by M. A. Hunter
Polly had stopped turning up first, choosing to phone them once a day instead of visiting, but then the telephone calls had become less frequent. Every other day at first, and then every couple of days, before eventually they were once a week, and then once a fortnight, once a month, and now non-existent. Most of the laminated posters that Emma’s mum had meticulously stuck to lampposts and telegraph poles had been removed or blown down. It was as if the only traces of Anna that remained were in the heads of the three people sitting in the living room of the house where she’d once lived.
Emma was curled up on the sofa, head once again buried in a book because it was easier than confronting the pain of reality. The television played in the background – the post-EastEnders-omnibus slot reserved for straight-to-video movies. This one was from the early 90s and featured a cast of faces familiar to those used to watching such drivel. The opening credits had suggested it was ‘based on a true story’ but none of the main characters’ decisions suggested they could have been made by anyone with any common sense.
Emma’s dad was dozing in the armchair, the gentle rhythm of his snoring the only evidence that he was still alive. The navy sweater that had once barely managed to contain his beer belly hung limply over his frame. Emma hadn’t realised just how much weight he’d lost in the years that had passed.
Emma’s mum was hidden behind the ironing board as she worked her way through the pile of fresh laundry taking up the remaining armchair. Nobody really cared whether the pile was ironed, hung over the radiators to dry, or just left to fester and crease. The shirt she was currently running the hot iron over for Emma’s dad would be hidden by the overly large navy sweater he donned each day, so nobody would see the effort she’d gone to anyway. But it kept her hands and mind busy, which was probably the point.
She looked exhausted. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mum wear makeup or do anything specific with her hair. The grey had taken total control, despite her relatively young age, but she hadn’t made an appointment at the hair salon for colouring in what seemed like forever. The flannel shirt that hung from her thin frame did nothing to accentuate her femininity, nor did the loose leggings. If Anna were to suddenly return, she probably wouldn’t recognise the family that had been left behind.
Bronwyn lifted a fresh shirt from the pile, holding it between her fingers as she shook it, before laying it on the ironing board, running her hands the length of the side, manually flattening the creases, before grasping the plugged-in iron and repeating the process, as a cloud of steam acknowledged her action with a satisfactory, synchronised whooshing sound. Reaching for the pot of water, she squeezed the trigger twice over a stubborn crease before running the iron over it a couple of times. She returned the hot device to its cradle and adjusted the shirt, before repeating the process.
Emma watched her from the safety of the rim of her Point Horror book. She would have offered to help, but she already knew her mum would have declined the offer. Since giving up work so that she could concentrate her efforts on maintaining the public appeal for information, the housework had become her joie de vivre. Emma’s dad continued to work all available overtime at the prison to keep the bills paid, and she ensured there was food on the table every morning and evening and that the clothes on their backs were clean and pressed. It had become their pantomime show for the world to see how ‘normal’ they were, even if they were anything but.
The iron hissed again as Bronwyn began on the first of the sleeves, pulling on the cuff to flatten the cotton and to avoid the hurdle of the button. She was an automaton, her eyes barely leaving the TV-movie as she lifted the shirt sleeve, gave the shirt a gentle shake, gathered up the second sleeve, and squashed it out flat against the hard surface. Her arm shot out and her fingers coiled around the end of the water bottle without her even looking for it. She depressed the trigger with two sharp bursts and mist exploded from the nozzle, falling slowly onto the sleeve. This was followed by another hiss of the iron as it danced merrily along the cotton. And then the shirt was pulled up, and shaped around the wire hanger before being hung with the others on the brass handle of the kitchen door.
Bronwyn’s eyes caught her daughter’s and although Emma tried to bury her face quickly behind the pages of her book, it was too late.
‘Have you finished all your homework?’ her mum asked, pressing both hands on top of the ironing board, as if she might topple onto her face without the support.
Emma lowered the book, pushing the index finger of her left hand between the pages so she wouldn’t lose her place. ‘Yes, I did it on Friday night.’
‘Good, good,’ Bronwyn said, reaching for the next shirt and flattening it against the surface.
No check to see what the homework had been, how challenging Emma had found it, or any effort to make sure it was actually completed ahead of school the next morning. In Bronwyn’s defence, she’d never been called into the school because of late homework or any question over the quality of Emma’s work, but Emma couldn’t help thinking it would have been nice for her to take slightly more interest in her academic studies.
The assignment had been a basic reading comprehension exercise: read a couple of paragraphs of a set text, and then answer questions about it. Nothing that had stumped Emma, though she had had to look up a couple of words in the dictionary to check their meaning; words she’d now committed to memory should they be required in future assignments. School was nearing the end of term and as such the teachers were less precious about setting complicated homework that might require more effort on their part to mark and correct.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Emma dared to ask, her stomach starting to grumble with dissatisfaction.
‘I haven’t thought about it yet,’ her mum replied, eyes once again firmly fixed to the love story playing out on the screen.
John snorted suddenly, waking himself from slumber, his eyes snapping open in panic and only relaxing when he saw his wife and daughter staring back at him.
‘If you’re that tired you should go up to bed,’ Bronwyn sighed. ‘You know you won’t sleep later if you doze down here.
‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he fired back, reaching for the newspaper that had fallen from his lap. He flapped it loudly in disgust, his eyes widening and narrowing as he tried to shake the sleep from them and work out what he’d been reading before.
‘Oh, well if you weren’t asleep, you might need to check the double glazing because something was making the windows rattle. I’d put it down to your snoring, but—’
‘Leave it, Winnie,’ he warned, glaring at her. ‘You know how hard I’ve been working. If a man can’t rest on a Sunday afternoon, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
Emma quickly raised her book, re-reading the same page she’d been on.
‘And I suppose the rest of us aren’t entitled to rest because the work we do isn’t nearly as important,’ Bronwyn snapped back without missing a beat.
Emma’s dad lowered his paper. ‘Poring over maps and praying for divine intervention hardly puts food on the table though, does it?’
‘It’s not like the food magically appears though, is it? You might be the one who pays for it, but it takes more than magic to turn the scraps I can get hold of into something edible. It doesn’t cook itself, you know.’
He folded the newspaper and removed his reading glasses. ‘Well, why don’t we swap roles then? You go out to work all hours and bring home the bacon, while I do the laundry and cook the meals. How about that?’
The iron hissed as she pressed it against the material. ‘Ha! I’d love to see that. You seem to forget what your mum said to me when I first met her: he doesn’t know one end of a frying pan from another.’
‘Ironic considering the only meal she knew how to cook was spaghetti bolognaise or toast.’ He sighed. ‘I really don’t think you appreciate what I have to deal with day in, day out at that place. The shit I see and hear from those under my guard… enough to turn your
hair grey! And then I come home and have to put up with your snide comments too.’
She snorted. ‘You don’t have to come home. When you are here, all you do is eat and sleep and moan about the conditions up there. It’s not like you do anything to help maintain the upkeep of this place.’
‘Maintain the upkeep?’ he roared. ‘We wouldn’t have anywhere to maintain if it wasn’t for me, and you’d be wise to remember that every now and again.’
Emma jumped as the iron was slammed into its cradle. ‘You think it’s easy for me? Balancing housework with taking Emma to school, and trying to work out where Anna is? You think that’s easy? I’d give anything to find a job that would take me away for hours at a time, allowing my mind to concentrate on something that isn’t our missing daughter! You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘How lucky I am? Winnie, I haven’t had a break from work in over two years! You wake up in the morning and don’t have to think twice about what your day is going to look like. My routine is such a slog and all I ask in return is for you not to judge me when exhaustion takes control.’
‘You want to talk about exhaustion? Imagine what it’s like trying to get through each day on the few minutes of sleep my body allows me to take at night. I haven’t slept properly in years, John! Insomnia is the curse mothers bear. Night after night I lie there listening to you snoring and you’ve no idea how envious that makes me!’
He stood and threw the newspaper in her direction, but it fell well short. He didn’t check to see whether his wife had anything more to say. He simply marched up the stairs and banged about in their bedroom before emerging at the foot of the stairs, carrying a sports holdall.
Emma’s mum opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, folding her arms in the process, ready to call his bluff. Emma looked up from her book, trying to force eye contact with her father. She looked from one parent to the other, but neither seemed prepared to back down and admit that they needed the other.
‘Where are you going, Dad?’ Emma tried, but though his eyes were watering, he didn’t meet her gaze.
‘Mum? You can’t let Dad go. Say something. You have to stop him.’
But her mum didn’t budge from her stance. The two of them remained where they were, staring each other down, before he took his leave, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
It feels like I’m outside of my body, watching as Rachel gets me up and into her car, assuring me that everything will be fine; Mum’s recovered from a heart attack before, and she will do again. I don’t argue – I can’t, as my brain isn’t able to process any of what’s going on.
I recall how panicked I was the last time Pam called and broke the news. I ran around like a headless chicken, grabbing a camera so I could record just one last moment with her. But this time it feels different; despite Rachel’s attempts at reassurance, in the back of my mind, I somehow know that the grains of sand are slipping from the timer, and there’s no way to stop the inevitable.
We arrive at Weymouth Community Hospital, and my pragmatism takes control, finding a parking space that’s equidistant between the barrier and ticket machine, yet not a long walk from the building’s main entrance.
‘It’s this way,’ I tell her; no need to read the signposts pointing us towards the Emergency Department.
I should be upset. I should be screaming at the world that it isn’t fair; that I’m not ready. Mum’s early Alzheimer’s diagnosis was cruel, but at least we knew this moment would eventually come. How many go through life ignoring the spectre of death, only to live with regrets? But not us. Every time I’ve left Mum at the home, I’ve hugged her tightly and told her how much I love her, as if it would be the last time. And now I seem to know deep down that this really will be the last time. It’s like I’ve been granted the gift of hindsight early, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
There’s a queue at the check-in desk. In front of us, a little girl is seated in a wheelchair, one plastered leg suspended out in front of her, a plastic tube beneath her nostrils also connected to a metal canister on the back of the chair. She looks up at my watering eyes and smiles. She can’t be much older than seven, but how much pain has she already experienced in her short life? It puts Mum’s sixty-five years of relatively decent health in perspective. Sixty-five seems too young to be saying goodbye, but I bet this little girl would swap places in an instant.
The girl’s father thanks the woman in white behind the desk and wheels the girl away. She’s still smiling, and offers a little wave in my direction, as Rachel ushers me to the desk.
‘Bronwyn Hunter,’ my lips say involuntarily. ‘I’m her daughter, Emma.’
‘She was brought in with a suspected heart attack,’ Rachel adds for me.
The woman in white types something into the computer, before asking us to take a seat in the waiting area, promising someone will be out to help us shortly. Rachel leads me away, seating me before disappearing to find a vending machine.
‘I had a fall,’ a quiet voice says, and as I blink back my own tears, I see the little girl in the wheelchair is parked across from me.
‘Oh,’ I reply instinctively. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Her dad looks up from his phone to check who she’s speaking to, before returning his gaze to the screen.
‘I have brittle bones,’ she continues, with a roll of her eyes that I sense she is mimicking from one of her parents.
‘Sounds painful,’ I reply.
‘It’s not too bad,’ she replies, but I realise now she is tenderly holding her left wrist in her right hand. ‘My mum says I need to be more careful,’ she adds, with a small sigh that also feels like an imitation.
‘You should listen to your mum,’ I tell her, wiping the itch from my right eye. ‘And your dad. It may feel like they don’t understand at times, but they know a lot more than we realise.’
‘Why are you here?’ she asks next. ‘Did you fall too?’
I shake my head and strain a smile, figuring she’s probably already experienced enough pain and sorrow for today.
‘No, I didn’t fall. I’m here to see my mum because she isn’t very well.’
The little girl nods as if she understands. ‘My mum has a cold too; that’s why my dad had to bring me in.’
Despite the pain in my heart, her misunderstanding makes me chuckle.
Rachel returns and hands me an energy drink. ‘The tea machine was out of order. Drink this; it might help.’
I open the can and take a long gulp, grimacing at the sweet fizz as it gushes down my throat. ‘Eurgh, that’s disgusting,’ I say apologetically.
Rachel takes the can and necks a gulp of her own, but there is no discomfort evident on her face. ‘It’s fine; we just need to get you out of this backwater and living in the city. I wouldn’t make it through most days without one of these.’
She offers me the can again, but I shake my head as a young man in a blue shirt and navy trousers appears at the secured double doors beside the reception desk and calls out my name. Rachel waves and helps me up.
‘I hope your mum feels better soon,’ the little girl says, as we leave the waiting room and approach the waiting attendant.
He takes us through the doors and along a maze of corridors, explaining that Mum has been taken up to the Intensive Care Unit for monitoring. The air here feels much lighter and cooler, to the point where I’m regretting not wearing a coat. The light overhead feels so artificial, and my own health already feels worse from being beneath it.
Squirting sanitiser onto our hands, the attendant leads us into the ICU ward and to a large room containing six beds. My heart leaps when I see Mum is sitting up in bed, looking sprightlier than I was expecting. For a moment I want to question whether there’s been some kind of mistake, but then I see the wires leading from her chest to the beeping monitor beside the bed. The nurse explains that the heart attack was a mild one,
but they want to keep her under observation. I know the drill; it was only a couple of months ago that I was receiving the same explanation from a different nurse. He leaves us, and Rachel collects a chair from beside one of the other beds where there is a woman snoring contentedly.
‘Hello, Mrs Hunter,’ Rachel says, sitting down. ‘How are you feeling?’
Mum’s head turns, and she eyes Rachel suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’
‘This is my best friend Rachel, Mum,’ I clarify from the seat on my side of the bed. ‘We were at university together. Remember?’
She now looks at me, but her eyes narrow further. ‘And who are you?’
If I hadn’t been presented with this question a dozen times before, it would be harder to bear. Given her present condition, it isn’t surprising that her memory isn’t firing on all cylinders as it was last night when I brought Jack to see her.
‘I’m your daughter Emma, Mum. Do you remember? You have two daughters – Anna and me – but you don’t remember things as well as you once did.’
Her gaze flits between me and Rachel, but her concern only grows.
‘It’s okay if you can’t remember, Mum.’
She doesn’t answer, fumbling around on the bed until she locates the pad she’s looking for, jabbing at the orange nurse call button.
‘Is something wrong, Mum? Are you in pain?’
Still she ignores me, jabbing at the button again.
A nurse arrives, her hair swept up into a messy bun, and she gives Rachel and me a funny look.
‘I don’t know who these people are,’ my mum tells her.
‘I’m her daughter, Emma,’ I say quickly, ‘and this is my friend Rachel. Her memory isn’t what—’
‘That’s okay,’ the nurse interrupts. ‘We’re aware of your mum’s health issues.’ She then resets the call pad and speaks to my mum directly. ‘It’s okay, Winnie. This lady is your daughter, Emma. Now, are you in any discomfort? Do you want me to fetch you a drink?’