Familiar Strangers

by Jackie Walsh

  Bert’s yard is bare, with dusky grey soil where green grass flourished before the summer sun scorched it. After ringing the doorbell, I hear the shuffle of Bert’s footsteps and pray the Advil starts working soon.

  Bert opens the door, a smile tugging at his sagging face. He has one of those funny smiles where only one corner of his lips curls up. He steps back to let me in, calling out to Edith to let her know I’ve arrived. Habit, I guess. She won’t hear him.

  The strong smell, of yesterday’s fried chicken, makes me want to gag. It’s never like that at Dad’s. Joanna always has some scent of the month destroying the ozone layer. I used to call it Mom’s, I don’t know when that changed. But it did. Everything did. There are no more messages on my phone. No more trips to the mall on a Thursday evening for coffee in Bakers Beans, where we would chat about everything and anything. She always had something for me; a t-shirt, my favorite shampoo, a hat in winter. It was like she could never give me enough. I miss it. Not the stuff. Her.

  * * *

  Following Bert down the hallway is like traveling back in time. The wallpaper, with big yellow flowers on a grey background, has probably been back in fashion twice since they bought it. A carpet of blurred diamond shaped colors with a pathway worn into it leads us to the back room, the good room, where Edith sits in a chair by a blazing fire. The house is warm, so I’m surprised to see her wrapped in a blanket. Bert glances at me, shaking his head briefly, before I walk over and kneel down by her side.

  ‘Hi Edith,’ I say, speaking close to her good ear.

  ‘Hello Becca,’ she smiles. Her hand shakes as she attempts to grip mine. She looks about ten years older than she did two weeks ago. Her face has diminished to skin stretched on bone. Her sunken eyes are glass stones in quicksand. Just lifting her head seems to take every ounce of energy she has.

  ‘I baked you some muffins.’ I open the bag so she can see inside.

  ‘They look lovely, Becca. You shouldn’t have bothered.’ She gasps for air between every word.

  ‘It was a pleasure, Edith. You can have them with a coffee.’

  ‘I’ll put them in the pantry for later,’ Bert says loudly. He beckons for me to follow him. Taking the walking stick that’s resting on the back of Edith’s chair, he leads me into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s going on, Bert? How come she’s wrapped up like that?’

  ‘We had a bit of bad news this week, Becca.’

  When I called in two weeks ago, Edith was going into the hospital the following day for some tests.

  ‘How bad?’ I say.

  ‘Six to eight weeks, they say.’ Tears are gathering in the corner of his eyes. He lifts a frail hand to wipe them away. Six to eight weeks is such short notice.

  I think about Mom and her endless departure and wonder which is easier.

  ‘Does Edith know?’

  ‘She knows she’s sick, that she’s not getting better.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do? I feel like…’ But I can’t finish the sentence.

  Placing his trembling hand on my shoulder, Bert sighs.

  ‘No, everything is being taken care of. The palliative care team are great, and I’ll do what I can to make it as pleasant a journey for her as possible.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Bert. She’s a lucky woman to have you.’

  He smiles, pleased to hear that someone might think him a good man. That someone might think Edith a lucky woman to have him. But I’ve always had a soft spot for Bert. He always had so much time for me, never forgetting my birthday, always taking an interest in what I was doing. Mom said he was a weirdo; that he was trying to play daddy because he had no kids of his own. I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy it now. Bert is just one of the good guys.

  * * *

  Edith has fallen asleep by the time we go back in, her head hanging over the side of the chair. Bert rushes over to pull the cushion into place. My heart is not strong enough for this kind of pain, for the sight of old people struggling just to put the day in.

  Leaning over Edith, I kiss her papery cheek and tuck the blanket around her shoulders. Something surges through me like an electric current. Mom is lying in a bed ten miles from here with no one to kiss her goodnight. I need to get back to her. Need to see her, to touch my lips to her cheek. Bert sees my face change.

  ‘Are you alright, Becca?’

  I turn to hug him, to hold him tight to stop me falling. As frail as he is, he keeps me upright.

  ‘Don’t be so sad,’ he says. ‘Edith’s had a good life.’

  ‘I know,’ I sniffle, stepping back out of his arms, ‘but Mom is only fifty-five and she’s dying too.’

  He puts his hands on my shoulders, holds me at arm’s length, that sad smile tugging down the corner of his lips.

  ‘Becca,’ he says gently, ‘your mother is already dead.’

  ‘What?’ Did I just hear right? How dare he? Mom might have Alzheimer’s, her memory and her sense of self so faded that if I told her she was dead she’d probably smile, but she’s still alive, still breathing, still my mom.

  I’m already opening my mouth to say all this when it occurs to me to wonder if Bert is entirely himself. If the stress of caring for Edith, of nursing his own broken heart, isn’t taking its toll.

  I watch him, bent over at the fireplace, struggling to stoke the fire, keeping the room warm so Edith can decay in peace. This is not a room for confrontation. Let it go.

  ‘Goodbye, Edith,’ I say. ‘Take care, Bert.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ he says, leaving his post by the fireplace to walk me to the door.

  ‘Probably next week, Bert. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Good. She gets very lonely, does Edith.’

  * * *

  Dad is out on his front porch, waiting for me.

  ‘Becca? Dinner is getting cold.’

  He likes to keep the peace, my Dad, hates any sort of row, which can be hard when Danny is around. And I don’t want to upset him, he has enough to be worrying about. So I smile and hurry across the street. It’s only right I go back and have the dinner Joanna has made, for my dad’s sake. Also, I’m hungover, starving, barely hanging in here.

  If anyone brings up the gene test again, I’m out of there, hungry or not.

  Chapter Six

  Behind the bar I’m praying for my break to arrive so I can drop another couple of Advil. The hangover is still torturing me, punishing me for my night of debauchery. I wonder if Stephen Black has a hangover. Is he thinking of me? Sorry for what he did, or still savoring the pleasure? Picturing the deed with a discreet smile simmering on his face?

  From the corner of my eye I see a woman and man making their way towards the bar, conspicuous in their suits. They’re not wearing the usual black t-shirts, leather jackets or anything to suggest that they are faithful rockers. They won’t stay long.

  Oh my God, she has a gun! Her jacket sways and I see the black, heavy-looking piece on her hip. Cops. Something is going down.

  I try to pull a beer but I can’t stop watching them. They’re at the far end of bar now, speaking to Brian. The male cop is showing him something. He looks younger than his female colleague and must be over six feet tall because he’s towering over everyone, even Brian. Brian’s looking at whatever he’s being shown and shaking his head, calling another bar staff member over. Now he’s shaking his head too. Then the female cop points up at me. Does she want to talk to me too? I hope not. Cops I can do without right now. I’ve enough going on in my head, what with having to face Stephen Black and figure out what Mom was ranting about.

  Slipping out from behind the bar, gin-scented sweat dripping from every pore, I head to the changing room, searching my bag for some Advil. Please be here. Rummaging through the contents, my fingers eventually locating the pills, I hear a knock on the door.

  ‘Detective Ivy Turner,’ the female cop says while shoving her ID card in my face. ‘I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.’

  ‘S
ure,’ I say, standing back to let them in. Beer barrels are the only places to sit in the room, so they remain standing.

  Turner stares at me, freaking me out, until eventually she asks my name and how long I’ve worked at Mattie’s. Then she shows me a photo.

  ‘Do you know this woman?’ she says, her eyes focused on mine.

  ‘No. But isn’t she the woman I saw on the news?’

  ‘Has she ever made contact with you?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  ‘Facebook, Twitter, anything like that?’

  ‘No, just the news.’ Shaking my head, I move towards the door. ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I have to get back behind the bar, why do you think I’d know her?’

  ‘We’re asking the questions.’

  ‘And we’re not finished, miss,’ the male cop says.

  ‘But I have to get back to work, sorry, I have to run.’

  I hurry down the hallway with my heart pounding louder than the band on stage. I probably shouldn’t have bailed like that, but I’ve never been questioned by cops before, and it made me nervous. Why would they think I know Katie Collins?

  Back pulling pints, I see the cops moving through the crowd, showing the photo around. Every now and then Turner looks over at me, making it hard to concentrate. When I get the chance, I make straight for Brian.

  ‘She just asked me if I’d seen the woman in the photo,’ he says when I finally get him alone.

  ‘Did she say anything about me?’

  Brian stops pouring, looks at me sideways. ‘Why would she say anything about you?’

  ‘No reason. I’m just trying to figure out why she questioned me.’

  ‘She questioned everyone, Becca,’ he says, walking away with his drinks. ‘No need to be paranoid.’

  Well, at least that’s something. Or it is until I hear Turner’s voice in my ear, dead, as if coming through a device that removes any evidence of personality.

  ‘A quick word before you go,’ Turner says.

  ‘About what?’ Fuck, why won’t she leave me alone?

  She flicks through her notebook, stops, and nods to herself.

  ‘Rebecca, right?’

  I nod.

  ‘Okay, Rebecca, I need you to really think about this. It’s very important. Are you certain Katie Collins didn’t get in contact with you?’

  Her staring is making me nervous. Like she’s trying to see behind my eyes, into my head. I’m not getting why I’m being questioned for a second time.

  ‘No, she didn’t. I’m certain.’

  She hands me a card with her name and number on it.

  ‘Rebecca, I need you to go home and check all your social media accounts. Contact me when you’ve done it.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say. ‘Why would you think she’d get in touch with me?’

  ‘Because she was trying to contact a woman who works in the bar in this club. And you’re the only female working in this bar. She came to Boston looking for you.’

  Chapter Seven

  I’m awake all night. No chance of sleep. All kind of crazy ideas going through my head. Is it possible Turner is right, that Katie Collins is looking for me? But if so, why hasn’t she found me? I’m not that difficult to locate. And where is she now?

  And now, totally paranoid and sleepless, when the last thing I need is more grief, I hear Mom’s voice, whispering: I took you, Becca. What if she is telling the truth? If Mom did take me I wouldn’t have a birth certificate, or photos of her holding me after giving birth at the hospital. But what if?

  Standing by the window in one of Mom’s old t-shirts, I watch the world pass by below. People going about their normal daily grind, heading to offices, shops, cafes. Well, I won’t be heading to the office today. The idea of facing Stephen Black is just too much.

  And here it comes again, the guilt, flushing through my body, torturing my conscience. Why did I sleep with someone else’s husband? What if his wife finds out? Oh my God, his poor wife. Bit late now! Mom always told me to find a gentleman. ‘Someone who will treat you right, Becca, that’s all you need, someone who makes you feel you are the queen of their world. Someone to love you.’ Someone to love me, if only she knew. She would not be happy.

  I wonder, is she happy? Is she anything? Happy? Sad? Scared? Scared was the worst part of the diagnosis. For me, anyway. The tears that flowed when she remembered she had forgotten. The panic, the terror in her eyes. Gasping like she was drowning, knowing there was only one direction this diagnosis was going. It seems like all we did was cry in those early days.

  * * *

  The first time she didn’t recognize me, I was devastated. She’d sent me to the store for tomatoes but when I came back she just looked blankly at me and smiled politely as if I was a stranger. ‘Hello,’ she said, before walking out of the kitchen. At first I thought she was joking. She joked a lot when I was a kid. But then she came back into the kitchen and said, ‘Ah, there you are. I didn’t hear you come in. Did you get the tomatoes?’ Unable to answer, I dropped the bag and hurried upstairs to my bedroom, where I cried for an hour. I wasn’t supposed to leave her alone with the cooker, but I was boiling my own fears. Coming to terms with Mom switching on and off, like a bad internet connection. I didn’t want to see it. No Service. But I did, more and more.

  Having settled on skipping work because of all the conflict swirling around in my brain, I open my laptop and scan my social media sites as Turner requested. Nothing, not a sign of Katie Collins. Not a clue as to why she looks familiar. I knew there wouldn’t be. If anyone had tried to contact me on Facebook or Twitter, I’d expect a band to be playing instead of a beep. No one is ever looking for me. But then again, was someone in my apartment?

  I call Turner but I don’t get an answer so I hang up and try again. Still no answer. I leave a message. This whole saga is draining me. My body wants to go back to bed and sleep, but my mind is restless. I need to find out about what Mom said. First thing I’ll do is go to my Dad’s and find my birth cert. The proof. That should put my mind at rest. I check the time, it’s eleven a.m., Dad will be at the nursing home now.

  * * *

  When I get to Dad’s I park around the corner in case Bert sees my car and wants to delay me. Sneaking in the side entrance I find the key for the back door that Dad hides under one of the broken laths at the side of the decking. Once inside I almost break my neck tripping over a brown cardboard box with Dad’s name on it – more tools I guess – left sitting right inside the door.

  ‘Dad? Are you home?’ I call out. No answer. It’s just me here now, alone with the past. Taking the steps two at a time I head upstairs to Mom’s bedroom.

  * * *

  Mom was fussy about a lot of things, especially her papers. Her papers consisted of anything she thought worth keeping: insurance policies, birth certs, school reports, photos, and even certificates of compliance for various pieces of equipment she purchased over the years. Nothing fancy, my Mom had no weakness for the unnecessary, only documents for essential equipment – washing machines, microwaves, dishwashers. Nothing that would have you wondering what she wanted that for.

  Everyone knew the leather bag that held all this vital material. It was old, made of crocodile skin and hidden behind a pile of gloves and scarves in her wardrobe. Amongst the papers sits one of her prize possessions: a medal my grandfather was presented with after the war. I’m not sure which war, but my mother has a medal to prove he was there and worth his uniform. I’m guessing that went down well with my Dad when they first met, because Dad was also in the army. He spent a whole year away from his family, starting when I was just three days old. That must have been hard, fighting off the enemy by day, dreaming about his family by night. I remember none of it and neither does Danny, even though he pretends he does. He goes on about how he helped Mom with all the chores when he was just four years old. Talks about Dad’s absence like he sat by th
e window each night waiting for him to return. All bullshit. Honorable, caring, endearing even, but still bullshit. We indulge him. I guess you need to with family, allow them their weirdness. Otherwise we’d all kill one another.

  To tell the truth, I’m happy to listen to Danny babble on about what never happened. It’s something to listen to, now Mom isn’t here to fill in the blanks.

  In the wardrobe, behind the pile of gloves and scarves, I find the bag. Turning the metal clip on the flap, I open the strap and smell the importance, the age, the scent of the serious. My heart is racing. Silly of me, I know, to think the writing on my birth certificate would read differently all of a sudden, all of a lot of suddens. But I need to see it. I need to know I am me.

  And I am. The certificate in my hand was issued by the Registry of Vital Records and Statistics, Dorchester. Rebecca Sarah Wall, Sarah after my grandma. Born on the 13th of March 1991. Mother: Nancy Wall. Father: Nicholas Wall. I read it over a second time, then place it back in the bag. I am my mother’s daughter. I have the paperwork to prove it. I feel like a fool for allowing her words play with my head. I remind myself, your Mom has Alzheimer’s, Becca.

  After putting everything back where I found it, I sit down on the bed. I don’t think I have been here on my own since the day Mom was taken to the care home. The worst day of my life. I cried and cried, watching her sit in the wheelchair by the end of the bed while I packed the clothes I felt she would need. Once those clothes left they were not coming back. Blouses, dresses, pants, jumpers, all held up for her to choose from. She smiled, saying ‘Ooh,’ and ‘Lovely,’ before gazing again at the wall. Packing for her long goodbye broke me. I was so sad I wanted to get sick, but who else would do it? Who else could reduce my mom’s existence to one small suitcase and a shoulder bag, which was what we had been instructed to do. I couldn’t ask Dad. He was standing out on the deck, drowning, Danny’s arms wrapped around him, helping him survive the torment. It was torture hearing the howls of pain break through his tears. The house was soaking in agony, and my mother played with a necklace.