by Farah Cook
About the Author
Farah Cook is a Danish writer of Pakistani descent. She grew up in Copenhagen with a creative and explorative childhood spent mostly outdoors. At the age of twelve, she began writing several short stories to fuel her passion for storytelling. Later, Farah graduated with a BA in social science from Sweden, an MA in arts from London and an MA in creative writing from the University of Surrey. Farah has lived in many countries, including Germany and New Zealand, but settled in London where she worked as a marketing manager for a large financial conglomerate. Her passion for storytelling remained, and at night she started to write all the things she’d imagine.
An alumna of the Faber Academy in London, Farah now lives in Bad Homburg, just outside Frankfurt, with her husband and two sons. She speaks six languages fluently including Danish, Swedish and German, and writes full-time.
Care For Me
Farah Cook
www.hodder-studio.com
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Hodder Studio An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Farah Cook 2021
The right of Farah Cook to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover image: Shutterstock
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN 978 1 529 36468 2
eBook ISBN 978 1 529 36466 8
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder-studio.com
To Chris, Ben and Noah
because of you, I am
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART TWO
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
PART THREE
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
PART FOUR
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
She comes down the hallway, leaving the front door open. I stand poised and watch her throw her bag onto the floor. Jennifer Rush’s crooning from the radio in the kitchen. She walks right past me. She doesn’t meet my gaze. I’m not sure she even knows I exist. The pressure cooker whistles and a starchy smell of rice moistens the air.
‘Where were you?’
No answer.
I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror at the other end of the hall. I catch my own gaze in it as I stride in her direction.
‘Answer me. Where did you go?’ She turns into the dining room, pulls back a chair and sits at the table set with empty plates and glasses. Her fingers toy with the table cloth, twisting it into a tight knot.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know where I went.’ The candle flickers, casting a shade on her face, which has turned pink. ‘You’ve known all along, haven’t you?’
‘Badtameez ladki. That’s not the way to speak to your mother. Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you to—’ I fall silent and watch her watch me.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do.’ Anger lingers like phantom threads between us.
‘What did you say?’ I loom over her, but she stands up and pushes the chair away with her foot. The table shakes, knocking over the candle. Thick smoke is coming from the kitchen. The smell of burning rice. But that’s not all. Something else is burning. I look down. Small ribbons of flames rise from the table top.
‘From now on, you don’t have to worry about me.’ She’s at the window looking out. The hazy summer light slips through the shutters, leaving shadows on the floor.
‘Why did you have to go with her?’ I go to stand beside her and place my hand on her shoulder. It feels warm, smouldering. Hot air begins to envelop us, makes its way into our lungs.
‘Tell me, why?’ I adjust my wool kameez.
‘Because,’ her beady eyes look directly into mine. ‘You stopped loving me.’
PART ONE
Mother
Daughter
Chapter 1
AMIRA
Thursday, 25 April 2019
It’s a dull day, rainy and wet. I park the car outside the local church, which is lending its room to the Carers Support Group. The woman at the Alzheimer’s Society office scrawled the address on a piece of paper when I went to see her. I crease it up and throw it inside my handbag.
I don’t even know why I am here. That’s a lie. I am here because Meena suggested I speak to a care group. It’s done wonders for her. I should turn around, it doesn’t feel right. Neither did chatting to strangers in online discussion forums. But being anonymous comes with its perks, and strange friendships can be found, like the one I formed with Meena. I don’t know her, but I instantly connected with her online and even gave out my real name, instead of holding onto my identity as Nursemira. It just seemed so impersonal. Now we chat every week and have become so close through exchanging daily episodes about our parents. I tell her personal things about Mum I never dreamed of telling anyone. She trusts me with things about her father. Sometimes I think that without Meena I’d have been lost.
When we last spoke, Meena encouraged me to contact the Alzheimer’s Society. ‘Do it for your own well-being,’ she said. ‘Or you will go insane.’
She has been a great support, and I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found her in the forum for carers. Two words lit up my screen, brightening my day: ‘Hello lovely.’ I’d know it was her – Thelonelymouse – and would proceed to pour my heart out, tell her things only another carer would understand. I realise burdening one person with the same issue is unhealthy. I need to talk to somebody other than Meena, who is going through what I am. Somebody who understands my situation. That’s why I need to attend the Carers Support Group.
I head through an arched corridor, gently knock on the door to my left and enter. Five
people are sitting in a circle of chairs. An older man in a shirt, bow tie and trousers introduces himself to me as John Buchanan. He immediately pulls out another chair as if he’s been expecting me. It’s a cosy room, lit with bright fairy lights that fill the space like shimmering glitter. There’s a table in the corner with tea, coffee, water and biscuits. I make myself a cup of tea, take a seat and listen to the man in his mid-forties talk about his mum. He scratches at his beard the entire time, looks down at the floor. When he’s done, a woman, perhaps younger than me, starts talking about her dad. She dabs her eyes and blows her nose with a Kleenex. Tells the strangers in the room how much she loves him, but that she simply can’t care for him all by herself anymore.
‘It’s just so hard, d’ya know what I mean? I’m so drained most days – physically and emotionally. I hardly have any contact with my friends. Dad needs constant attention. I worry that he’ll hurt himself, d’ya know what I mean?’ She pauses and looks at John, who nods understandingly. ‘I’ll never be able to forgive myself if anything were to happen to Dad. Never.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asks the man sitting next to her. He reveals a forehead full of deep creases as he pushes back his hair. A woman with a short crop leans in and asks the same question.
‘My brother has agreed to move in with us. He wants to help care for Dad.’
‘Good for you, Susan,’ says John. ‘You’re finally getting the support you need.’
Susan wants to go on. But now John looks over at me. He expects me to introduce myself, and confess the thoughts that I carry around like a bag of bricks.
I inhale the stale air and take a good look at the unfamiliar faces. They suddenly don’t seem so unfamiliar anymore. They must feel the same way I do, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. I get an it’s OK nod from John. I clear my throat
‘Hello, my name is Amira Khan.’ I pause. I always forget to use my maiden name. ‘Malik. I’m Amira Malik and I’m thirty-eight. I have been caring for my mum for about seven years since she was diagnosed with dementia. I have lived with her ever since my dad died.’ I pause again, feeling the relief easing from my chest. I don’t mention the time I lived with Haroon. That time is a distant memory.
‘When she was diagnosed, they said she might have had dementia for longer, but the signs could have just been related to her age. Mum turns seventy-six this year. I don’t have siblings or relatives. We are alone and have been ever since my teenage son decided to move in with my husband. Ex-husband, I mean.’
‘What was the reason your son—’ John furrows his brows. ‘What I mean to ask is did he move because of your mother? Teenagers can be quite sensitive to people with dementia.’
‘No, I don’t believe him going had anything to do with Mum. Nothing like that,’ I hear myself lie. Shafi was annoyed. He was devastated that Nano was becoming forgetful. She’s stopped recognising me, he used to say.
‘It was getting too cramped for us all living under the same roof in a small, two-bedroom house. He’s a typical thirteen-year-old and needed space, a room of his own. I’m sure you all understand—’
‘Aye, I get that,’ says Susan. ‘My boy lives with his dad, too. And I was never married. Tony is my ex and—’ Susan pauses, catching herself. ‘I’m sorry, Amira, you were talking.’ She gestures for me to continue, her face screwed up in apology.
‘It’s OK.’ I need a break. But really, I want to go home. I feel guilty for being here. Meena told me not to let my guilt get to me. Haroon said that too. I can’t help it. Talking about Mum in a support group makes me feel I am doing something terribly wrong. ‘Actually . . . where is the loo?’
‘To the left in the hallway,’ says John.
As I leave, an echo of Mum’s voice rings in my ears.
‘Where is Shafi? And who is that boy?’ She’d point a sharp finger at him. ‘Don’t want him in the house. Tell him to leave.’
She started to forget that Shafi had grown up. She never grasped the concept that he was no longer the sweet little boy stuck in her memory. Shafi started to spend more and more time away, making excuses not to come home and staying at Haroon’s place more often. And whenever I’d ask him what was going on, he ignored me. But I knew he was frustrated with Mum who had started to treat him like a stranger.
‘Get out,’ she’d say when he’d come home. ‘Out of our house.’
‘Make Nano stop, please,’ he would plead. How could I? The only thing I know how to do is making sure Mum is alright. I never saw that Shafi wasn’t. And neither am I.
The corridor out of the room is dark, and the tube bulb in the ceiling is flickering. At the far end of the exit a shadow stands watching. Then I hear the clacking of heels start to echo down the corridor. The shadowy figure is getting closer. I spot a dark grey door to my left pressed into the whitewashed walls. I jerk on the handle and rush into a storeroom, full of boxes and cartons. A statue of Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus sits on the floor.
My heart pounds faster. The clacking stops. I place my ear on the door and hear a loud, heavy breath coming from the other side. Like something is out to swallow me. The air catches in my lungs. Beads of sweat trickle down my face. I step away from the door and manage to grab hold of Mary’s head with the tip of my finger as it tips over. The sound of footsteps fade and somewhere a door slams shut.
I twist the handle open. The hallway is empty and the light from the ceiling no longer flickers, but illuminates down the long corridor. Did I imagine somebody was here? Whenever I am alone and in dark places, I tend to imagine things that aren’t real. It started when I was little, alone in my bed. I used to scream and Mum would come running. I used to think spiders crawled all over my bed.
I gather myself together, pulling back my hair, breathing deeply. I decide to go back to the room, even though my heart is still racing. I take a seat back in my chair and feel John’s gaze deepening. He takes a sip from his cup and encourages me to go on. I hesitate. Can I trust that what I say will stay sealed between these walls? John assures me that everything we choose to share is confidential.
‘How’s your social life?’ he asks. ‘Do you see your friends much?’
‘When I told my friends that Mum was diagnosed,’ I say, wringing my hands, ‘they felt sorry for me – said it’s going to be hard caring for her full-time. I don’t speak to any of them anymore.’
‘That’s just like my friends. D’ya know what I mean?’ Susan asks. John stares at her. He signals that she should let me continue. ‘Sorry, go on Mira or is it A-mira?’ she glares at me with wide eyes.
‘Amira,’ I smile.
‘Sorry.’ Heat flashes to Susan’s cheeks.
‘Lately, I feel more and more frustrated. Mum’s condition worsened. She won’t let me help her in the bathroom. She doesn’t want my help showering. She shuts the door right in my face when I try to.’ I am trying to follow Meena’s advice, I’m trying to open up. It does feel cathartic. ‘She often walks around wearing her nightgown. Sometimes for days because she refuses to get changed. Drawers are left open, clothes will be on the floor. She stopped wearing underwear, says she can’t find any. But I always find them stuffed underneath her pillow.’ I stop myself from saying more. Looking around, I realise I don’t need to reveal the reasons why Mum does what she does. They understand. They’ve been down that road.
‘How are you helping your mum overcome some of these issues?’ asks John.
‘I smile when I speak. I try to remain calm. But it’s not easy.’
Meena says Smile and the world smiles with you. I’d heard this quote before. I can’t remember how it feels to be truly happy, or the last time I really smiled. I don’t know if Mum and I feel anything for one another. Love, hate, disgust even.
‘And what are some of the things you do that could improve her memory?’
‘I’m helping her do Life Story Work, which helps her recognise her past. I’ve hung pictures of us in her bedroom. I plan to put up more. Perhaps a picture of my dad and
my son. Mum doesn’t remember them. I also want to write down her favourite foods and music. Perhaps familiar places she feels connected to. Anything to evoke her memories from the past. She can’t remember what happens day to day. Isn’t able to grasp time, as in, when things have happened. Mum refers to today and yesterday as the other day. And any the other day is the same. I want to give her a journal. She likes to write things down. Likes reading. I want Mum to use it so that she doesn’t have to repeat everything. Even the smallest things she writes on her hand.’
‘What does she like reading?’ asks John.
I pause, blow at the surface of my tea before I take a sip. He offers me a biscuit, which I take.
‘The newspaper. She is obsessed with reading it. Mum doesn’t watch the news on telly, and I know it’s because she can’t recall anything she sees blinking on the screen. But I can’t drive to town to get her the daily newspaper, I simply don’t have the time for it. The Inverness Courier is biweekly. She’ll read it and highlight all the headlines in yellow marker, often. She’s searching for a fictional story about a young girl she says went missing—’
‘Me dad cuts papers,’ the heavy man sitting on the far left of the room says. ‘Newspapers, letters, cards. You name it, he keeps all the scraps and bits.’ He coughs. ‘He don’t live with me and me family no more. It’s his carer who tells me he won’t stop cutting things.’
‘Anything else you want to share with us Amira?’ John rolls the ‘r’ in my name as if he knows me well already. I feel like he’s giving me special attention. Perhaps it’s because I am new.
‘Mum likes food. She used to be a wonderful cook, but I can’t let her do the grocery shopping. She forgets things and buys too much, and it goes to waste. We’ve also had incidents where she picked food up from the store and started eating it right there and then. So I try to go during her afternoon naps. That’s the only time I have to get things done around the house. She always wants to know what we’re eating. Refuses to eat takeaway. Insists she has to do the cooking herself. We’ve had some minor accidents in the kitchen. Nothing serious. I wouldn’t allow her in there cooking on her own.’