Things I Should Have Said and Done

by Colette McCormick

  My mother was one of the old breed. In the house, my mother wore a pink polyester housecoat over a floral dress and fluffy mules on her feet. It didn’t matter if she was only going to clean the toilet, she always wore those clothes and a full face of make-up. So who was this woman before me wearing a pair of grey jogging trousers with a baggy T-shirt hanging loose over the top of them?

  And she was watching television. My mother never watched television during the day. Even when I was a child, the television was never switched on before six o’clock when she and Dad would watch the news. I was the only kid in my class who didn’t watch Blue Peter and didn’t understand the fuss when Shep died.

  It was hard to tell if Mum was actually watching the programme or if she was just staring at the box. On the screen was one of those American shows where a mother introduces the child from hell who goes backstage to return through a mist a totally changed person.

  ‘What does it matter what she wears, you stupid cow?’ my mother suddenly shouted. Apparently, she was watching it. ‘So what if she’s the size of a house and dresses like a tart? What does it matter?’ she screamed. ‘At least she’s alive.’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she used the heel of her hand to scrub them away. She had leaned forward to spit the words but then she flopped back in her seat as if all of her energy was used.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked, viewing from a safe distance. George said nothing as I circled my mother slowly, taking her in from all angles.

  ‘Mum,’ I said cautiously. ‘Mum.’

  ‘You silly cow.’

  I was shocked by her outburst. I couldn’t take my eyes from her even though what I saw distressed me.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be making Dad’s tea?’ I suggested, even though I knew she probably wouldn’t hear the words.

  I was braver now and moved closer. ‘What’s wrong with her, George?’ I asked, my face only inches from hers.

  ‘She’s your mother.’ His voice came from over my shoulder. I knew he was nearby and was looking at her too.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked her.

  ‘It means that she’s your mother, not mine, so you know her and I don’t. But if I had to take a guess I’d say she still hasn’t come to terms with your loss.’

  ‘But it’s been months.’ I hesitated momentarily. ‘Hasn’t it?’

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he conceded.

  ‘But she’s such a strong person,’ I told him. ‘Nothing ever fazes her.’

  ‘She’s never had to deal with anything like this before.’ His voice was close and I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  ‘I should’ve come earlier,’ I said. I leaned backwards to stretch my back. ‘I’ve been so worried about Naomi and Marc that I didn’t think to see her again.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for putting them first,’ George consoled.

  ‘Look at her, George.’ He said nothing. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘That she was like this.’

  ‘How could you?’ He crouched on his haunches beside my mother.

  ‘Because she’s my mother.’

  ‘And you’ve been dead before?’

  I looked at him. He stood up and took my hands in his.

  ‘It was ten years before my mother could go into the room I’d slept in when I was a lad and I hadn’t lived at home for six years before I died. It’s not natural for a mother to bury her child.’ He looked towards my mum. ‘She brought you into the world; she never expected to see you out of it. If you’d been ill she might’ve been able to prepare herself, but the way you and me went, one minute we were there and the next we were gone. I’d had a cheese and pickle sandwich in the afternoon and that night I was dead. How does a mother prepare herself for that?’ He looked at my mother with compassion. ‘How could she prepare for that?’

  I too looked at my mother. ‘Did your mother ever get over it?’ I croaked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not really.’ He let my hands fall and walked away. ‘She said it was the happiest day of her life when she died.’

  ‘What?’ I could see there were tears in his eyes.

  George couldn’t maintain eye contact. He looked away as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘She was nearly ninety when she came over, but when I saw her she looked nearer sixty. She had a smile on her face and looked better than I’d seen her in years. She wept in my arms. My dad was with me but it was me she was pleased to see.’

  I looked at my mother again. ‘Will she be like that?’ She had stopped wiping the tears away, allowing them to fall freely.

  Again, George’s only response was a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Oh God, Mum,’ I whispered.

  The front door opened and closed a few seconds later.

  ‘It’s me, Peg.’ My dad sounded weary. When he came into the living room I could see his face was as weary as his voice. He stood in front of his wife.

  I moved towards him. ‘Look at her, Dad,’ I said.

  We were both looking at her but she was completely alone. Her eyes were fixed on the television screen, where the original mother and daughter had been replaced by a new pair.

  ‘Have you eaten, Peg?’ Dad asked.

  It was as if she hadn’t realised he was there.

  ‘What?’ she said, looking up from the screen and finally acknowledging his presence.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Dad sounded so tired.

  ‘Look at this, Brian,’ she said, throwing her hand towards the television and ignoring Dad’s question. ‘They’re complaining because their daughters are fat or dress like tarts …’

  ‘Peg.’

  ‘Like it makes any difference.’ She paused as a sob caught in her throat. ‘Don’t they realise …’

  Dad turned away. ‘You need to eat.’

  ‘Why?’ she snapped.

  I was inches away from my dad and could see the pain painted all over his face.

  ‘I’ll make you something,’ he said.

  I stood behind my dad and watched his clumsy efforts to prepare a meal. The kitchen had always been his wife’s domain and was alien to him. I had never seen my dad prepare food before, not even toast, and it clearly didn’t come naturally to him. Food debris was scattered over the work top, which was something my mother would never have allowed. He seemed to be using every pot, pan, plate, and bowl available.

  ‘Dad, your pan’s boiled dry.’ I tried to warn him but he carried on, totally oblivious to the burning smell. ‘Dad,’ I said. Still, the pan burned. ‘Dad!’ I shouted.

  At last, he sensed that something was wrong and lifted the lid of the saucepan that sat on the front burner. He dropped the lid onto the floor as steam rose and burnt his forearm.

  ‘Bugger,’ he exclaimed as he jumped back. He grabbed hold of the pan by its handle but dropped that too as it burnt his hand. ‘Shit.’

  I had never heard him use even the mildest of swear words yet here he was cursing twice in a minute. Was this what my death had brought him to?

  ‘You OK, Dad?’ I stood beside him at the sink as he held his hand under the running water. He lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest.

  ‘Peg,’ he said through gentle sobs.

  ‘You’ve got to help her, Dad.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘You have to get her help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How am I supposed to help her when she won’t let me near her?’

  I was surprised when he turned his head ever so slightly towards me. I looked at George to gauge his reaction. He gave a shrug.

  ‘She needs a doctor,’ I said.

  ‘She won’t see a doctor.’

  ‘You have to make her.’

  He looked at his hand where it still rested under the running tap. ‘I’ve told her a thousand times she needs to see a doctor but when does she ever listen to me?’

  ‘You have to make h
er listen to you.’

  ‘I’ve never met a woman as stubborn as her.’

  ‘What about the priest?’ It seemed the most natural conversation in the world, but was it a proper conversation? Probably not, but it felt like one.

  ‘She’s given up the church so I can’t even call the priest.’ Dad’s voice was weary.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘If she won’t see a doctor or a priest what about Aunt Lizzie?’

  ‘Even Lizzie’s stopped coming round. Probably sick of getting her head bitten off.’

  ‘Make Aunt Lizzie come and talk to her. Tell Aunt Lizzie you need her help. She’ll help if you ask her to.’

  He turned the tap off and dried his hand on a tea towel that hung over the back of a chair. ‘I might give Lizzie a ring tomorrow and tell her I need her help.’

  ‘No, Dad,’ I urged, ‘not tomorrow, tonight. Why don’t you ring Aunt Lizzie tonight?’

  A few seconds later he looked at his watch, and to the telephone on the wall.

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Ring her now.’

  To my amazement, he did. He leaned against the fridge and waited for the connection to be made.

  ‘Oh, hello, Paul … yes, I’m all right,’ he said without conviction. ‘Well, she’s not so good. In fact, that’s why I’m ringing. I was hoping to have a word with Lizzie … It doesn’t matter then, I’ll call back later … Oh, only if you’re sure.’

  Dad looked at the devastation that was the kitchen. From that he turned and looked through the open doorway, presumably at my mother. Then he turned his whole body and stood with his back to his wife.

  ‘He looks so tired,’ I whispered to George.

  ‘Oh, hello, Lizzie,’ Dad said, forcing himself upright. ‘I’m really sorry to interrupt your tea … Well, it’s like I was saying to Paul, she’s not too good. She’s just sitting in front of the telly … No, I couldn’t tell you the last time she went out. If it wasn’t for the neighbours we’d starve. In fact, I couldn’t tell you the last time she got dressed. All she wears is a pair of bloody tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, day after day. I don’t think they’ve ever been washed.’ He ran his hand over his head. ‘I don’t know what to do, Lizzie. She won’t see a doctor, she won’t see the priest … I was wondering if you could talk some sense into her?’ He sounded embarrassed. ‘I know you did, Lizzie, and I don’t blame you for not coming round but I think the time for treading on eggshells has passed … We’ve got to stop worrying about her feelings and concentrate on her sanity. I don’t know what Ellen would think if she could see her … Would you? Oh, thanks, Lizzie … I can’t tell you how grateful I am … All right, love, I’ll see you then.’

  As he replaced the receiver I noticed that his face had lost some of its weariness. He looked again at the kitchen’s mess and shook his head.

  ‘Bugger it,’ he said.

  He walked over to the cooker and made sure that the burners were off before leaving the room.

  We followed him through the doorway. Dad had never been what you’d call a decisive man, preferring to leave that sort of thing to his wife. I was seeing him in a different light.

  ‘Think we’ll have fish and chips tonight,’ he said, reaching for the coat he had thrown over his chair. As he put it on he said, ‘Lizzie and Paul are coming round tomorrow night.’

  ‘Why?’

  He was buttoning his coat when he said, ‘Paul and me are going for a pint and you and Lizzie are going to have a natter.’

  ‘What have we got to natter about?’

  ‘You used to have plenty.’

  ‘She hasn’t been to see me in weeks,’ Mum sneered.

  ‘Have you been to see her?’

  I would have expected her to have some reply even if it was only something like ‘How dare you talk to me like that?’

  Dad felt in his pocket, presumably checking that his wallet was there. ‘Do you want haddock or cod?’ he asked.

  She looked at him as if she hadn’t understood. ‘Whatever you’re having,’ she answered.

  ‘Haddock, then.’

  ‘She hates haddock,’ I told George out of the corner of my mouth.

  ‘You could put the kettle on while I’m gone,’ Dad said over his shoulder. ‘Peg, kettle,’ he reminded her before he left the house.

  Mum sat for a few minutes before heaving herself out of the chair in stages. Slowly, she made her way to the kitchen with what was more of a shuffle than a walk. To get to where she was going she had to pass inches from me and I moved backwards into George. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen. I stood at her shoulder and looked at the kitchen with her. Armageddon came to mind. There were pots and pans everywhere.

  Mum made as if to back away. She half turned and without knowing it, her face was almost touching mine.

  ‘Go on,’ I whispered. ‘Put the kettle on.’

  My eager eyes locked her weary ones briefly before she turned back and walked into the chaos.

  She moved to the end of the bench to a spot that had escaped Dad’s devastation and plucked the kettle from its stand. She took five steps to the right, which brought her to the sink and turned on the cold tap. It seemed a struggle for her to turn the tap off and she pulled the kettle away to avoid overfilling it. She made the journey back, this time taking six steps. She placed the kettle onto its stand and retraced her steps. This time it took seven.

  She placed her hands on its edge and stared into the sink. George and I were now either side of her and we saw what she saw: nothing. She stared into the empty sink for a couple of minutes. Eventually, she reached over and took the plug from where it rested on its chain and pushed it firmly into the hole. She picked up the bottle of washing up liquid, turned it upside down, and squeezed. The top was still on the bottle but the pressure forced it off and a huge spurt of green liquid dropped out. Mum turned on the tap and as the water hit the detergent, masses of bubbles started to form. But Mum was oblivious to this as she was concentrating on the saucepans that sat on top of the stove. Like she had with the sink, she was giving the saucepans far too much attention. All the time she was looking at them, water was pouring out of the taps. Bubbles were almost at the top of the sink, then they were at the top, then they were over the top and running down the front of the cupboard door. By the time Mum had turned back to the sink with a saucepan in her hand there was water and bubbles flowing onto the floor.

  She moved without urgency to turn the tap off. She stood with her bare feet covered in soapy water and laughed.

  ‘What’re you laughing at, Mum?’ I asked. Of course, she didn’t have an answer.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, the laughter stopped and there was silence. George and I looked at each other.

  What happened next started as a moan, a low sound somewhere deep inside my mother that gained both sound and ferocity until it came out of her mouth as a scream. She made the noise again and once more before stopping. Then the crying started. Like the noise, the crying started quietly and evolved until she was sobbing and her body was shaking. Oddly, no tears fell from her eyes.

  ‘Why?’ Mum asked. She lifted her right hand and thumped it into the water, sending suds flying. Some landed on her hair and her face but she seemed not to notice. ‘Why?’ she asked again.

  ‘Why what?’ I moved my hand to wipe away the suds from her face.

  ‘Why did it have to be you?’ she shouted.

  I felt myself start to shake.

  ‘Why couldn’t it have been me? Why not me? I would have gone if you could have stayed. Why did He have to take you? Why did the bastard have to take you?’

  I watched in horror as she leaned forward, resting her stomach on the sink’s edge. Water and suds lapped against her, wetting her clothes.

  She was stood like that when Dad came back.

  ‘So, Peg,’ he called as he made his way through to the kitchen. ‘Is the tea re …?’ The sight stopped him in his tracks. ‘Oh, Peg,’ he said gently as her set the paper-wrapped parcel on th
e table. Then he moved towards her, stopping to pull the plug from the sink. ‘Come here,’ he said. He held her at arm’s length. He tried but failed to smile. He put his hands on her shoulders as if to pull her to him but she pushed him away.

  ‘Why? Why did it have to be her?’

  ‘I don’t know, love,’ Dad said tenderly.

  ‘It’s not fair.’ Mum said through the sobs that were now accompanied by tears.

  Dad did pull her to him this time and put his arms around her. ‘No, it’s not fair.’ He squeezed a little tighter and she sobbed a little harder.

  ‘Can we go?’ I asked George. ‘I can’t watch this.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We had sat in silence for a long time. What we had witnessed at my parents’ house had left me feeling … what? What was it? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know what it was but I knew I didn’t like it.

  ‘That was horrible.’ I said.

  George didn’t reply but when I looked at him I saw he was looking at me. George had lovely eyes.

  ‘Was it like that for you?’

  ‘Seeing my mum a wreck? Yeah, course it was. How could it be any other way? You know, there’s this woman who’s always been there for you, and the one time she really needs you there’s nothing you can do. I couldn’t stand watching her most of time.’ Those eyes were looking at me again. ‘I wanted her to get over it. I was dead and it didn’t matter how much she cried, I was still going to be dead. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get over it.’ I could feel his sadness as he spoke.

  ‘Gran says she’ll never get over it,’ I told him. ‘She said that Mum will blame herself forever.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What, apart from the fact she threw a wobbly at me seeing Megan?’ He looked embarrassed as he nodded. I took a deep breath. ‘She’ll think she’s being punished.’

  ‘For Lizzie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your mum was wrong, you know,’ he said brushing a stray hair away. ‘The pain was just as real for Lizzie when …’ he stopped himself. ‘But you’ll know that.’

  I nodded. I had grieved for my lost baby for months and thought about him every day. I wondered how my aunt had coped with thinking of her lost babies every day.