by Tony Kelly
Homecoming
Rebecca
I come in from watering the garden. It’s only 8 am but I’m already sweating. ‘It’s gunna be a hot one,’ I say to Mum, but she doesn’t respond.
Mum is sitting in her recliner, having her standard breakfast of one Weet-Bix with warm water and a tepid cup of milky tea. She is listening to Radio National and probably can’t hear me. Tony and I have both noticed that her hearing is going. We also think that she may occasionally have a touch of ‘selective listening’, especially early in the day. I get it. She’s lived alone for twenty years. She’s adapted to not speaking to anyone in the mornings, but I’ve been up since 6 am and am ready for a chat.
Tony has already gone to work. He was up early too and went to the pool to do his laps. I was going to join him but wanted to get the watering done. The water restrictions mean you can only water your garden for a couple of hours every second day, in the early morning or late afternoon. No one in their right mind would want to water at any other time anyway.
We’ve established a routine: hand-watering in the morning and late afternoon and putting the sprinkler on the lawn after dark. Lots of people have put in household irrigation systems, but not us. Dad started using the hose and sprinkler in about 1956 and we’re maintaining the labour-intensive system. We move the sprinklers every fifteen minutes over a two-hour period. I often feel like I’m channelling Dad when I’m on sprinkler duty. ‘Better move the bloody sprinkler,’ I’ll say as I get up and meander outside.
Other than basic maintenance, the garden has been neglected for the past twenty years. Tony and I are trying to bring it back to life but it’s hard work. It’s incredibly hot, and the soil here is dust-like on top and clay-like below. We’ve planted a number of local native bushes but our success rate isn’t good: we’ve lost over half of them.
‘What’s the plan for today, Mum?’ I ask.
‘Hang on,’ she says, ‘just let me turn this down.’ She leans over and fumbles with the radio.
I praise Radio National every day. It’s Mum’s link to the outside world. She’s always taken a broad interest in things but her failing eyesight has limited what she can read or watch on television. So RN – or Regional News, as Mum likes to call it – is a godsend.
I walk over to where she is sitting. ‘Want me to do it?’ I say.
‘No,’ she says, ‘I am perfectly capable of turning down the volume on a wireless.’
I smile. Though Mum has handed over virtually the entire running of the house to Tony and me, she is still the boss of the radio. I go back to the kitchen.
‘I’m going into town to do the shopping,’ Mum says.
‘Do you want me to drive you?’ I ask.
‘No, I’ve booked the bus.’
Mum uses the community health centre bus to get to many of her activities. She likes the independence it gives her.
I have recently discovered that when you are sixty years old and engaged in less than thirty-five hours of paid work a week, you’re eligible for a Queensland government ‘Seniors Plus’ card. In less than eight years, I realised, I could be eligible for the card and then I’d be able to ride on the bus with Mum. I had a vision of us both sitting on the bus, in matching outfits, singing along to Johnny Cash! This filled me with a sense of both horror and amusement. I told a couple of my friends, who promised that if this ever happened, they’d come out to Mount Isa and rescue me.
‘You need to write out a shopping list for me of what you want,’ says Mum.
‘What we want,’ I say.
‘I was using “you” in the plural,’ she replies.
‘And including yourself?’ I ask.
Mum says nothing.
‘It’s the shopping for all of us, Mum – Tony, you and me.’
‘I’ll just fit in with you pair,’ she replies.
‘You don’t have to fit in with us, Mum,’ I say. ‘We live together, the three of us.’
Mum says nothing.
‘It’s not me and Tony running the show, and then over in the corner, in the giant recliner, is poor old Mother, who has no say in things and just has to “fit in”.’
Mum laughs but says nothing.
I sit at the table, eat my breakfast and write the shopping list. In some ways, I suppose, it is a shopping list for Tony and me. Apart from a few batches of biscuits, the occasional fruitcake and a corned beef, Mum no longer cooks. Tony and I do all the cooking and the housework.
When we first arrived, we were worried that Mum might feel besieged. Lots of our friends gave us warnings: ‘Your mum won’t want you taking over … Your mum will still want to control the kitchen … Your mum won’t be able to let go …’ Fortunately, things haven’t turned out like that. I think the moment Mum saw us swing into the driveway, she pulled the lever on her recliner, put her feet up and handed over the reins of all things domestic. Other than a few niggly words here and there, we have set up a very compatible and companionable household. Mum has told me it was a relief, after almost seventy years of running a house and cooking meals, to hand it all over.
‘I also have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,’ Mum says.
Since Mum’s fall earlier in the month, we’ve been having more regular check-ups of her blood pressure and heart.
‘Do you want me to drive you to that?’ I ask.
‘Yes, please,’ says Mum, ‘and I’d like you to come into the appointment with me.’
‘Okay.’
We sit for a moment in silence, and then Mum says, ‘You’re not going to wear that outfit, are you, to the doctor’s surgery?’
I look down at my soccer shorts. I bought them at a sports shop in Mount Isa when we first arrived. They are baggy and cool, and they go perfectly with my old singlet with the pineapple on it. This pairing is currently my favourite ensemble.
‘I’ll add a pair of rubber thongs to complete the look,’ I say.
Mum laughs.
A little later she and I sit together on the verandah and wait for the bus. It’s at least twenty minutes until the designated arrival time, but Mum likes to be out the front nice and early. We do a crossword while we wait.
The bus pulls up and Reg, the driver, gets out. He opens our front gate and comes up the path. Nicole, a community support worker from the health centre, slides open the side door of the bus and gets the little steps ready for Mum.
‘Morning, Mrs Lister; morning, Beck,’ says Reg.
We both say good morning.
‘Hot enough for youse?’ he says with a smile.
‘Yep,’ I say, ‘hot enough for me, that’s for sure.’
‘Bit of a change from Melbourne, ay?’ says Reg.
‘Yep,’ I say, ‘bit of a change all right!’
‘Must be nice having your daughter back, Mrs Lister,’ says Reg as he puts his arm out for Mum. She takes his arm and they head down the path.
‘No complaints from me, Reg,’ says Mum. ‘No complaints at all.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ says Reg. ‘And how about you, Beck? Any complaints from you?’
‘No, Reg,’ I say with a grin. ‘No complaints from me either.’
Nicole helps Mum onto the bus and into her seat. She is the first person on the bus this morning. She’ll like that. She likes being in the front seat and saying hello to everyone as they get on. Reg closes the door and gets into the driver’s seat. The bus moves off and I wave but Mum doesn’t see me. She’s deep in conversation with Reg and Nicole.
I stand on the verandah and look out across the front yard to the park and small rocky hill beside our house. Everything about this view is completely familiar: the red of the rocks and soil, the parched beige of the grass and the brilliant sweep of endless blue sky. I always knew I would come back here; it was just a matter of when.
It would be easy to write that our decision to come to
Mount Isa was a wholly altruistic one, and that I’m as close to the perfect daughter as you can get. But that would not be the truth. The decision did come from a place of considerable love and care, but it was not an entirely conscious decision. It kind of snuck up on me, and before I knew it I was here.
Mum turned ninety last February. To celebrate her birthday, twenty-three family members gathered for the weekend at a resort in Townsville. I knew as soon as I saw Mum at Townsville airport that her eyesight wasn’t good. I watched my niece Samantha wheel her into the arrivals area. Everyone was very excited to see each other, but Mum looked tired and withdrawn. She said she was fine and that it was just her eyes making her look tired. Mum has macular degeneration and her eyes often look sore. On that day one was red and slightly sunken, and the other was weepy.
But it was more than her eyes. Her whole demeanour was flat. Mum has an open, wide and smiling face and usually lights up when people speak to her, but she seemed almost disengaged when greeting family members. Samantha and Belinda both noticed it, but we put it down to Mum being a bit nervous or shy about the fuss being made for her birthday. The event was the only time I could remember us celebrating Mum’s birthday as a family. I knew she would be feeling some social pressure so I was prepared to let things roll.
In all other ways she looked exactly as she always did. She was wearing smart light-green linen pants with a loud green floral shirt. Like many Queenslanders, Mum has always favoured large, colourful bird or floral prints. The bigger the hibiscus, the happier Mum is. On the collar of her blouse was her Mothers’ Union pin. Her hair, which she had stopped tinting many years ago, was set in its usual curled style, and lacquered into a high, crispy wave. I knew she would have a set of rollers in her luggage so that she could ‘freshen up her do’ over the weekend. Her skin looked smooth and, for someone her age, relatively unlined. Mum has always been an advocate for sun protection. She’s always worn a hat, and when she was younger she would often use an umbrella when out in the sun. I hated it when she walked around with her umbrella but, after thirty or more years of having skin cancers regularly removed from my face and body, I can now see the advantages.
As I helped Mum unpack her suitcase, I noticed that her luggage and some of her clothing was smeared with make-up.
‘Where?’ she asked.
I showed her the smears.
‘I can’t see it,’ she said.
‘It’s everywhere,’ I replied.
Mum looked closer. ‘You’re exaggerating.’
I said nothing more. It was evident that she couldn’t see the marks.
When she was out of the room, I took her clothes into the bathroom and wiped off as much of the make-up as I could with a damp washer. I put a few items in the washing machine.
Mum came into the bathroom. ‘Have you got the washing machine on?’ she asked.
‘Just thought you’d like the comforting sound,’ I said.
Mum looked at me and we both smiled. We share the same little affliction in regard to washing. We both believe that, even when everything is in a state of disarray, getting a load of washing on restores a certain calm.
‘You know they say that excessive washing is a sign of guilt?’ Mum said.
I smiled and nodded. This is something she has been saying for years. When I was a kid, she used to pretend to be Lady Macbeth and rub her hands and say, ‘Out, damned spot! Out, I say!’ In her best schoolteacher voice she would tell me that Lady Macbeth’s sense of guilt came from her involvement in the death of King Duncan.
‘What do you think your guilt is, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Living so long!’ she replied, smiling.
I knew it was a joke but even so I sensed a touch of sadness. I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her life out in Mount Isa was starting to wear her down.
On the morning of the party, Mum surprised me by announcing: ‘I don’t think I can walk to the function room. It’s too hot and humid.’
It was no problem to drive Mum from our unit to the reception centre. Aunty Eileen, who was ninety-seven, was also reluctant to walk, so she too was chauffeured. Aunty Mary, a spring chicken at a mere eighty-eight, chose to walk.
Mum was the star of the party and rose to the occasion. She was gracious and elegant, relaxed and happy. The food was great, the speeches funny yet moving, and we all participated in a general knowledge quiz – which for Mum was the ultimate party game. Of course Mum won. The whole event went off without a hitch.
Nevertheless, over the course of the weekend she remained slightly withdrawn and disengaged. She was supposed to go and visit her brother and his wife, but on the morning of the visit said she felt unwell and stayed in bed. I started to wonder whether she might be depressed. I’m acutely aware of the difference between depression and an isolated period of flatness, and I didn’t want to pathologise her behaviour, but a seed was planted in my mind.
On the last afternoon of the reunion, I had a few minutes alone with Mum. We sat on her bed and chatted.
‘How’s everything going at home?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
I paused. ‘We need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘Have you thought about a plan?’ I asked.
‘For what?’ Mum replied.
‘For the next stage.’
‘Of what?’
‘Living in Mount Isa.’
‘There is no plan,’ she said.
‘You’re just going to stay in the house?’
‘Yes. What else would I do?’
I paused. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I’d been edging around this question for years, but each time I tried to raise it, Mum shut it down.
‘You could move to the aged care facility,’ I suggested.
‘No,’ said Mum. Her reply was emphatic.
‘But what if you have a fall or something?’
‘I’ll wear a buzzer.’
‘Housework?’
‘I’ll employ someone, if need be.’
‘It’s going to get more difficult,’ I said.
‘Do you want me to go into the old folks’ home?’ she asked.
‘I want what is best for you,’ I replied.
‘And that is for me to stay in my own house, where I’ve been for sixty years.’
I sighed loudly, knowing Mum would sense my frustration.
‘I’m too old, Beck,’ she said.
‘You could come to Melbourne and live with me and Tony and the girls,’ I suggested. ‘Or move to Mackay and live with David and Eden and the kids.’
Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t want to do that. I want to stay where I am.’
The conversation was closed.
After the party I returned to Melbourne and began my master’s in writing for performance at the Victorian College of the Arts. I continued to work on various arts projects, and went about my city life. My contact with Mum went back to weekly phone calls. She always sounded chipper. After these calls, I felt that everything was, as Mum had said, fine. The sense I’d had in February that Mum was in some kind of danger slipped into the background.
In August I headed home to Mount Isa for a short visit. I was thrown by how the house looked. Everything was, more or less, exactly how it had always been, except now it was dirtier and more cluttered, and there was a worn-out and dishevelled feel to everything. There was some sense of order, but between the order was chaos. Every surface in the house, bar the kitchen bench, was covered – books, cups, tissues, medicine bottles, eye droppers, envelopes, coins, magazines, you name it.
I knew Mum had organised homecare assistance to come to the house each week, but judging from how much she seemed to know about these workers, they didn’t do much cleaning. Conversation and engagement is an important part of the job, sure, but I couldn’
t help but think that a bit more time on the old vacuum wouldn’t go astray.
Everything felt just a tad grubby: the bathroom and toilet weren’t as clean as they could be, the stove and kitchen benches had a thin film of grease on them, everything was dusty and there were cobwebs in every corner, under the table and behind the doors. The house seemed hot, tired and crowded.
I immediately thought about Dad, who had worked in the assay office at the mines for almost forty years. His approach to running a house had been that there was a place for everything and everything in its place. ‘There’s no other way to run a chemical lab,’ he’d say. ‘You have to be organised and methodical. You take something out of a drawer; you put it back in the same drawer. You run a house the same way.’
Mum’s philosophy had always been far more laid-back. She would take something out of a drawer, use it and then plonk it down wherever she was. Her view was that homes were for doing things in, not looking at. There was always a sewing project happening on the table or something being built on the lounge room floor, or stacks of library books on bedside tables waiting to be read or returned.
But things had now moved to another level. Although Mum would deny it, I felt sure she had progressed to a form of hoarding.
I watched her closely, and could see that she was still managing day-to-day things like rubbish and bins; that wasn’t a problem. It was more the fact that she had lived in the same house for such a long time and had not thrown anything out.
Due to her eyesight and the heat, she always had the doors, windows, blinds and curtains closed. The air conditioner ran nonstop. Rather than open a curtain to let in some sunshine, she would turn on the overhead fluorescent light.
I could see that she had carved out a path for herself that ran from her recliner to the kitchen, the bathroom and her bedroom. Every other room in the house was full of stuff, and the doors were closed. Out of sight, out of mind.
I ventured into her bedroom for a stickybeak. The floor was covered in plastic eyedrop vials and tissues. The end of the bed, chair and doorknobs were strung with washing; even more clothes were draped from the cupboard doors, and on every surface there were countless items that she hadn’t put away.
