She Chose Me

by Tracey Emerson

  SHE

  CHOSE

  ME

  TRACEY EMERSON

  Legend Press Ltd, 107–111 Fleet Street, London, EC4A 2AB

  info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk | www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Tracey Emerson 2018

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-78719873-9

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-78719872-2

  Set in Times. Printing managed by Jellyfish Solutions Ltd

  Cover design by Gudrun Jobst | www.yotedesign.com

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Before writing fiction, Tracey Emerson worked in theatre and community arts. As well as acting, she ran drama workshops in hospitals, focusing on adults with mental health issues. She has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh and works as a literary consultant and writing tutor. She is also the Creative Director of the Bridge Awards, a philanthropic organisation that provides microfunding for the arts.

  She Chose Me is Tracey’s first novel.

  Follow Tracey on

  @TraceyJEmerson

  For Patricia

  PART ONE

  1

  Friday, 15 September 1995

  Royal Edinburgh Hospital

  What would she say if she were with me? I imagine it sometimes—the two of us together. A reckless delusion, but I can’t help myself. My image of her is never a clear one. How could it be? Sometimes she has my dark hair and brown eyes, sometimes she is a stranger.

  In this fantasy, we are sitting together at a kitchen table. The heart of any home. In this fantasy, she is calm and willing to listen. I try to explain why I did what I did to her. I describe the circumstances, give her my reasons.

  After a while, she holds up her hand. Her reproachful silence is a demand for truth. No more excuses.

  I confess. I tell her that I had to survive. I say that in the end it was either her or me.

  I chose me.

  2

  Wednesday, 2 September 2015

  I am abandoning her. Leaving her to the care of strangers. Leaving her here in this tiny room, the last space she will ever inhabit.

  I have no choice. I have no choice and this is the best place for her. These are the facts, but the facts don’t stop me feeling guilty.

  She is sitting upright in the narrow single bed, held captive by the television fixed to the wall opposite. News 24 is on mute, white headlines tacking along the screen as soldiers in green uniforms dodge the smoking entrails of burnt-out cars.

  ‘You’ve got a perfect view of the TV there,’ I say. She glances at me, bewildered. ‘We’re at Birch Grove Care Home,’ I explain. ‘You moved here from the hospital this morning.’

  ‘I know, Grace. I know where I am.’ Her wavering voice suggests otherwise. The effort of birthing the words leaves her wheezing, her tired lungs struggling to do what she once took for granted.

  This woman is my mother, but sometimes I hardly recognise her. She no longer looks like an older version of herself; she just looks old. White wispy curls have replaced her black hair. Withered breasts hang defeated beneath her yellow nightgown. Only her dark brown eyes have remained unchanged. We still have those in common.

  ‘I hope you like what I’ve done with the room,’ I say. ‘I wanted it to feel homely.’ Mum’s gaze doesn’t budge from the screen. ‘It’s very cosy in here,’ I add.

  The ground-floor room is stifling. An overheated pharaoh’s tomb, a stopgap between worlds, crammed with treasured possessions—family photographs, a collection of Neil Diamond CDs, a wooden crucifix hanging above the bed.

  I rearrange the framed photographs on the sideboard. Mum and Dad’s wedding portrait, my graduation picture, an assortment of holiday snaps of the three of us. I hardly recognise myself in my graduation picture. My face was much fuller then, and my hair reached down to my waist. A year later, I had it shorn into a pixie cut, a style I have kept ever since.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ Mum says. Is she in the present, asking why I’m not teaching, or does she think I’m a child again? She keeps travelling in time, random leaps that make me anxious. No telling where she might end up.

  The TV claims her. I cross to the window and press my palms against the cool glass. Outside, the sky is a grey lid, sealed shut. Not long until the last of the evening light disappears. What time should I leave? A fast train from Brentham station will get me into London in half an hour. All I want to do is get back to the flat, pour myself a glass of red wine and drink it while soaking in a hot bath. All I want to do is climb into bed beside Mum, wrap her arms around me and beg her to never let me go.

  ***

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting in the green armchair beside the bed. My head is muzzy, my legs leaden—Mum’s energy taking hold of me. The room is slipping into darkness, but I cannot motivate myself to reach over and switch on the bedside lamp. Bored and petulant, I feel thirteen not forty-two, but the time for such childishness has passed. Mum is my responsibility now; I’ve signed legal documents that say so.

  I twist the silver puzzle ring on my right ring finger back and forth. An old habit. ‘They’ve got loads of activities here, Mum,’ I say, ‘plenty for you to get involved in.’

  ‘Don’t think so, dear,’ she replies, the dim light of the TV flickering across her face. She isn’t stupid. She knows as well as I do that she has come here to die, and that it won’t be long. A couple of bad chest infections could finish her. The consultant at the hospital told me she probably wouldn’t last the winter.

  Screams erupt in the corridor, high-pitched and piercing. Panic flares beneath my ribcage. Outside the door, a few members of staff arrive and pacify the offending resident. There, there, Mrs Palethorpe, let’s get you back to your room.

  My pulse thrums in my ears. I wait for it to settle before standing up and leaning over the bed. ‘Bye for now.’ Mum’s cheek is warm against my lips. ‘See you soon.’

  A rap on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I say, as it swings open. The slight figure of a girl hovers in the corridor, her pale face luminous in the gloom. For a split second, I wonder if she is even real.

  ‘Hiya, Mrs Walker.’ The girl steps into the room and flicks on the overhead light, flooding us with brightness and life. ‘I’m Emma. One of the care assistants here.’

  Emma’s dark, cropped hair frames a friendly, heart-shaped face. She wears a short-sleeved lilac tunic over black leggings. Lilac slouch socks spill over the top of her white trainers. Behind her in the corridor stands a trolley laden with large steel flasks and cartons of fruit juice. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says, pushing her fringe to one side.

  ‘You too,’ I reply, but she is looking at Mum.

  ‘Anything to drink, Mrs Walker?’ she asks.

  Mum ignores her.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. I can’t help apologising for Mum. I want people to know she wasn’t always this rude. That manners once mattered to her.

  Emma smiles. ‘That’s all right. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, Mrs Walker?’

  ‘Plea
se, call her Polly,’ I say, ‘and I’m Grace.’ Emma asks me what Mum likes to drink, and I advise strong tea with half a sugar. ‘She’s fussy about her tea, I’m afraid.’

  ‘She’s allowed to be fussy, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ Emma has the local Essex accent, the one my parents never let me acquire, even though my dad spoke with it. Her high, girlish voice suggests she isn’t long out of school. Hard to say how old she is.

  ‘So, Polly,’ Emma says, ‘strong tea with half a sugar?’

  Mum remains silent. A protest perhaps at how small her world has become. A world in which the topic of tea can sustain a lengthy conversation.

  ‘What about you, Grace?’ Emma asks. ‘Bet you could do with a drink?’

  Her concerned tone undoes me. My throat is hot and tight, an omen of tears to come. Emma must sense them too because she pulls a tissue from her tunic pocket and hands it to me. I shove it in the back pocket of my jeans, determined not to need it.

  ‘Moving day is well tough for the relatives,’ she says, ‘but remember you can come and see her as much as you like.’

  ‘I’ll only be coming on Saturdays for a while.’ Why am I telling this to a stranger? ‘The past few months… There’s been all the hospital visits and social services to deal with, and I recently started a new job so—’

  ‘You need a break, course you do. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it, Polly?’

  Mum tears her gaze from the TV and looks at Emma for the first time. She watches as the girl hurries out to the tea trolley and returns with a white beaker.

  ‘Let’s try you without a straw first,’ Emma says.

  She places the beaker on the bedside table and rearranges Mum’s sitting position. She is stronger than her petite frame suggests and has no trouble easing Mum forward as she rearranges the pillows. ‘Right,’ she says, picking up the beaker, ‘let’s see if my tea is up to your standards.’

  Mum’s expression is curious, thoughtful. ‘Call me Grandma,’ she says.

  My stomach knots. Emma freezes, the beaker clutched in her hand. Poor girl looks lost for words, but just as I’m about to speak she giggles.

  ‘I’m sure you’d be an awesome gran, but I’m going to call you Polly. Shame not to use such a lovely name.’

  ‘Grandma.’ Mum’s face darkens.

  ‘Mum, this is Emma.’ My harsh delivery startles me. Mum, full of fury, jabs a finger in my direction.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘No.’

  ‘How about a drink?’ Emma says, but Mum’s hand shoots out and knocks the beaker away. Tea cascades down the front of Emma’s tunic. She gasps as Mum forms a fist and drives it against her chest.

  ‘Mum. Stop it.’ I step forward just as Emma backs away from the bed and stumbles over the chair. I catch her as she falls, her body light in my arms. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, helping her upright. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I keep hold of her arm, even though she is out of danger now. Her wide brown eyes gaze up at me. I sense a pull deep inside, a fish hook tugging at my guts. Without thinking, I reach out and brush her fringe away from her forehead.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mum gasps, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Emma breaks away from me and rushes over to the bed. ‘It’s all right, darlin’. I know, I know.’

  ‘She didn’t mean it,’ I say. ‘She’d never hurt anyone. Not physically.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Polly,’ Emma says. ‘You’ve had a difficult day.’

  Mum emits a pitiful sob, and I struggle to hold back my own tears.

  ‘This is so hard,’ I say.

  ‘Bless your hearts,’ Emma murmurs. ‘The two of you must be very close?’

  I hesitate, wondering if Mum might speak, but she is lost in her loud, ruinous tears.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘we are.’

  We were close, many years ago, so this is not a total lie.

  3

  Friday, 3 July 2015

  There she was. My mother. Sitting in the café at the heart of the Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green. I’d found her. So many years apart, and finally there we were. Cassie Harrington and her mother, about to have lunch together. I could hardly believe it. She couldn’t have chosen a more fitting place for us to visit. My second favourite tourist attraction in the whole of London.

  She looked so out of place. A childfree woman, surrounded by tables packed with parents and their manic offspring. She glanced around her, seeming so lost and uncomfortable I almost felt sorry for her.

  I’d hoped we might enjoy our lunch alone, but shortly after my mother arrived, her friend turned up. From the way they hugged and the frenzied tone of their greetings I could tell they hadn’t seen each other for some time. I stayed in position at the table behind hers, sipping my Earl Grey tea, observing my mother as she chose her lunch at the café counter and carried it back to the table on a tray, unaware of me watching her.

  The museum throbbed with the shrieking, squealing and laughter of the hyped-up children bouncing around it. The iron-frame structure soaring overhead kept the noise trapped beneath it. The two floors of galleries that rose up either side of us were packed. Visitors leant on the railings, gazing down at us in the open-plan space below. Hordes of primary school kids waving worksheets pelted round the outskirts of the café before veering off to explore the glass display cabinets on the first floor. Every Saturday for the past nine weeks, I’d trailed the exhibits there, marvelling at the toys and games of the past as well as those of my own era. Imagining the other childhoods I might have had and the mother I might have spent them with.

  The general din smothered most of the conversation at my mother’s table, but I picked up the odd exchange. Her friend—a Californian woman called Zoe dressed in flowery yoga pants—explained that the museum was just round the corner from her brother’s flat so she thought it would be an easy place to meet.

  ‘It’s fine,’ my mother said. ‘The food’s pretty good.’

  I pointed my phone in my mother’s direction and took what I knew would be the first of many pictures. She looked good for her age. Tall, quite slim. Hadn’t let herself go. I couldn’t help making comparisons between us. She had short, dark hair, while mine fell in thick blonde waves past my shoulders. I felt betrayed by my bright blue eyes but reasoned that lots of daughters have different coloured eyes than their mothers.

  My mother and Zoe reminisced about Singapore. Sounded like they’d lived there at the same time.

  ‘Honestly, Grace,’ Zoe said, ‘we haven’t had half as much fun since you left.’

  Grace. Such a beautiful name.

  A man and a small, blond-haired boy occupied the table to my mother’s left. The child, happy and boisterous, clapped his hands together and began to chant at full volume.

  ‘Alfie the bear,’ he said, ‘Alfie the bear. Alfie, Alfie, Alfie the bear.’

  The chanting continued. The boy’s father, eyes fixed on his phone, made no attempt to quieten his son, an error that earned him black looks from my mother and her friend.

  ‘This is my idea of hell,’ my mother said in a stage whisper, and they both laughed.

  I’d always wondered how she’d act around kids, and now I knew. Her flippant comment hurt me, and I began to wonder why I’d bothered. Why did I want to be with her anyway, after what she’d done to me?

  The boy stood up on his chair. ‘Alfie the bear,’ he yelled, ‘Alfie the bear.’ His father looked up from his mobile and gave him a half-hearted order to sit down. ‘Alfie,’ the boy continued, ‘Alfie, Alfie, Alfie the—’

  His chair tipped backwards, sending him flying. His father reached out, but my mother got there first, catching the boy as he fell. I smiled, thrilled and relieved at this demonstration of her maternal instinct.

  After my mother had lowered the boy to the ground and the father had stopped thanking her, she sat down again and rolled her eyes at Zoe. They continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, but I could tell the incident had unnerved her. She di
dn’t finish her lunch, and she kept checking her watch when Zoe wasn’t looking.

  When they stood up and strolled towards the museum entrance, I joined them, pleased to overhear that Zoe’s visit to the UK was only a flying one. As they said their goodbyes, my mother assured her friend they would see each other soon.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Zoe agreed. She walked away, stopping once to wave before she disappeared from our sight. My mother turned to go in the opposite direction and then hesitated. She glanced back at the museum entrance, and I could see how much she wanted to explore the place. How it had cast its spell on her.

  Giving in to herself, she dashed inside. I waited, not wanting to follow too close. When I did enter the main building, she came storming towards me in a hurry, her face tight and angry. As if she couldn’t cope with what the museum and its contents must have reminded her of. As if she had to get out of there as soon as she could.

  ***

  Our first day out together didn’t end there. After leaving the museum, we took the Tube from Bethnal Green. Two line changes later, we exited the Underground at Angel and turned left. At the end of Upper Street, we turned left again onto City Road. Unfamiliar with the area, I took pictures of the street signs for future reference.

  We crossed over to Goswell Road and kept going, the traffic relentless at our side. She set a fast pace in her trainers, and I struggled to keep up in my wedge sandals. Trust me to have a mother who’d rather walk than catch the bus.

  The late afternoon sun still had a sting, and before long my pink shift dress was sticking to my back and stomach. My mother marched on ahead, unruffled in grey linen trousers and a white T-shirt, her arms swinging at her sides.

  We turned left into Lever Street and a few minutes later took another left towards a block of high-rise flats. After passing an Astroturf pitch surrounded by a wire fence, my mother headed for the front entrance of the grubby white block. Northfield Heights. I waited by a row of recycling bins while she entered a code into a keypad by the front door.