Care For Me: A tense and engrossing psychological thriller for fans of Clare Mackintosh

by Farah Cook

  Nursemira: Meena, where have you been? I’ve been trying you for days.

  Thelonelymouse: Sorry love, but my father passed away. It’s been so hard coming to terms with his death.

  Nursemira: I’m so sorry. How are you now? Is there anything I can do?

  Thelonelymouse: Stay online. Chat.

  Nursemira: Of course, anything you need.

  Thelonelymouse: How is your mother? Is she doing better?

  I pluck up the courage to tell her the news about Mum.

  Nursemira: She is in a care home now. I saw her yesterday. It’s a long story . . .

  Thelonelymouse: I have time, tell me what happened. After everything you told me about her, I feel like I know her.

  I realise I am meant to meet Haroon in town to speak about Mum. I feel the sound of the clock move through my body like deep breath. I’d love to sit and chat with Meena. I don’t want to disappoint her. After all, she has been like a sister to me. But on the other hand, I can’t cancel on Haroon last minute. He has already taken a lot of time out of his busy schedule to speak with me.

  Thelonelymouse: Are you still there?

  Nursemira: Yes, I’m still here.

  Thelonelymouse: Now, tell me what happened.

  Nursemira: It wasn’t my decision. Mum was forced to leave. There was an incident with fire. The oven was in flames and the glass exploded. She gets very distressed when it comes to fire. Mum was fine but it alerted the neighbours and someone called the police. Somehow the social services were informed too. I suspect that my next-door-neighbour made the call. She complained about Mum before. You may remember I mentioned her.

  Thelonelymouse: Yes, you told me about the old dotty Mrs Nesbit. What a nosy old woman. I’m so sorry to hear about what happened. It sounds dreadful. How do you feel now?

  Nursemira: I’m fine. But I miss having her around the house. When I saw her yesterday, she seemed happy. I think it’s the right decision for her to be in a care home. Now and then I can’t help feeling, well . . . guilty.

  Thelonelymouse: Don’t, Amira. You know, this new change might be just what you need. My father was a wonderful man. I miss him every day. In the end, I was glad he went to live in a care home. It was a hard decision, but it made me appreciate him more.

  Nursemira: I must confess, I have been feeling less stressed and more at ease with Mum gone. Though I still carry the load of guilt like I’ve somehow disappointed her.

  I move my fingers away from the keyboard and sip my tea. I realise as I sit here chatting to Meena that I can’t let my feelings of failure betray me anymore. Meena is right about the new change in my life. It might just be what I need.

  Thelonelymouse: You are still a good person, Amira. Don’t let the guilt of not caring for your mother upset you. What happened wasn’t your fault. Try and take pleasure in the little things and think about what you can do now that you no longer care for your mother.

  Since Mum’s been away, I’ve been sleeping in. Mano wakes me now and then licking my fingers. He misses the treats she used to feed him. I still have to go through her old boxes, a feast for the charity shop. I’ll take it slow and get rid of her things.

  Thelonelymouse: Are you still online love? Take her a nice present, things you told me she likes. Perhaps her favourite food. It will make her happy. I did when I visited my father. Hello, Amira? Are you there?

  Nursemira: I’m still here. Funny you mention it. I brought her a fruit basket and new leather shoes. It made her happy . . . I think!

  Thelonelymouse: What’s wrong?

  Nursemira: I didn’t spend enough time with her.

  Thelonelymouse: Which care home is she at?

  I hesitate before typing. But then this is Meena. I can trust her.

  Nursemira: Ravenswood Lodge.

  Thelonelymouse: I heard about them. It’s supposed to be the best care home in Scotland. Quite a beautiful place, too. She is very lucky to get to live in such a sought-after location. People I know would do anything to have their parents in a care home like Ravenswood Lodge.

  It makes me feel good hearing Meena say that. It drowns out the constant guilt.

  Thelonelymouse: How do you afford it? I struggled paying for my father. I had to sell our family home in the end to pay the bills.

  Nursemira: I guess I’m very lucky because the council is paying.

  Thelonelymouse: That’s wonderful.

  Nursemira: I am so sorry for all you’ve been through, Meena. How are you?

  Thelonelymouse: I guess you can say I am managing. I’ve kept busy applying for jobs. Never thought I would have this much time. I went for an interview with a family. Live-in position. They’re looking for someone to help take care of their disabled son. A seven-year-old boy. He’s a real sweetheart.

  Nursemira: I hope you get the job. When will you know?

  There’s a pause. Meena starts typing, pause, then appears to retype.

  Thelonelymouse: They called this morning and offered me the job. I start right away.

  Nursemira: That’s wonderful news. Congratulations, I am so pleased for you. And a live-in position, too! That’s so exciting. Where will you be living?

  Meena knows everything about me. But I’ve never even asked where she’s from.

  Thelonelymouse: I’ll be moving to Inverness in couple of days. Isn’t that where you live? Anyway, I want to thank you. You helped me through a hard time when I was looking after my father. The conversations we shared meant a lot to me. I stopped feeling lonely. Made the right decision getting him into a care home. I’ve accepted life as it is. I am moving forward. We need more carers like you, Amira. You’ve been such a lovely friend to me. Someone I trust.

  Nursemira: Thank you. You’ve also been a great friend.

  Thelonelymouse: What are you going to do?

  Nursemira: I’m thinking of going back to university.

  Thelonelymouse: Really? That’s great!

  I am about to say I have to leave but then I see Meena is typing a message.

  Thelonelymouse: A friend just messaged me asking if we can have lunch together. I’d better go. I’ll be busy moving and in my new job.

  Nursemira: It’s time for me to go too. When are you online again?

  Thelonelymouse: Try me next week.

  Nursemira: OK, will do.

  Thelonelymouse: When are you paying your mum another visit?

  Nursemira: Not sure, why?

  Thelonelymouse: We could catch up in person next week when I’m in Inverness. Gotta go, love. Take care xx.

  Nursemira: Bye Meena. Xx

  She logs out, and I feel excited about meeting Meena. I have no idea what she looks like. We’ve only chatted online. Next time, I’ll ask for her number. It’s about time we met in person.

  Haroon walks into the restaurant and the wet air sweeps in with him. The rain that follows him in hits the glasses of an elderly man sitting nearby. He takes them off irritably and wipes them clean against his shirt, his stony grey eyebrows raised.

  ‘I do apologise, sir,’ he says in his usual polite manner. Before the elderly man puts his glasses back on he gazes into Haroon’s big brown eyes and murmurs. ‘No harm done.’ Haroon carries the innocent look of a deer: gentle and handsome.

  ‘Have you waited long?’ he says, as if he’s expecting me to be angry.

  ‘No, not at all.’ I watch him wipe the raindrops from his face. ‘I ordered you a coffee.’ He puts his coat on the chair before sitting across from me.

  ‘I can’t stay long.’ He leans in close and I feel his breath on my face. A soft tinge of something sweet and sticky. ‘I am on call from the hospital.’ He stares at the black liquid cupped in white ceramic.

  ‘I know, I am sorry,’ I sip my tea. ‘Thanks for coming. I’ll keep it brief.’ I stare at the large clock on the wall, my eyes fixed on the ticking. He slurps his coffee, his pinky finger raised.

  ‘I’ve heard back from Myrtle Brown this morning. She’s the head nurse in charge of runnin
g Ravenswood Lodge.’

  ‘We’ve already met, and I saw her again yesterday when I visited Mum.’

  ‘You’ve been to see her already?’

  I nod. ‘What did Mrs Brown share with you that she’s not sharing with me? Medical related worries I presume?’

  ‘Not at all. In her professional opinion, your mum seems to have settled in well. She says it’s all down to her personal nurse, a Pakistani woman. Do you remember me telling you she is a friend of my family down in Glasgow? He takes another slurp of his coffee. ‘Have you met her? Lovely lady.’

  I feel the pulse in my throat beat faster. ‘Oh, isn’t that nice.’ I tighten my grip around the mug. ‘She was off duty when I was there. But Mum spoke very highly of her. I can’t wait to meet her.’ I dunk the teabag a few times and watch the movement of water in my cup.

  ‘Things turned out well. Myrtle Brown sees no reason to be concerned. It’s the early phases of a change which normally causes fear and anxiety in the patients settling into a new environment. Right now, your mum is getting the best care anyone could ask for.’

  I sigh, feeling relieved that the news about Mum is positive. ‘And you were right from the start. I’m sorry I was ever in doubt about the care home. Mum could be happier living there than with me.’

  ‘The care home is very traditional, Mira. Close-knit community built on trust between the patients and the nurses. It’s a really calm setting.’ He sips the coffee and wipes his mouth. ‘It provides patients with framework and regular routines.’

  ‘You are right, after being out there and seeing things for myself—’

  ‘Your mother is lucky,’ he says.

  ‘When do you think I should I visit Mum again?’ I still feel bad about leaving her yesterday and the feeling that I somehow failed to care for her is still there. I glance at my phone. Nothing. I’m itching to give Mum a call. I’d like to meet this carer of hers. I cross my legs, unable to stop fidgeting. I finish my tea in one long gulp.

  ‘Give her some time – a couple more days. Maybe even a week.’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head. ‘Mum will go mad.’ Or perhaps I will. I feel curious about her carer. Is she as good as they say she is? No one cares for Mum more than I do.

  ‘I understand you’ve been caring for her a long time, just . . . try not to contact her at least for another day or two. She needs time to adjust. If you keep interfering with regular visits she may not fully settle.’

  ‘I see your point, but I already said I’d see her soon, perhaps—’

  ‘The more familiar she gets with the new change, the less she will depend on you. Once she accepts her new environment you can start to increase the visiting time.’

  I feel horrible for not calling her today. That’s the least I could do to fulfil my duty as her daughter. Part of me is terrified of what she might say. She will blame me, tell me she wants to come home. I wouldn’t know how to respond or what to say anymore. Her words still echo in my mind. Mimi, I will never forgive you if you leave me.

  ‘I won’t contact her then,’ I say. ‘If that’s what is best for her.’

  ‘And for you. Try to move slowly and steadily on from your mum.’

  Haroon knows the toll Mum’s presence had on our marriage during the early onset of her dementia. ‘Who are you and what are you doing with my daughter?’ she’d say. She’d then turn to me. ‘Why is this man sleeping in your bedroom? Who is he?’

  I pull out a glossy brochure and show it to Haroon. He widens his eyes then stares at me. He tilts his head to the side. ‘What’s this, Mira?’

  ‘I think I want to go back to uni.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ his fingers brush mine as he turns the pages. ‘It could be good for you to get your life back on track.’ His face turns red. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I mean.’ He hands back the brochure.

  ‘I understand and you’re so right,’ I deliver a soft smile. ‘I need to focus on myself.’

  ‘Nothing will give me greater joy than to see you go back to study.’ He meets my eyes with a deep, intense look.

  ‘Me too.’ We sit in a moment of silence gazing out the cobbled streets with people running, seeking shelter from the rain. ‘Nice of you to come here to meet me.’

  Haroon gets up, ready to leave. ‘I have to go. Do you still want Shaf to visit you next weekend?’ He furrows his brows into a tight knit.

  ‘Actually, I’ll be sorting the house out.’

  I have to rearrange things. I’ll start with Mum’s room, go through her boxes. Clear out the junk. It’s time I realise she isn’t coming back.

  I could turn her bedroom into a guestroom for Shafi so he can start staying with me again. On second thought, the house will be too big for just one person. Perhaps I’ll sell it, move into a small flat near Bank Street. I’d be closer to Shafi.

  ‘I’ll tell Shaf to call you. FaceTime.’

  ‘I miss him so much. Can you believe he’s grown up so fast?’ I smile.

  ‘He’s good at heart,’ says Haroon.

  ‘He gets that from you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for checking on me.’

  ‘See you around Mira.’ He starts off quickly down the street.

  I sit back a while staring at the brochure.

  Chapter 20

  AFRAH

  Friday, 29 November 2019

  The room I am in is strange. I do not recognise the shape of it. Certainly nothing familiar and nothing like home. It’s like some daunting space swallowing me. I wonder where I am. And I wonder how I came to be here. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed, keeping my body from falling into a slumber. I feel more tired than usual, and let myself slump into the mattress, the material itchy against my skin. My chest is wet. I wipe the layer of sweat into my chador and press it against my face. I’m hot. I had a bad dream. The images flicker in my mind where the same voice screams for me over and over.

  I open the bedside drawer. It is different. Spacious. Inside, I find my diary, gold bracelets and reading glasses. Quickly, I jot down my dream before it slips away. A tight feeling snakes around my chest. I put down the pen and bite my nails. Amira’s voice plays inside my head. Don’t do that Ami, please. I can’t help myself. Whenever I have a bad dream, I turn to my fingers like a child searching for comfort.

  I put on my glasses, shut the drawer. I yank back the pillow. No dirty knickers hidden behind it. I see a wardrobe and open it. All my shalwar kameez are on the hangers, and my other clothes neatly folded in the drawers. The bathroom door is ajar. I go in. There are pictures against the tiles of me and Amira. Damp and curled at the edges. Life Story Work pinned with my memories.

  I turn towards the mirror. My hands dig into the edge of the sink, strangling a scream. I look terrible. My hair is loose, flaring up on all sides. I touch the birthmark on my neck. I notice a purple bruise on the side of my cheek below my earlobe. How did that get there? I go out and scan the room again. I am not in my home. And this is not my bedroom. But why are my belongings here? I look for boxes on the top shelf. Boxes that contain fractured pieces of my memories. My past life. I panic. I want to scream. Instead, I let out a groan. They are not there. Where are the boxes? Amira! She must have taken them. Someone is turning the handle. I rush towards the door. A woman steps inside. It is not my daughter.

  ‘Where is she? Where is Amira?’ I realise I am shouting. Panic surrounds me. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m your carer, Zahra,’ she says and looks at me with compassion. ‘You have been living at Ravenswood Lodge Care Home for just over a week.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I want to make a break for the door but she has blocked it.

  ‘This is your new home. You live here now.’ She says in a calm voice.

  ‘This isn’t my home.’ My throat is tight. ‘I don’t live here.’

  ‘Do you remember your friend Nisha? She is also a patient of Ravenswood Lodge. Nisha has been with us since—’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t care.’ I try to push past her, but she doesn’t let me. ‘Let me go.’

  I feel the blood drain from my face. The room is spinning and I lose my balance and fall flat on the floor. She steps towards me. ‘Afrah, you tend to forget things, but don’t worry. I am here to help take good care of you. You are safe.’ I feel her presence next to me and do not move as she puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me up gently. She takes me into her arms and I sit up straight. She brings me a glass of water. I drink it quickly and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

  ‘The breakfast you had yesterday, pancakes with maple syrup, you liked it very much. How about I tell the cook to make it again this morning for you?’

  ‘Chup karo . . . shut, up!’ I scream. ‘I don’t like pancakes.’

  ‘Then I’ll make you traditional Pakistani breakfast myself, paratha and omelette.’

  ‘Will you do that?’

  She nods. ‘Everyone in the care home is talking about the new food smells and colourful flavours. Even the cook. She said, Zahra, what do you think about doing a curry night once a week?’ She delivers a kind smile. ‘And guess what you will be having for supper this evening? Korma. That’s right. It’s just for you.’

  I touch her face. It makes me feel better.

  ‘You remember me now don’t you, Afrah?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say feeling at ease. ‘I remember who you are.’ She has the face of an angel. She reminds me so much of my daughter, Amira.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything,’ she says in her politest Urdu, ‘ap fikar na kare.’

  Zahra places a cup of tea in front of me. The smell of cardamom and saffron. The colour bright and pink.

  ‘It’s a special blend from Pakistan.’ She pours herself a cup from the pot. ‘I just love Kashmiri chai, don’t you?’ I nod and blow softly on the surface of my steaming cup of tea. It instantly makes me feel calm. ‘How about tomorrow we have tea in the garden? It’s meant to be sunny, blue skies.’