She Chose Me

by Tracey Emerson

  Back to bed, but sleep keeps its distance. The ever-present soundtrack of traffic rises up from the streets below. Tonight, the police sirens sound louder than usual. They sound as though they are coming for me.

  Tossing and turning. Imagining the shredded cards sticking themselves back together.

  BEST MUM EVER

  Up again. Tracksuit over my pyjamas. Boots and jacket on, dragging the recycling box from the cupboard.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I whisper, as I take the box in the lift to the ground floor and then outside to the row of coloured recycling skips at the left of the building.

  My breath condenses in clouds around me. Paper already trails from the red skip, but I shove the contents of the recycling box into it, force-feeding the container’s bristly mouth until no evidence remains.

  11

  Friday, 7 August 2015

  To be fair, the old women at the WRVS café made pretty good coffee. I told one of them so, as she handed over my cappuccino. We’d become quite familiar over the past few weeks, these cheery volunteers and I.

  I picked my usual spot at one of the café’s outer tables. It faced the hospital’s reception area, giving me a clear view of the double doors that led to the main wards. My mother couldn’t enter or exit without me seeing her.

  Apart from the café, the dreary foyer contained a newsagents and a pharmacy. In front of the newsagents stood one of those children’s rides popular at supermarkets. A green plane with big black eyes, a propeller for a nose and two bucked teeth. As a child it would have terrified me. As a child most things terrified me.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Ryan, asking me how my day was going. He was thoughtful like that. He seemed to live by the motto tattooed on his right shoulder—You get what you give.

  I texted him back—OK. Visiting sick relative—and added a row of sad, yellow faces. Bummer, he replied. I sent him a picture of my frothy coffee with its sprinkle of Cadbury’s drinking chocolate on top, and he countered with a snap of one his signature creations, a latte with a decorative leaf of raw cacao. Beat that!

  For once, I looked like other people, smiling at a message meant just for me. For once, I was someone with a boyfriend and a mother. A grandmother too.

  The bouquet of pink and white roses I’d bought her sat in a hessian bag on the chair beside me. I’d dressed up too—the black Chloe dress with black wedge sandals. Slightly formal for a summer’s day, but this was a big occasion.

  A bald, emaciated man in grey pyjamas and a burgundy dressing gown sat down at the table behind me with a groan. The wheels of his intravenous stand rattled as he pulled it close. His weak voice called out an order of hot milk and a toasted teacake.

  Last week, my mother had occupied his table. The café was so crowded she’d had to share it with another woman about her age. The two of them ended up exchanging stories and that’s when I’d learned what had brought my grandmother to hospital. A long list of conditions, but as soon as I heard dementia, I knew it would be safe for her and I to meet. She probably wouldn’t say anything to my mother about the visit, nothing credible anyway. I didn’t want her to spoil the surprise.

  My mother appeared in the foyer before I’d finished my coffee, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her visit over. She didn’t come to the café for a drink. She couldn’t get out of the hospital fast enough.

  After reapplying my lipstick, I set off across the foyer and passed through the double doors. A long corridor lined with amateur artwork greeted me on the other side. I followed the blue arrows on the signs above my head and took the lift to the fourth floor.

  I waited outside Ward 8 for a while, too nervous to go in. What if my grandmother didn’t like me? Quentin’s parents had died before I reached five, as had Isobel’s father. Isobel’s mother, Beatrice, couldn’t stand me. One morning, aged nine, I overheard her and Isobel discussing me in the kitchen. Beatrice declared me ‘not right’ and ‘strange’ and ‘nothing but trouble.’

  ‘We don’t know what kind of stock the girl comes from,’ she added.

  ‘I know, Mother,’ Isobel had said. ‘That worries me sometimes.’

  The hot, muggy air hit me first when I entered the ward. Then came the smell—disinfectant, overcooked vegetables and an unmistakeable base note of shit. I pressed my silk scarf against my nose and inhaled faint traces of Chanel Mademoiselle.

  I waited for someone to stop me, but nobody did. I sailed past the gossiping nurses at the reception desk and found myself in a long, blue room lined with beds on both sides.

  What a sight. Half-dead people moaning and writhing beneath their sheets. A woman screeching. A pot-bellied man shuffled the length of the ward, hairy arse hanging out the back of his hospital gown.

  Where were all the nurses? I scanned the ward but couldn’t see any. Not that I blamed them for hiding at reception.

  A young, male nurse appeared and tried to skulk past me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Walker.’

  He scratched his freckled nose. ‘Polly’s over there,’ he said. ‘Bed twelve I think.’

  Polly. Great name for a grandmother. Old-fashioned and sweet.

  To my relief, I found her sitting up against her pillows, a serene expression on her face. Someone, my mother perhaps, had brushed her hair and moistened her lips with pink gloss.

  ‘Hello, Grandma,’ I said. My heart raced as her sad eyes examined me. Would she approve of what she saw?

  A shaky smile spread across her face. ‘Hello, pet.’

  Instant recognition, instant acceptance. I couldn’t have asked for more. Did she know about me, I wondered, or had instinct told her the connection between us?

  ‘I’ve brought you these.’ I lifted the flowers from the bag and held them close to her face. She edged her nose inside one of the pink roses.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said.

  Another scent overpowered the flowers. Something meaty and rotten.

  ‘My ulcer,’ wailed the ghost-faced woman in the next bed.

  My stomach heaved. A blue curtain hung next to my grandmother’s bed, and I pulled it all the way round, sealing us off from the rest of the ward.

  ‘That’s better,’ I said. Unable to locate a vase, I placed the flowers on the narrow table at the foot of the bed. My grandmother’s right ankle stuck out from the covers, swathed in plaster cast. I really wanted to sign it but managed to resist.

  ‘Pretty little thing, aren’t you?’ she croaked. My cheeks flushed with pride.

  ‘Thanks.’ I dragged a heavy beige armchair closer to the bed. The seat’s plastic cover squeaked when I sat down.

  ‘You from the church?’ my grandmother said.

  ‘No. I’m Cassie.’

  ‘Did Father Francis send you?’

  I sighed. Her dementia was both a blessing and a curse. I had so much to ask her, so much I needed to know, but it appeared she would be little use.

  The blue curtain swished open, revealing a stocky nurse in blue overalls.

  ‘What is going on here?’ she asked, her accent Eastern European. Polish, I decided, after reading Agata on her name badge.

  ‘We’re trying to get some privacy,’ I said.

  Agata’s broad, open face left no hiding place for her annoyance.

  ‘Polly has not been good this morning,’ she said. ‘Please leave the curtain open so we can see her.’

  ‘She looks fine to me.’ Agata didn’t reply, but her flared nostrils spoke for her. ‘Could you find me a vase for those, please?’ I said, pointing to the flowers.

  ‘No flowers allowed on the ward.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hospital policy. No flowers on any wards.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You don’t think we have better things to do than care for flowers?’

  ‘Private hospitals allow them.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Agata folded her arms. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘No.’ I fixed her
with a cool stare. ‘I don’t suppose you would.’

  She flounced off, muttering in Polish. My grandmother gazed after her and then her eyelids drooped. Great. All the effort I’d made, and she was about to fall asleep.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said, ‘your granddaughter.’

  Her eyes jolted open. ‘Grace?’ she said. ‘Only trying to help.’

  I wanted her to pay attention to me, not ramble on about my mother, but what could I do? She looked so out of it, so weak.

  ‘Grace?’ she repeated, louder this time.

  Agata was watching me from the other end of the ward. No doubt waiting for me to upset her patient in some way.

  ‘I’ll let you rest.’ I stood up and reclaimed the unwelcome flowers. ‘I’m so glad I met you, Grandma.’ I suspected she wouldn’t be alive much longer. What if I never got to see her again?

  She gestured for me to come closer. When I bent over the bed, one of her soft, warm hands guided my left ear to her mouth.

  ‘Grace is a sinner,’ she said.

  12

  Saturday, 10 October 2015

  In Mum’s kitchen, cardboard boxes cluster round me, their lids wide open. Where to start? I open the cupboards of the imitation pine dresser and survey the three dinner services Mum insisted on having—everyday, better and best. The crockery will have to wait until I get some old newspaper to wrap it in, as will the glasses that line the dresser’s shelves.

  Raindrops pelt against the window. A miserable Saturday morning. After making a start on the house, I’ll brave the weather and go to Birch Grove.

  I open the tall pantry next to the oven and stare at the stash of tinned food inside, still reluctant to clear out Mum’s possessions. The act of doing so feels disrespectful, but it’s necessary. Her savings have covered the extra care costs so far, but the money will soon run out, and what if Mum lives longer than predicted? The house has to be sold.

  I work my way through the tins. Those with a good expiration date go in the box marked CHURCH. Everything else goes in the bin.

  The estate agent who came this morning urged me to get the place ready for viewing as soon as possible. A cheery, overweight man in his early thirties, Mike couldn’t hide his joy at the prospect of a quick sale.

  ‘This is prime commuter property,’ he said. ‘We’ll have no problem shifting it.’ He assured me no renovations were needed. ‘Whoever buys this’ll gut the place and start from scratch.’

  My heart snagged at his words, a surprising reaction. From my teenage years onwards, I looked down on my parents’ suburban house as soulless and unimaginative, and I haven’t thought of it as home for a long time. I didn’t even consider staying here after returning from Singapore. Yet as Mike tapped the house details into his iPad, I realised it was all I had left. My own ancestral pile. It hurt to think of strangers stripping the place bare, carrying my history piece by piece to a skip in the driveway, until I am the only proof that Frank and Polly Walker ever existed.

  The pantry is soon empty, exposing dusty shelves. I search around the sink for a cloth, all the time aware of Mum’s statue of the Virgin Mary gazing at me from the windowsill, blue-robed arms spread wide. Getting rid of that will be a pleasure.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ I ask her, crouching down to open the cupboard under the sink. While rummaging among the cleaning products for a J cloth, a wave of dizziness forces me to sit on the cold beige tiles. I haven’t slept well since the second card arrived, waking every night at 3 a.m., disturbed by a dream I cannot remember. Each time I try it flits away, like a butterfly eluding a net.

  Hauling myself up, I turn on the hot tap. Before wetting the cloth, I rip it in half, one of Mum’s money-saving tips. Two cloths for the price of one. Wiping the pantry shelves, I wonder what else of her will live on in me.

  Shelves done, I ponder what to tackle next. Disheartened by the amount to do in the kitchen, I contemplate going upstairs. The large box I left in my bedroom twenty years ago is still there, unopened. I should really find out what’s in it but can’t face doing so today.

  I wander into the living room, half expecting to see Mum in the brown recliner, staring at an unfinished crossword. Everything has remained untouched since she had the fall and went into hospital—Zimmer frame next to the chair, a copy of the Daily Mail on the coffee table. It makes me sad to think of her here alone, to think she might have been scared. I did my best over the past few years, returning to the UK more frequently when I realised her forgetfulness had a cause more sinister than old age. I fought for a diagnosis of dementia from her disinterested GP, and I organised carers so Mum could stay in her own home for as long as possible. She insisted on that.

  The living room is more cluttered than the kitchen. So much stuff. It’ll take me weeks to sort through it all, to decide what to keep and what to give away. And what of all the heirlooms? My nan’s collection of crystal animals that passed to Mum and which now should pass to me. I have nowhere to keep them and no one to keep them for.

  ***

  I arrive at Birch Grove to find a tense atmosphere in reception. Kegs is ushering a weeping man into his office.

  ‘I know, mate,’ Kegs says, ‘I know.’ He closes the office door behind him. There must have been a death today.

  Brenda is sitting at her desk, her hair even more dishevelled than usual.

  ‘We’re all prisoners here,’ she chants, ‘we’re all prisoners here.’

  My stomach leaps into an anxious flutter. My eyes flick to the front door with its electronic keypad. I know the code. I can leave any time I want.

  As I pass the TV lounge, a shrill scream makes me freeze in the doorway. A skeletal woman with long silver hair sways in front of the television, wielding a dinner knife. Vera hovers nearby, and next to her stands John.

  ‘Come on now, love,’ says Vera, ‘why don’t you let me have that?’

  ‘Let it go, Mum,’ John says. I can’t take my eyes off him. Tall and rugged in his jeans and grey sweatshirt, he radiates vitality amongst all the weakness and demise.

  ‘Stay away,’ his mother shouts. A blank-eyed man in the armchair nearest to her starts to cry.

  ‘That’s enough,’ John says, stepping forward and grabbing his mother’s wrist. ‘Please.’

  She drops the knife and lashes out at his face, catching him on his chin. ‘Get off me, you little cunt.’ Then she stops, as if her batteries have run out, and falls to her knees. Opening her mouth wide, she wails like a frustrated child.

  ‘It’s all right. I’ve got you.’ John reaches down and scoops her up. I step aside as he carries his mother out of the room, accompanied by Vera’s longing sigh. A warped version of the famous scene from An Officer and a Gentleman.

  He strides away down the corridor. His mother batters his skull with her fists, but he doesn’t say a word.

  ***

  Mum is in bed today, her face ashen. Her eyes open when I kiss her forehead.

  ‘Grace,’ she says, breath rattling in her chest.

  ‘Only trying.’ Only trying to help. A pet phrase of Mum’s, one I heard often while growing up. A phrase usually delivered in a tone of wounded martyrdom.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ I ask, even though the answer is obvious. I drag a chair to the side of the bed. Mum’s tattered Bible lies open on the bedside cabinet. I close it and put it away in the drawer.

  ‘Emma?’ Mum says.

  I sit down. ‘Emma’s not in today.’ On my way to Mum’s room, I passed the tea trolley, only to find a different care assistant in charge of the drinks round. ‘Surinder told me she’s off sick.’

  The minutes pass. Neither of us speaks. Without Emma’s chatter the room is dangerously quiet.

  Mum holds out her left hand. When I clasp it, she surprises me with a reassuring squeeze. A once familiar action, unaltered by her knotty knuckles and paper-thin skin. Tears fill my eyes as I sense all the years of touch in Mum’s fingers. How many times have these hands held, caressed and comforted me? St
roked my eyelids closed when I couldn’t sleep. Curtains down. Off to beddy-byes.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mum whispers, tightening her grip on my hand.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Her face twists with rage. ‘Don’t,’ she says, louder this time, her neat pink nails digging into my skin.

  ‘That’s enough.’ I try to break free, but Mum’s nails drive deeper. How can someone so frail be so strong? ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Don’t do it. I’m warning you.’

  ‘Please, Mum. Let go.’

  ***

  I escape into the corridor and head for the visitors’ kitchen, in need of a cup of tea and some respite.

  Don’t do it. I’m warning you.

  Angry red crescents on the back of my hand. Mum has lashed out at me before, but it always comes as a shock.

  In the kitchen, I find John slumped at the yellow Formica table, his head in his hands. He looks up and gives me a defeated smile. This is where we first met last month, only to find ourselves having sex in his car an hour later.

  Unsure what to do, I ask if he wants a drink. He nods and soon we are sitting at the table together—black coffee for him, peppermint tea for me. I glance at his wedding finger and the thick gold band there.

  ‘Is your wife here?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Mum and Debbie fell out years ago. My wife is a champion grudge holder so she hardly visits.’

  Now I know three facts about him—his wife’s name is Debbie, he has two daughters and he works as a Premier Account Manager for the Brentham branch of Lloyds. I don’t want to know any more.

  ‘It’s nice to see you,’ he says.

  I don’t feel good about what happened between us last time, but in our situation the rules don’t seem to apply. We are cut off from our real lives, from the people we would normally be.

  ‘Sorry about the TV room,’ he adds. ‘Mum’s having a terrible day.’

  ‘Isn’t it weird how we feel obliged to apologise for them?’ I place my hand on the table, putting my raw, red marks on display. ‘Mine’s not having a great day either.’