The Exit

by Helen FitzGerald

  ‘You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I’m going to break . . . the next day or so, if he goes out. Don’t leave . . . that . . .’

  Just crackles after that. I spoke loudly and firmly. ‘Please stop calling me, Natalie. And maybe you should think about getting some help.’

  I kept driving north. It was 6 p.m. now. How long had Mum been in that ‘final forty-eight hours’ stage? She hadn’t woken all day, hadn’t eaten since last night, and when I left, she’d started making those horrible gurgling noises. She could be gone already. Or she could have another day or two.

  I had to drive as far as I could so I couldn’t turn round and be back in time. After all the things I’d done to disappoint her over the years, I had to do this one thing. I kept on the A82, past Crianlarich, along the A85 towards Oban, where there were ferries.

  We went to Iona together once. Jumped on the ferry to Mull, then again to Iona, where we walked for a while before realising we were starving. There was nowhere to eat. It was hours before we made it back to Oban, to stuff our faces in the first restaurant we could find.

  The 8 p.m. to Mull would leave in twenty minutes. With my car in the queue to go on, I remembered the fun we’d had when we came here last, and the fun we had so many times. ‘Just get in the car!’ And we’d be off. Not planned, not on a list.

  Mum wasn’t all about lists.

  The ferry had come in, the ramp was coming down. If I took this ferry, I wouldn’t be able to get back tonight.

  I remembered her birth plan. She hadn’t wanted drugs. She hadn’t wanted to go to hospital. Then the pain came. And she regretted it.

  I remembered her asking me what to wear to some charity ball she had to make a speech at. She’d never worn a dress, not that I’d seen anyway, and had made a panic purchase at Fraser’s. It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t her, and she looked uncomfortable in it. I raced out and bought her a floaty trouser ensemble. She rocked it.

  A few years ago, I signed her up for a dating site. She was mortified, but she went on a few dates, and while she didn’t meet anyone special, she started taking better care of herself after that.

  Mum didn’t always know what was best for her. Sometimes I was the better judge.

  I had to get there in time. It did matter! I needed to be with her went she left. Don’t let it be too late.

  The cars ahead of me were driving up the ramp onto the ferry.

  I U-turned with a screech and headed south at seventy miles an hour.

  The police booked me at Tarbet, and there was an accident just before Luss, which meant it was almost midnight when I arrived back at Dear Green Care Home. Don’t let it be too late. Don’t let it be too late.

  *

  No one was answering the door. I raced round to the back, rang Marcus’s bell. No answer. Tried the door. Locked. Ran round to the front again, knocked, buzzed, banged on the office window. Finally, Harriet opened the door.

  She looked shocked to see me; pale, even. Oh God, no! I barged past her, ignoring whatever she was saying to try and stop me.

  I took a breath at Mum’s door, knowing what I might find when I opened it.

  She wasn’t there.

  I don’t know how long I was on the floor, crying, before Rose came in.

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Rose, you should be asleep.’

  ‘They tried to give me the drugs again, but I only pretended to swallow. Quick, get out of here before they catch you.’ She put the hairgrip she’d used to escape from her room back in her blackcurrant hair.

  ‘Before who catches me?’

  ‘If I tell you a secret, do you promise not to tell?’

  ‘Rose, let me help you to bed.’

  She pointed to the back of the house. ‘Shh!’ She had that same look of terror she had the first day I met her, when Nurse Gabriella had popped a pill in her mouth and left her in bed. When Gabriella had gone, she’d opened her eyes and pressed her finger to her mouth: ‘Shh!’

  ‘Come, let’s get you back to bed.’

  Harriet had disappeared somewhere. It was so quiet tonight, everyone sound asleep. I wondered if the ambulance had taken her already.

  As I tucked Rose in, I noticed she’d been clawing at the tag on her ankle. There were small cut marks in the rubber, deep gashes in her flesh.

  ‘Your breathing’s getting worse, Margie!’

  ‘Rose, it’s all right. I’m fine.’

  She rubbed my hand. ‘You’re so cold, Margie. I’ll light a fire. Sit still, warm yourself by the flames, I’ll be back. Oh, I need matches. I’ll be back in no time.’

  ‘Okay, Rose.’ She was too weak to get up. Her eyes were closing. ‘Okay, I’ll do that. It’s okay, Rose.’

  I noticed on her desk that she’d started drawing another picture, but had only managed to draw the door, with Room 7 written on it, and a camera in the corner of the room.

  *

  I could see the light was on in Room 7 from the crack under the door. I turned the handle, not expecting it to be locked.

  I heard Harriet whispering to someone and I started to feel angry, desperate to see Mum’s face, to hold her.

  ‘Let me in!’ I didn’t care if I woke anyone up. ‘Harriet, open the door NOW!’

  More whispering. A man’s voice this time.

  When Harriet opened the door a few inches, I noticed her cheeks were heart-attack red. She was sweating. I pushed past her.

  Marcus was in the room, standing between me and the bed. I pushed him aside and there she was.

  They’d brushed her thick greying hair, which made it all boofy. She hated her hair boofy. She had foundation, mascara, and lipstick on. Mum didn’t wear make-up. She was dressed in a silky silver nightie. This nightie wasn’t hers! Her favourite jammie bottoms were pink polka dot, thin cotton. They had done everything wrong. How dare they?

  A noise. I placed my cheek against her mouth. She was alive.

  ‘Why did you move her?’

  Marcus stood, spoke softly: ‘Just . . . Catherine, I know it’s hard, but you shouldn’t be here. People regret not doing what their loved ones wanted, thinking only of themselves at a time like this. You don’t get a second chance. It stays with you, the rest of your life.’

  ‘I’m moving her back to her room. Get out of my way.’

  He stood between me and Mum, arms up. ‘I’m afraid I must insist that you leave. In her advanced care planning—’

  ‘If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll call the police.’

  He thought for a moment, then stood aside. I pushed the brakes off the wheels of the trolley bed, and wheeled her out the door, down the hall, and back into her own room.

  I called the cougar doctor, who hadn’t come this afternoon to administer morphine, as I’d been told. She set it up now, assuring me Mum wouldn’t have been in any pain, and that the staff had probably been waiting until she was. The doctor left to talk to Marcus and Harriet. I heard them in the office. They sounded like they were arguing. The doctor had probably lied to me about Mum’s pain levels, so I wouldn’t get upset. She should have been called earlier. Mum should have been on morphine for hours. I took off the incongruous silk nightie and put on her polka-dot jammie trousers and white sleeveless T-shirt. I wiped her face with a warm flannel. I put some product in her hair to flatten it. No make-up, just her lovely face. She had such perfect skin, my mum. Smooth as mine. I shut the blinds to keep out the lights. The doctor drove off. A few cars drove in. Then left again. I’d ask Marcus about that later, the liar. I put a sponge of water to her mouth. I stroked her arm. I kissed her cheek. I talked to her.

  About my first memory of her. I was three, or four. She had to go to work, and left me at Gran’s house to bake fairy cakes. I cried. I didn’t want her to go.

  About my first boyfriend. I was fifteen. She didn’t like him. She was right not to like him.

  About my first job. I was twenty-three. She organised it for me. It was the hardest and the bes
t experience of my life.

  I talked and I talked and I cried and I cried and—

  Maureen died at 4.55 a.m.

  She had wanted to die in bed, in her room in Dear Green Care Home. She had wanted to die alone. No music, no priest.

  She died in her room in Dear Green Care Home. No music, no priest. Her daughter Catherine was holding her hand.

  Her final words: ‘That’s not music, is it?’

  Her last breath: like a sigh.

  She looked very tired.

  There was no reflection in her eye.

  There is no jpeg.

  One Week Prior to Death

  Chapter Seventeen

  Everyone at Dear Green was sorry for my loss. I am sorry for your loss, said Marcus, said Gavin, said the cougar doctor, said Harriet, said the ambulance driver. I am sad for your misplacement, I am apologetic for your failure. Nonsensical!

  Rose didn’t say that. She stood with me as my loss exited the drive. She helped me pack my loss’s suitcase. She kissed me after I cut her tag off with a Swiss army knife and said: ‘Bad things happen here, Catherine.’

  I gave her my mum’s mobile phone. ‘Turn it on here. Press 1 for me, 2 for the police.’ I made Rose practise ringing me a few times. ‘The ringer’s off but it’ll vibrate very quietly if I ring you, like this: bzzz. Have you got somewhere to hide it?’

  I watched as she lifted the bedside cabinet and tilted it so it leant against the bed. Underneath the unit, she’d taped half a dozen stuffed envelopes, a few fifty-pound notes poking out of one, and over twenty packets of matches. She took some tape from the art materials on her desk, and taped the phone there too.

  *

  I forgot to ask Marcus about the cars that had come and gone last night. I went home to look for my loss in the clothes I’d rescued from Oxfam, in the three photo albums Mum had carefully compiled for me, in jobs just done, in the freezer. I wasn’t hungry, but even if I had been, I couldn’t have eaten the dead food, only slightly colder than she was now, probably. I couldn’t throw it out either. Thoughtful, misguided Mum.

  Curtains drawn, lights off, I put on her favourite windcheater, lay on the sofa, photo albums open and spread out on the coffee table, the teddy she gave me for my fifth birthday at my chest, and waited for tears to fill some space, some time, but they didn’t come. I urged them: the photos on my phone in Rothesay would do it. Ten selfies taken on the ferry; me and Mum making funny faces, laughing. No, no relief, just a rumbling stomach as empty as the rest of me.

  The phone rang twice but I didn’t answer. Antonio with a kind ‘Hey, Cath, I’ve heard. Call me.’ And Paul: ‘Are you there? Can I come over?’

  *

  What I needed now was to rummage through boxes for insurance documents, to pay bills that hadn’t been paid, to tidy away the mess that illness makes, to organise a funeral. I rang the funeral director Mum had decided to use and he reassured me that everything had been done: music, eulogy, humanist minister booked; he’d invited everyone on the small invitation list, organised the catering at St Jude’s after. ‘All you need to do is turn up at ten on Monday.’

  Misguided Mum! She’d taken away all the rituals that keep people going in the dark days that follow death. I didn’t even have any family to fall out with. What I’d do to yell at a brother for trying to steal the inheritance, to punch at a sister for taking the ring I wanted, to make a regretful remark to a grief-stricken father: I wish it was you!

  A father! Mum had left me the number of his parents. Where was it? In one of those envelopes. I dialled the number without thinking. ‘Hello, this is Catherine Mann, can I please speak to Mr or Mrs Marks?’

  ‘This is Mrs Marks speaking.’

  I already hated the posh clipped voice of Mrs Marks, my grandmother. I decided to remain aloof, matter of fact, just passing on some information, that’s all. ‘I’m Maureen Mann’s daughter. Your son was my biological father. I’m just ringing to let you know that Maureen died last night.’

  Mrs Marks didn’t speak for a moment. I waited for the tears and the speech – You poor sweet thing, all alone in the world. Come here, live here! You are all we have of our beloved son! Take our money! Be ours! Instead: ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Catherine . . .’

  I hung up. I kissed the sapphire ring on my finger: my gran’s ring, my mum’s, now mine.

  And then I did what I always used to do to avoid real life. I went online.

  I read articles and blog posts about the stages of grief. I scanned conversations on forums, where people talked about the loss of a parent. I Googled Mum. Maureen Mann had 49,000 search results on Google. Managing Director opens new school in Zimbabwe. Maureen Mann on forced marriage. Maureen Mann, keynote speaker at Heywood Charity Ball. Ms Mann says this about injustice and that about poverty and this about a new government policy and that about generosity. The most recent result was written in one the of the blogs related to her charity titled RIP Maureen Mann, which used words like saddened, passing, brave, battle, dedicated, tireless, inspirational, survived by her—

  Stop!

  Rose Price had 349,870 search results on Google, pages and pages of photos of her at fifty, fifty-six, sixty-three, sixty-five, all the way up to four years ago, when she did a reading at the Edinburgh Book Festival. So successful and pretty and happy and sharp-looking! I Googled myself. There were lots of Catherine Manns: a lawyer, an economist, and some young idiot on Twitter whose posts were always about being drunk or hung-over. (Me.)

  I messaged Gina and Rebecca.

  Mum died last night. I’m not up to seeing anyone at the moment. No pressure, but the funeral’s Monday at ten. Clydebank Crematorium.

  I Googled Jimmy – Jim Thornton. There were 7,050 search results for him. A few articles about some members of his old band trying to make a comeback. Two about the lead singer who’d died of an overdose a year since. He’d been done with Internet offences in 2003. No details, except that when his neighbours found out two years ago they firebombed his living room. After that, he’d moved into a care home.

  I checked Facebook. Gina and Rebecca had both seen my message, neither had replied. Composing would take time, probably.

  I Googled Marcus Baird. Lo and behold, he had a blog: It’s no Fun to Be Yellow – Marcus Baird on Writing.

  His posts were as dull as his book – ‘Coping with Writer’s Block’, ‘The Genre Debate’, ‘Views on Perspective’, and ‘The Little Death – read the first chapter for free here’. No one commented on any of them, and no wonder.

  I Googled The Little Death. Someone had already written a book called that, the dickwad. A bestseller, too. If it was me, I’d use the French expression. What was it again? La petite mort. Don’t know why I Googled that or why I clicked on the first page of links, but I did.

  Link ten produced a blank screen with just the title: ‘La Petite Mort’. It had the same background colour and the same font as Marcus’s blog. Under the title was a box: ‘Enter Referral Code 1 here’.

  My phoned beeped – a text from Paul, same as the voice message: You okay? Can I come over?

  I’m okay. Getting some rest. You mind? Think I need alone time. See you Monday x

  I scanned my texts. God, Natalie had left so many messages:

  Can we meet up?

  Sorry to be annoying, but can we meet up?

  Is this the number for an alarm or something? It was in the logbook on the day a woman called Carmel Tate died, eighteen months ago: zKgy48r9fP2_9b

  Call me.

  Please, it’s urgent. Call me.

  I’m not a thief. Rose gave me those pictures but three years later she forgot. So I gave them back. Can you please call me?

  Lots of missed calls after that.

  I tried her number, but it went straight to voicemail. I Googled her. The last entry for her was an article in the Herald written six months ago.

  Social Worker Found Not Guilty of Theft.

  Natalie Holland, accused of stealing a large collection of ori
ginal drawings from famous writer Rose Price, was found not guilty in Glasgow Sheriff Court today. Ms Price, now suffering from dementia, had accused her social worker of theft, but later reneged on the allegation. ‘I gave them to her,’ Ms Price said later in interviews. ‘She did not steal them. I was confused when I said that.’ While Ms Price’s grandson and her lawyers argued that Ms Price’s retraction was unreliable, Sheriff Miller argued that the initial accusation was similarly unreliable, and found Ms Holland not guilty.

  She wasn’t a thief, then. Wasn’t crazy. I went back to her first text and typed the code into the website I’d found, not expecting for a moment that it’d work.

  And it didn’t.

  I badly needed a funeral to organise.

  I checked Facebook. Gina had come back:

  I’m so sad for you, honey! Please can I come over and see you?

  That was better than expected.

  Rebecca, however, had not replied.

  I opened a Word document and stared for so long that I synchronised my blinks with the cursor. I could just imagine the eulogy Mum had prepared. A factual thank-you speech, like the ones she gave for her charity events. She was an excellent public speaker. I didn’t want an excellent speech. I wanted one that’d make the people she’d invited weep.

  Mu mum. I retyped, realising I’d made a mistake: My Mum, no, My mum. Nothing else came. All the ideas in my head were facts and thank yous. Perhaps Mum’s eulogy was the only kind you could really do at a funeral.

  God, my typing was atrocious.

  I opened the website again, retyped the password very carefully. Maybe I’d made a mistake.

  zKgy48r9fP2_9b, then repeated it, as requested.

  This time, another page opened, grey background. The only words: This site requires special software, download here for £34.99.

  I needed to cry.

  I closed it down, cried, and fell asleep.

  *

  Would you rather grief or anger? Anger. Would you grief or a broken nose? A broken nose. Grief or greed? Greed. In the days that followed Mum’s death, I chose obsession. Over a password. This seemed far better than a freezer filled with dead food and a heart filled with nothing.