IT’S TIME: COULD YOU RISK YOUR SANITY TO SAVE YOURSELF?

by Rachael Dytor

  I don’t let her finish, I interject, “What do you mean there’s been an incident? What type of incident?”

  “She had a visit earlier today from your father and nothing happened so don’t worry, she’s not hurt or anything, but she has become very hard to handle. It’s quite unlike her, she’s been lashing out at the staff; kicking and biting and refusing to eat or drink.”

  “Are you saying this is as result of father’s visit?”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but it’s been a number of years since he’s been here, and he shows up out of the blue and the next thing we know your mother is acting completely out of character … People with dementia can show these tendencies but your mother has never displayed them before. Her illness is one which made her revert more into herself. Anyway, she’s refusing to allow any of the staff to come near her and says she’ll only speak to you.”

  “OK, thanks for letting me know. Is she wanting to speak to me just now?”

  “No, she’s resting up, Mr Taylor, but when she comes around if she is still asking for you would it be possible to give you a call back?”

  “Sure, no problem,” and we end the call.

  What on earth is going on? First, I have George pestering me to go back to Skye, now this! Why has father gone to visit mother in her home if he’s not been for years? Why now and what has he said to her to cause her to start lashing out?

  I wait on tenterhooks for the phone to ring and eventually it does a couple of hours later. Beatrice passes the phone to my mother and I say a tentative “Hello.” A brief pause then, “Hello son.” Relief floods my bones, no matter what’s happened, at least she is lucid enough now and knows who I am. And, she has calmed down enough to speak to me.

  “Are you OK, mother?”

  No pause this time. “Bad man; bad man; bad man.”

  “Who was the bad man, mother?”

  “Can’t say; not allowed to say.”

  “What do you mean you’re not allowed to say? What has happened, mum? Has someone upset you?” There is no response. I wait patiently but nothing. I don’t know if mentioning father would be a wise move or not and I wrestle with my conscious as I dive between concern about mother’s welfare and my own curiosity about exactly what happened during the visit.

  My curiosity is the victor and I press on, “I know father came to see you earlier today mother what—”

  Before I can finish my sentence, she implodes, “No; no; no; bad man …” The rest I was unable to decipher but I could hear Beatrice in the background calling for back-up. A noise akin to the phone crashing on the ground was next, then the dial tone. I sit there for some time, unable to steady the flow of my breath. My heart feels as though it’s beating out of my chest; my throat constricted and my temples throbbing. I am unable to shake the nervous tension which has enveloped me.

  I don’t hear back from the care home until later that evening. Beatrice had finished her shift so a barely interested Carly phones to tell me mother is OK now. She lashed out at a couple of staff members, but they had the situation under control once they were able to sedate her. I thank her and tell her that I will phone in tomorrow to see how she’s getting on.

  I realise the events of the past few days are my burden and my burden alone. I cannot share any of this with Janey. This feels very strange because I am used to being able to share everything with my wife and best friend. She doesn’t know a great deal about my upbringing. I’ve talked about my siblings and she knows that mother is now in a care home, but I have never gone into any great detail about how bad things were. Why would I? Ever since I left Skye all I have ever tried to do is move on from it and bury it as deeply as I possibly could. She knows I had a difficult relationship with father but a combination of me not wanting to delve into it and her not pressing me for information has meant we’ve only ever touched briefly on it.

  No, I must figure this out for myself. But how? My thoughts are with mother and I hope the sedation has been effective. Perhaps when she wakes this time, if she’s not reminded again of father’s visit, she might be able to put it behind her. I truly hope so.

  As I lay in bed, sleep only a whisper away, a noise rouses me, and I realise someone has texted me. My brain not fully functioning, I reach out to pick the phone up. It’s an unknown number and I feel the veil of sleep diminishing rapidly. Before I open the text, I note the time – 12:30 a.m. This had better be good. Who was trying to make contact at this time of night? I open the message to reveal a text which to an outsider would look perfectly normal, a concerned friend or relative perhaps. It read: ‘Is your mother OK, Thomas?’

  OK, you have my attention! Who has sent this text? George? But how would he have my number and how would he know about my mother and the incident at the care home? No, that makes no sense. No-one in the Borders could possibly know about mother and what happened today other than father and the staff at the care home. That had to be it, someone at the care home. They had my number and there is no way that father could have my number. Still extremely odd that someone at the care home would make contact at this time of night unless there was an issue with the mobile phone network and the text has only just filtered through.

  That’s it, no need to panic, it’s someone from the care home, it’s an innocent text. I resolve to answer in the morning and place the phone down then try to clear my mind for sleep. As I drift back down into that comfortable slummy state, another bleep sounds on my phone. I reach over and look at the screen; open the text and I see, ‘Thomas really, is she OK?’

  This is clearly not someone from the care home. Whoever this is, they are playing games with me. If I don’t answer, even if no further text appears, I know there’s no chance of any sleep coming.

  I am curious. I am curious and more than slightly alarmed as to your identity. However, there is always another option – to deflect and play it cool in the hope that whoever this is, they lose interest and make no further contact. Let’s try this tactic first. I reply, ‘Sorry you must have the wrong number.’ There. It’s sent. I switch the tone to vibrate and turn the sound down so Janey isn’t disturbed. I’ll wait for ten minutes or so and, if there’s no reply, I’ll switch the phone off and go to sleep.

  Five minutes pass and nothing. Then another five minutes pass and still nothing. OK you leave me no choice. ‘Who is this?!’ Another buzz, much quicker this time. ‘It’s your friend here, George. Your assistant Susie was kind enough to pass your phone number onto me earlier today when I told her I had tried to reach you at the office and was unable to get through to you. She was happy to release your number when I told her it was rather urgent and that I had a large sum of money to invest. Very obliging of her I must say!’ Fabulous. I can’t even be angry with Susie; I’ve always told her it’s OK to hand my personal mobile number out to clients if it’s urgent.

  So, George knows where I live, he knows where I work, and he has both my work and mobile phone numbers. He is not going anywhere anytime soon by the looks of it. But how on earth could he possibly have known about what happened with mother today? I rack my brains and come up with no plausible answer. He is forcing me to quiz him, and I imagine he is revelling in the power game he is playing.

  I type, ‘What do you mean by how is mother doing? What do you know about my mother?’

  He replies, ‘I had a chat with an old acquaintance of hers recently. I just wanted to know if she was doing OK. I was concerned for her welfare but all in good time, Thomas. I will be in touch tomorrow. I think you and I should meet up and we can discuss arrangements about your forthcoming trip up north.’

  My forthcoming trip up north?! I will not be railroaded into taking a trip with some random person from my past who is clearly more than slightly unhinged. (Having said that, I am only too aware that what he is saying is correct, I do have unfinished business up there.) I cannot think of any worthwhile response as he hasn’t listened to any of my recent protests, so I turn the phone off and lie down and once again wond
er if there’s any hope of sleep coming tonight.

  CHAPTER 4

  Bert

  L

  ife had suddenly become more interesting. I must say I was surprised when I answered the phone earlier in the week and heard George on the other end of the line. Well, there’s a ghost from the past! It had been quite a number of years since we’d last had any contact, I forget how long but then I forget quite a lot of things these days.

  “I need to make you aware of my plans, Bert,” he declares. A pause.

  “Well spit it out, man!”

  “I plan to bring Thomas back to Skye. He needs to know the full story about his past and I thought it was only right you should know. So, if you wanted to reach out to him whilst he’s here …”

  OK George, I am listening! However, he doesn’t stop there.

  “I will take him to see Mary too. He hasn’t seen her since he was a boy.”

  Now he has my full attention. I had to intercept this and get to Mary before those two did. There is no way that useless bitch is going to implicate me. She needs told to keep that mouth of hers sealed shut. I am sure that won’t be a problem. Lord knows what planet she is living on these days; probably doesn’t even know what day of the week it is.

  I need to play it cool though, act nonchalant so he doesn’t realise he has ruffled my feathers.

  “What are you hoping to achieve by bringing him back here?”

  “Not so fast, Bert, that’s for me to worry about. It is of no concern to you. Let’s be honest, when have you ever shown concern for the lad before? So let’s not pretend you’re suddenly interested now. However, that being said, you have a chance to make amends with him, should you so choose – hence the reason for my call.”

  He had a point. I never could be bothered with Thomas. He was a useless snivelling boy, not much use around the croft and always in the way when I was trying to give Mary a good seeing to. ‘Make amends.’ Ha! Not on your life! I ended the call with George just after his ‘make amends’ suggestion. I didn’t let onto him about my plans to go and see Mary. Yes, this could be fun paying her a wee visit, but would she still recognise me in her ‘demented’ state?

  I got up early the following morning filled with conviction. I just hope the old bat recognises me or this will have all been for nothing. I have never been one to concern myself with clothing but with an extra spring in my step, I find myself perusing through my wardrobe considering what would be just the right outfit for today’s tete-a-tete.

  OK I admit it, I have let things go around here. The croft is dilapidated at best. It is only just ticking over with government grant money but it’s an impossible job to sustain it with only me, myself & I. I had no option but to sell off some of the livestock to raise cash. All that I’m left with now are a handful of sheep, a highland cow, and some chickens. Things are grim and if I’m honest selling up is going to be the only option (that is if I can find a buyer).

  Never mind, not to worry, let’s focus on today. I have already phoned ahead and notified them of my intention to visit. I spoke with Beatrice. What a nosy cow that one is! “Oh, this is quite unexpected, Mr Taylor, it’s been quite a number of years since we last saw you. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly was it not when Mary first came to us?” What’s it got to do with her? I’m so tempted to give her a piece of my mind, but I rein it in when I realise in doing so she might refuse my visit. “Oh I know but my schedule is so busy, Beatrice. I’m running the croft singlehandedly.” “Quite, Mr Taylor, well that can’t be easy. Of course you can come and visit Mary. I’m sure she’ll be glad of a visitor. The visiting hours are 10–12 a.m. and 2–4 p.m.” “I’ll be there tomorrow at 10, thanks” and with that I hang up.

  Sunny Days Care Home is located in Portree, some 20 miles from Dunvegan. So, I have a half hour or so drive to ponder what I’m going to say to her when I see her … I pull up outside and feel my heart flutter. This is truly an alien feeling as I realise it’s a feeling of excitement, something I’ve not experienced for a very long time. As I recall, it is the same feeling I used to get many moons ago when I took great satisfaction in rattling Mary’s fragile cage. Oh, it feels good to be back in the saddle! And the fact that the outcome of this visit is going to result in an upset Thomas, well that is simply the icing on the cake!

  I find the staff room/reception close to the entrance and a young blond thing bearing the name Cindy greets me. She doesn’t look the full shilling, but I’d definitely give that one a good seeing to! I sign my name in the register and she leads me down the corridor. She is incessantly chatting about Mary’s welfare, how she slept last night and what she’s had for breakfast – as if I’m remotely interested. “Oh yes, wonderful,” I hear myself saying, playing along. I change my mind; this one would have to be gagged if I were to go anywhere near her.

  We round a corner and reach our destination. Room 14. Cindy tells me she’ll go in first ahead of me to check that Mary is OK to receive a visitor. I hear her tell Mary she has a visitor, but she doesn’t mention my name. That’s good, there’s no way she’d agree to the visit if she knew who was standing behind the door. I feel myself giddy with anticipation. Ooh her face when she sees me! It’s almost too much to bear! I remind myself however of why she’s in here and the fact she might not recognise me. The lovely Beatrice reminded me of this yesterday too. “Now don’t get upset, Mr Taylor, if she doesn’t recognise you, she has good days and bad.”

  I needn’t have worried … As I rounded her chair to move to face her, I stood before her and my only regret is not having photographic evidence to capture the look of pure horror which stole its way across her face. No matter, I’ll take a mental image and store this away in my mind so I can always recall it and recapture the feelings I have now as I stand before her. It all comes rushing back to me in waves. Oh, what I put this woman through! I knew it was wrong (well a small voice in my head told me that and it was easily silenced) but oh how good it felt!

  There doesn’t need to be any words spoken yet. We take each other in, lost in our own thoughts. Her, transported back to the times of the croft in her own personal hell and me Lord and master ruling over my domain and this pathetic excuse for a wife. Seeing her sitting there slumped in an oversized chair locked away in a care home because she’s losing her marbles somehow made her seem even more pathetic. Why didn’t I do this years ago? Well thank you George for making contact, you really have made my year, old chap. This visit wouldn’t have taken place had you not phoned me.

  She doesn’t utter a word, I didn’t expect her to, I had her very well trained. To be honest, back in the day she was better trained than our old sheepdog Jess and Jess was higher up in the pecking order. Yes, Mary knew her place and that was at the bottom rung of the ladder. I could sit down in the chair opposite which the delightful Cindy has clearly left out for me, but I choose to stand so I can tower over the wrench, assuming my position of power and authority.

  “Mary, look at me, woman,” I start, my voice menacing but I keep the tone low, so we don’t get disturbed. “How have you been, sweetheart?” I revel in the brief look of confusion as her features start to contort from abject horror to bewilderment. She really is an ugly specimen. In all the years we were together never once did I call her sweetheart, so the word had the desired effect. Perhaps she was considering if I was still a threat to her, as if the years had caused me to mellow out. If that were the case, I was soon going to clear that up.

  The thoughts in my head roll off my tongue, “You are an ugly bitch, Mary. No man will ever have you now. Ugly and insane, great combination! Take your eyes off the floor, woman, and look at me when I’m talking to you.” She does as she’s told. “Bet you can’t even wipe your own arse anymore, can you?! These poor bitches in here will soon be feeding you. What’s the point of it all, just give up and put yourself and the rest of us out of our misery. No matter, you shouldn’t be here too much longer. You’ve been here what, eight years? The average person with dementi
a lasts around 10 years so don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re on your way! I could always give you a helping hand along if you like, nothing is too much trouble.” I expect a reaction from the last statement and when I see none I start to wonder if she’s slipped away again into her inner world. OK Mary, we’ll coax you out, don’t you worry.

  “So, I’ve been chatting with George Traynor.” Was there a flicker of recognition there? I press on … “A most interesting conversation, Mary. He plans to bring Thomas back to Skye.” I leave it at that for the minute, my words starting to have the desired effect I’d hoped for. The mere mention of Thomas’ name and she shakes her fugue. Still no words from her but she is paying attention. “Yes, he tells me they’re going to take a trip down memory lane. Now, if either of them show up here and they have any questions for you, I need to make sure you keep that mouth of yours firmly shut! Got it?! There is a good chance George could mention something about February 1998. I need to know you are going to be a good girl and keep shtum! Shouldn’t be a problem. Looks as though the lights are on but no-one’s home.” I chuckle inwardly.

  The one thing I do know about dementia is there is a good chance she can’t remember what she ate for breakfast this morning but memories from even decades ago she will have stored. I bear witness to this as the face goes back to its original contorted state resembling both horror and fury. Oh, Mary, I didn’t think you had it in you. She even tries to prise herself from her chair but with her muscles clearly having wasted away from sitting for extended periods, she doesn’t make it far and a firm hand from me pressed down onto her shoulder pushes her back down. Things escalate from here. She screams a high-pitched wail, “Help me; help me,” and pushes a red panic button located on a box on the side of the table next to her.

  Within seconds Cindy appears with a matronly, plump-looking woman by her side. I read the name tag ‘Beatrice’ – figures! “What’s going on here, Mary? Are you OK?” Mary is babbling and is virtually undecipherable and it turns my stomach, the stupid bitch, she is making no sense. I want to tell Beatrice to hook her up to morphine and put her down once and for all. That wouldn’t be the done thing, would it? So I interject with deflection, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her! She was fine one minute and, the next, she went crazy. Have you got her on the right medication? You’re clearly not doing your jobs properly!”