‘Walk?’
‘Yes, but the little one had no goat.’
‘No coat?’
‘Yes, she didn’t have one. And her mother was talking and talking. She was kind to her but it was as if . . . she didn’t realise. How cold it was. So I gave Marie my jumper and said: you can come and see me whenever you like.’
‘Did she recognise you?’
‘Yes, definitely. I often saw her in the . . . scarewell.’
‘And did she come?’
‘Yes, a few days later she knocked. I was . . . so . . . But what could I do? She had some dinner and then went home. But she came back . . . many times . . . She slept over too. And later she was with me nearly all the time.’
‘Didn’t you contact social services?’
‘No, I thought about it, but I also thought about that word, you know . . . the word . . . that scares people.’
‘What word, Michka?’
‘The one that . . . tells on . . . A ver— . . . a ver— . . . a verb.’
‘Inform?’
‘Yes, inform. That was undrinkable. I didn’t have the heart to . . . Her mother was trying to . . . get out . . . she was so . . . you know? She came to sleep at my place sometimes too. Some days she was absolutely fine, sometimes for quite a while. And then she’d look after the little one.’
‘And now?’
‘She’s dead . . . Marie had just come of sage.’
‘Of age?’
‘That’s right. There was an . . .’ (She hunts for a word but can’t find it.) ‘In the car.’
‘An accident?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then you looked after her?’
Silence enfolds us.
‘All this brings back painful memories for you, doesn’t it, Michka?’
‘Yes, but now it’s . . . something else . . . You know? Quite . . . differ— . . .’
‘Ah yes, I see. Now Marie’s pregnant and doing well, and that’s great, isn’t it?’
‘But I won’t be able to tell him.’
‘Who?’
‘The baby. I wanted to tell him stories like a . . . a . . . a . . . Oh, you said it just a minute ago.’
‘A grandmother?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why won’t you be able to tell him stories like a grandmother?’
‘Too much . . . exhaust . . . and I’m so . . . tired. Aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m OK, Michka, I’m not tired. But it’s fine if you are. You’ve done a lot of talking today. But you’ve seemed a bit sad lately, am I right?’
‘You know, the cleaning lady brought me choux . . .’
‘Shoes?
‘No . . .’
She touches thumb to index finger and looks at me with a little hint of mischief through the hole this makes.
‘Sweets?’
‘No . . . in the shape of a . . . ring.’
‘Choux buns?’
‘That’s it! Would you like one?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a little one. And then we’ll stop for today, OK?’
‘And do you have any children?’
‘Ah no, Michka. I’d have liked that, but I got divorced before I had any.’
‘Really? And you haven’t got a new one?’
I can’t help laughing.
‘You’re very inquisitive, Michka! No, no “new one”, to tell the truth.’
‘Now, about your father . . .’
‘Ah, that was a long time ago.’
We look at each other for a moment and I smile.
‘I was thinking. Maybe you should . . . write . . . It would be a jest . . . a gesture.’
‘I’ll think about it, Michka. Why are you so bothered about this business with my father?’
‘It’s you.’
‘What do you mean, it’s me?’
‘You’re the one who’s pothered.’
‘No, no, come on. Don’t worry. Did your medication get sorted out?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. They’ve . . . brought forward . . . my ten o’clock. That’s fine.’
‘Right, I’m going to let you rest. See you on Thursday, OK?’
I’m a speech therapist. I work with words and silence. The unsaid. I work with shame and secrets and regrets. I work with absence, vanished memories and the memories that resurface at the mention of a name, an image, a perfume. I work with old pain and pain that endures. Confidences.
And the fear of death.
That’s part of my job.
What still surprises me, stuns me even, what can still take my breath away after ten years in the job, is how long childhood pain lasts. It leaves a burning, incandescent scar in spite of the years. It can’t be erased.
I look at my old people. They’re seventy, eighty, ninety. They tell me their distant memories. They talk about ancient, ancestral, prehistoric times. Their parents have been dead for fifteen, twenty, thirty years, but the pain of the child they once were is still there. Intact. You can see it clearly on their faces and hear it in their voices. I see it pulse in their bodies and their veins. A closed circuit.
When I arrive, I find her highly agitated. She’s standing in the middle of the room on the verge of tears of rage. Her room’s uncharacteristically untidy, as though she’d tried to move the furniture around but given up before she finished.
I knock and tiptoe in.
‘Hello, Michka, how are you?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘You seem angry?’
‘It’s the care assistant. She always appears from nowhere . . . Without knicking and she always wants to . . . eat everything.’
‘The care assistant?’
‘Yes.’
‘She comes in without knocking?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need to speak to her, Michka. The same with the cleaner. And if she doesn’t do as you ask, you should speak to the director.’
She sits down in her chair.
‘But I can’t say it, and so she doesn’t understand. Even when I’m in the . . . the . . . she roils up just like that.’
‘Do you want me to speak to her?’
‘No, no, don’t do that. She’ll get angry. But what about you?’ (She sizes me up.) ‘You look sad.’
Old people are like children. You can’t hide anything from them.
‘Do you think so? No, everything’s fine, I promise.’
‘Speaking . . . is so diffu— . . . it’s tiring, you know.’
‘I understand, Michka.’
‘The other day . . . I had a . . .’ (She makes an odd gesture with one hand pointing to her head.) ‘I’d like to tell you . . . but it’s too far.’
‘A dream?’
‘Yes, but bad.’
‘A nightmare?’
‘Yes, with the . . . big cheese . . . She wanted me . . . vamoosed.’
‘You’ve been anxious recently, Michka. Have you spoken to the care assistants?’
‘No, I can’t . . . show weakness to the officers . . . Definitely not.’
She walks round the room, then turns to me.
‘I wanted to say . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the . . . It’s not what it was, you know. It’s much less . . . and I forget the . . . So everything is . . . lest . . . lost . . . It makes me . . . fraid.’
‘It makes you afraid?’
‘Yes, but . . . also cold.’
‘Has Marie been to see you?’
‘No, that’s over. She’s . . .’ (She holds her hand horizontal.) ‘The doctor.’
‘She has to stay in bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
‘Full term.’
‘Until the birth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, that’s a nuisance. But if it’s for the good of the baby . . . And I’m sure she calls you often to give you news.’
‘Yes, but I . . . I can’t.’
‘On the phone?’
‘Yes, it’s too fa
r.’
‘I understand. But that won’t be for too much longer. Then Marie will be able to come and see you. Maybe even before the birth. Shall we do a little bit of work, if you’re up for it?’
‘All night.’
‘I’ve brought some objects for a new exercise today. I want you to tell me what they’re for and how you’d use them. All right?’
‘All night.’
She looks at the things I take out of my bag with curiosity. One of them is a pad of writing paper that I put down in front of her.
‘Ah, it’s for . . . fetters . . . letters.’
‘Very good. And? . . .’
‘It’s a . . . tad.’
‘A pad, yes, which is used for . . .’
She makes a writing gesture but can’t find the word.
I go on.
‘For writing letters.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Can you explain what you do?’
‘You take a . . . then you open a . . .’ (She mimes taking the top off a pen.) ‘And there you are.’
‘Perfect. Watch carefully. What do I do before I start writing?’
‘You slide . . . the . . . lines . . .’
‘Exactly, I slip the guide under the sheet so that I can write straight.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Then, when you’ve finished the letter, what do you do?’
‘You . . . slide it in.’
‘In what?’
‘The en— . . . entilope?’
‘The envelope. And then you go to the . . . ?’
‘Post office.’
‘Very good.’
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Have you written your letter?’
‘What letter, Michka?’
‘To your father.’
‘Well, you don’t give up, I’ll grant you that!’
She can’t help looking a little pleased with herself. I smile.
‘No, Michka, not yet. We’ll see. In fact, shall we practise writing a few words today? I bet it’s been ages since you did any writing too, Michka. You could write a few words to Marie on the pad. She’d like that, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, but . . . with a . . . that . . . Not that one.’
‘Not that pen?’
‘No. One that rubs out.’
‘A pencil, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure I’ve got one.’
I look in my bag and find a couple of pencils that I hand to her.
‘And a rudder.’
‘A rubber?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, that I don’t have.’
‘I do. Go and look in the breadside . . .’ (She points to her bedside table.)
‘In the drawer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You want me to fetch a rubber from your drawer?’
‘Yes, from the iron thing.’
I go to the bedside table while she’s settling herself at the desk.
I open the drawer and find two old iron boxes, with a patina of age, the kind that junk-shop owners love. I open the first. It contains about fifty small yellow tablets. I’m taken by surprise and almost spill them everywhere. Michka hasn’t noticed. My heart has started beating much faster. I open the second box, which contains, as expected, paper clips, staples and an eraser.
I take out the rubber, carefully closing the lid, and shut the drawer. She’s leaning over the sheet of paper, trying to put down a few words in her trembling script, one hand resting on the paper, the other gripping the pencil.
I can’t say anything. All those tablets in a box.
At least fifty, maybe more.
Saved up, without her carers knowing.
I remember the conversation she had with the nurse a few weeks ago.
So they’re sleeping pills.
On the paper, Michka has written: ‘Dear Marie’. Now she’s waiting patiently, pencil poised.
She looks at me. She needs me for what comes next; she’s intimidated by the blank page. I nod encouragingly. She’s about to resume.
I go over.
I hesitate before saying anything.
‘Michka, look at me.’
She raises her head like a child interrupted during dictation.
‘Are you keeping your ten o’clocks?’
‘What’s that?’
Seeing her feigned innocence, I feel a strong desire to hug her.
‘When I was looking for your rubber, I accidentally opened another metal box. You know what I saw, don’t you, Michka?’
She hesitates for a moment. I know her, I know her well now. I sometimes even think I can read her mind.
‘Wait. I’ll tell you . . . It’s just . . . to be . . . flee . . . you know?’
‘To be free?’
‘Yes. Free. That’s it. Just to know. That it’s fossible to . . . leave. While there’s still time.’
We remain silent for a long time.
‘You won’t tell?’
‘I need to think about it, Michka.’
Michka is standing opposite the nasty director, who is looking her up and down unsympathetically.
‘Mrs Seld, it is with regret that I have to tell you we received a letter a few days ago from an informant who cites a number of very specific misdemeanours involving you and in addition notes all the official and unofficial items in your possession.’
‘Really? Who could have done such a thing?’
‘That doesn’t matter. A neighbour, a visitor, a nurse, your friend Grace Kelly! Or perhaps even a care assistant enticed by your fan or your transistor! That’s how the human soul is, Mrs Seld, and I doubt, given your origins, you’re unaware of that. You don’t really think things have changed? People will do anything for some furniture or a room with a view.’
‘I don’t have much, you know. I sold my apartment to pay the fees here. I’ve only one ring left and my transistor isn’t worth tuppence ha’penny.’
‘That’s what you say. That’s what they all say. And then you find the hoard. But that’s beside the point. I think you know very well what we need to talk about.’
‘Is this about the whisky?’
‘Don’t act the innocent, I beg you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Really? Are you sure? Shouldn’t I alert the higher authorities of old age and funeral-insurance services about what’s in your drawer, Mrs Seld? Your bedside-table drawer.’
Michka says nothing. Caught red-handed.
The director’s tone becomes icy.
‘Do you think you can just drop everything like that? Abandon your post, your duties? Do you think you get to decide? I would never have imagined this from a woman like you. We took you on because we thought you were worthy of our establishment. Because we thought you were prepared to fight to the end. Because that is what we expect of our members: a bit of fight, persistence, stubbornness. We’ve always struggled with turnover. It’s a profitability issue. I’m well aware of what you’re plotting, don’t take me for a fool. I know what’s in your drawer and how you plan to use them. That’s why you’re keeping your whisky! A fine mix . . . It’s shameful, that’s what it is.’
‘No! Well, perhaps . . . or perhaps not. But they’re not for now.’
‘Really? And why should I believe you?’
‘Because I’m hopeful.’
‘Hopeful of what?’
‘Finding them. So that I can go.’
‘You should have thought of that sooner!’
‘But I couldn’t.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s complicated. But also very simple.’
Michka sits down. She’s trying to gather her memories, she’s no longer looking at the director. Soon, she’s no longer talking to the other woman, she’s talking to herself or someone who is no longer there.
‘It was one of my mother’s cousins who came to fetch me. I was ten and I’d ne
ver seen her before. During the war she’d managed to go and stay with friends in Switzerland. Everything had to be rebuilt. Out of the ashes and the pain. She adopted me because she had no choice. We lived down there. She told me my parents had died in the camps and that was all. She couldn’t talk about it. She behaved as though none of that had ever existed. Perhaps out of shame. You can’t imagine the shame. The sadness. She was alive and everyone else was dead. Later, I searched. I found traces of them. What they’d suffered, the places they’d passed through. Drancy, Auschwitz. But there were also the memories that came back more and more often, haunted me, even. Distant memories that didn’t match anything I’d been told. As though that had never existed. Faces of people I didn’t recognise that began to fade, the river we used to swim in, the little wood behind the house that was full of brambles, the huge basins the washing soaked in, all these images that had no story attached. It was like fiction, a dream I’d invented. I understood that questions would cause pain and would never get an answer. I accepted silence. The woman raised me out of a sense of duty. She didn’t have much money, but she paid for my education. When I came of age, she went to live in Poland. Everyone there had died too, but she rediscovered the places of her childhood. I visited her several times. The last time, shortly before she died, she finally told me. She told me about the young couple, Nicole and Henri, who risked their lives to save mine. She wasn’t entirely sure of their first names, but for me they instantly resonated in a way that was intimate and familiar. She didn’t know much about the three years I’d spent there. Only that they’d kept me close all that time and raised me as their own. After she died, I tried to find them. But I didn’t know their surname. She’d forgotten it.’
The nasty director is pacing back and forth, waiting for Michka to finish her story, which she clearly finds of scant interest.
‘But we won’t make a fuss about it.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand very well, Mrs Seld. You feel indebted and rude and you are not mistaken.’
‘No, that’s not it. It’s something else. Something much bigger.’
‘In any case, I’ve already told you, it’s too late. You’re not the first person to depart with a debt unsettled! But let me be quite clear on this: when you check out will be my decision.’
Ageing is growing used to loss.
Gratitude Page 6