change classes, the search for a new football team because Tom seemed left out. I didn’t lie, just hid the truth, until I’d managed to sort everything out. It was a deliberate choice not to discuss it, because I knew David would get stressed, and would overreact and that his mood would cloud my thinking. But besides David’s reaction, there was also my own sense of independence. The need to do it alone. Now I see the selfishness of this decision, but at the time, the need to find a quick solution was a priority. Yet, I was trained to do the opposite at work. My job was to stay in the mess, to bear the pain, for as long as it took. At home with Tom, it was different. Like a hot potato I couldn’t hold between my fingers.

  By January, I had Tom enrolled on a carpentry course. In the following months, he took up kayaking – and by the spring, he’d made his own canoe and was volunteering for weekend shifts at the club. Life seemed good. Two weeks later, my mother came home.

  The call came out of the blue. ‘Ruth?’ the voice drawled. ‘This is Ted.’

  Ted?

  ‘Your mother is unwell.’

  Unwell. I knew that word. I’d used it many times over the years. The great euphemism for an alcoholic relapse.

  ‘No,’ he said, as if reading my mind. ‘She’s had a seizure of some kind. It’s left her …’ he paused, ‘rather confused.’

  He explained she’d had a few days in hospital. ‘She’ll be out on Tuesday. I’ll need to bring her home. As you probably know,’ he said, ‘we had an arrangement.’ He stopped. ‘I can’t – well, she obviously can’t stay here.’

  Three days later, I met them at Heathrow. I didn’t see them at first. They passed right by me. I noticed the elderly woman waving and smiling at the placards that were held by waiting people. It was the wheelchair, I wasn’t expecting it at all. Ted was all big-jaw and silver hair, and wore a large Stetson and cowboy boots. ‘I’m from Houston. Originally,’ he boomed. ‘Found my way to New Mexico, like the many waifs and strays. I’ve yet to meet anyone who was actually born in Taos.’ His laugh was loud and hearty. He slapped me on the back. Below us sat the bird-like body of my mother. She had white wispy hair and was smiling benignly, like she’d been wheeled onto a game show. He handed me her bag. And a small suitcase. ‘Cheerio,’ he said, and he swivelled on his Cuban heels.

  I was grateful for the simple life she’d led in the desert. Her savings had been left untouched. She still had money. I did my research. I found a good care home in Finchley. They looked after her well. Her moods were erratic. Sometimes she recognised me, sometimes not. Sometimes she was calm, sometimes not. I felt nothing. I was ashamed at my lack of pity. My lack of empathy. But there was nothing there. I visited once a month. It was as much as I could bear. As it was, I steeled myself for those visits. I’d mark them on the calendar, willing some untoward event, some Act of God, to prevent my passage.

  When I went, she was greedy for attention. Her narcissism had morphed into a cloying state of neediness. While she sat, small in her chair, frail and watery-eyed, underneath all that fragile vulnerability was the familiar roar of desperation. With her eyes wild and hungry, and her hand on my arm, my stomach heaved. All feeling in the rest of my body receded. It’s all I felt; those clawlike fingers pressing into my flesh. I bore it for as long as I could. Sometimes, it was only seconds until I had to lift my arm. I’d fish for a pen in my bag, or a tissue to blow my nose – anything to move my hand away.

  The staff looked at me in silent judgement. I felt their whispers when I arrived. Living so locally, visiting so infrequently. Claire, one of the nurses, was very fond of my mother. ‘Such a sweet lady,’ she’d say, and made a point of striking up a conversation when I came. ‘She’ll be sooo happy to see you,’ she gushed and then proceeded to tell me what activities she had ‘taken part’ in over the preceding weeks. I nodded and smiled. ‘And you work in the NHS? A therapist?’ she said, her voice laced with accusation.

  One visit I was later than usual. Claire told me they served a light supper at eight o’clock. ‘In ten minutes,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait. You could feed her?’

  ‘Next time,’ I said, hurrying along the corridor.

  Some days when I was leaving and felt their eyes on me, I was tempted to sit with them and reminisce about the past life of their ‘sweet lady’. Perhaps I’d tell them how heavy she was for a ten-year-old to lift when she fell. How when I’d try to remove her sodden underwear, her mouth was thick with alcohol and abuse. Perhaps I’d tell them how I’d often wake up to find she had crawled into my bed, weepy and drunk and full of self-loathing, clinging to me like a baby. I could tell them that when my father left, her rages got worse, her anger uncontrollable. I could tell them about her hunger to control. That when I was a child, there was nowhere to hide. Nothing was sacred. Nothing private. That whenever I tried to move away from her, to find some respite, I was something to be clawed back. Diaries were read and mocked. Phone calls listened in to. She saw me as an extension of herself. I had no shape of my own. I was invisible.

  I knew they judged me.

  Who are you to judge? – I wanted to roar.

  Eighteen

  Hayley curves her mouth into the briefest of smiles as she enters the room and sits down. She seems shy in her seat. She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a dog on the front. Her wavy hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks young.

  She talks freely and easily about things at home. How she went with her dad to watch her brother’s football tournament at the weekend. ‘Zak’s team came second,’ she says proudly. She tells me they stopped for pizza on the way back to celebrate. She talks about how she’s been reading local news stories, watching the national news and noticing how the world is full of these small random events. ‘It’s everywhere,’ she says, ‘a train accident. A faulty wall that falls on a passer-by. That coach crash in the Alps – those school kids …’ She trails off and looks out of the window. ‘All these random decisions people make every day of their lives. Sometimes things go well,’ she shrugs, ‘sometimes they don’t.’

  As I listen to her speak, I notice her voice sounds different. Less harsh. Less accusatory. She turns back towards me. ‘I understand it wasn’t my fault. That someone having a stroke at the wheel of a car is beyond my control. Beyond anyone’s control. I just wish we weren’t arguing when it happened,’ she says. ‘I wish we’d been having a laugh and a joke – that her last moments were full of fun.’

  I nod. ‘And how would you feel now if that were the case?’ I ask.

  ‘Terrible. We’d all feel terrible,’ and she looks down at her lap for a moment. ‘But you know it would be a terrible thing out there,’ and she twirls a hand in the air. ‘Something unconnected to me.

  ‘The thing I can’t get away from is that she never would have gone to Wood Green that day if it wasn’t for me. She didn’t want to go. I made her. I wanted to get the dress. It was all about me.’

  She pauses, then looks up at me. ‘Everything aches,’ she says suddenly, pressing her hand to her chest. ‘It all hurts. I miss
her,’ she says simply, tears filling her eyes. ‘Poor Zak. He’s only nine …’

  There’s kindness in her voice. She sounds less blaming. There is none of the bitter fury of the earlier sessions. What I hear most is a sense of resignation. A real feeling of sadness. And with this, I have the sense that she might be ready to begin the long process of grieving.

  ‘You agreed to come for the six sessions, but I have been thinking that it would be good if you had some further work – some bereavement counselling – to just think about your mum. It can be helpful,’ I say, ‘to have someone to talk to. Someone outside the family. Someone – just for you,’ and I can see her eyes are misting over as I speak.

  She blinks back and nods. ‘I’d like that,’ she says slowly, clearly pleased at the suggestion. ‘That would be good. So we’ll just carry on with that after next week?’

  There’s a beat. She has assumed it will be me.

  I shake my head, gently. ‘In terms of our work here, we have one more session left. This new work will be with someone else—’

  As I am speaking, I can feel her body stiffen. Her face drains of colour.

  ‘It won’t be you?’ she says, her brow drawn into a knot of confusion.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘one of my colleagues. As I said in the beginning – our contract was for six sessions, specifically around the trauma. It’s the same for all the people we see. And then sometimes we refer onto other people—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the way we work here at the unit,’ I explain. My voice is calm, even, in spite of her change of mood.

  I could tell her about the budget cuts. That we used to have more resources. That we’ve lost staff. That even a few years ago, there was more flexibility to carry on seeing the person you’ve started with, and for a longer time span. But I don’t say any of this because it’s not relevant. What’s relevant here is that Hayley Rappley needs therapy for her bereavement, not her trauma.