Time to Let Go

by Christoph Fischer

  Hanna decided to listen to some self-hypnosis tracks to help her calm down and blissfully fell asleep as the soothing voice told her to control her breathing and relax. She remained unconscious as her i-pod played through ‘Relaxation’, ‘Deep Sleep’ and ‘Inner Calm’. When she woke up she felt much calmer and refreshed.

  Chapter 11 Saturday Lunch

  Downstairs preparations for lunch were almost done. Walter was making one of his ‘legendary’ soups and attempting another pasta dish. He was in full cooking concentration mode and gave little attention either to his wife or to Hanna coming in; he only briefly looked up when the door opened, and said nothing.

  Biddy was reading the paper but she made a huge fuss when Hanna came into the room.

  “There you are!” she said to her daughter and beamed a broad smile across the room. “Sit down, come here, and sit with me.”

  “That is nice Biddy, thank you for the invite,” Hanna replied as she sat down next to her mother at the kitchen table. She looked around the room for inspiration, but all she could think of was the tried and trusted: “Is there anything interesting in the newspaper?”

  “Yes. Let me have a look,” her mother said, as she folded the newspaper back to the front page and scanned the article in front of her with intense concentration.

  “Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg…” Biddy began, and read the entire article remarkably well, without any errors.

  After finishing Biddy asked: “What is the Taliban?”

  Walter shot his daughter a warning look and shook his head.

  “Oh, they are politicians,” Hanna said vaguely. “A lot of people do not like them.”

  “Ah, politics,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment then she went back to the paper.

  “Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg…”

  “Is everything ok with you?” Walter asked his daughter whispering so as not to disturb his wife’s reading.

  “Oh yes, all good,” she nodded enthusiastically.

  Walter turned away from the stove and looked at her intently.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me. I’m not stupid!”

  “There is nothing going on that you should be concerned about,” Hanna said, shifting in her seat. “You are doing a fantastic job looking after mother. Stick to that as your family duty. I can manage my life. I am forty years old, for crying out loud.”

  “Who is the Taliban?” Biddy interrupted.

  “They are politicians,” Hanna repeated.

  “What kind of politicians?”

  “Not very nice ones,” Hanna replied. “A lot of people don’t like them.”

  “Ah,” Biddy nodded, looking at the paper. Then she turned back to Hanna and asked “Who is it that the people don’t like?”

  “The Taliban, Biddy.”

  “Who is the Taliban?”

  “They are politicians.”

  “Hanna save yourself the effort, you are hardly going to teach her about world politics now,” Walter said, but Hanna ignored him.

  “What kind of politicians?” Biddy asked again.

  “You don’t need to worry about them,” Hanna put a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder. “The government is dealing with them. They have no relevance to you or me.”

  “Are you sure?” Biddy was shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

  Hanna pressed harder on her mother’s shoulder.

  “Quite sure.”

  “Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg…”

  “I admire your endurance,” Walter said, blatantly talking over his wife. “If I were you I would just steer the conversation to something else. Why should she concern herself with the Taliban?”

  “Why should she concern herself with anything these days?” Hanna shot back. “It doesn’t really matter what she engages with. As long as she interacts and asks questions I am glad for her.”

  “You can only confuse her by talking about abstract things like that. Keep it simple.”

  “I am not going to discourage her if she shows interest in something. I just want her to feel valued, surely that is worth a few repetitive moments.”

  “We’ll see how you feel when you have done this for a week, or a month,” Walter said. “Don’t get me wrong, I love your patience. Just don’t burn yourself out.”

  After lunch Biddy retreated to the living room without being prompted by her husband. She lay herself down on the sofa for her nap and left Hanna and Walter doing the dishes.

  “How is your family chronicle coming along?” Hanna asked, while filling the sink with hot water.

  “Slowly but steadily. It won’t be long before I will write about you and the younger generation,” Walter said.

  “How are you going to handle the controversial issue of writing about yourself and your own generation in your book?” she queried.

  “What do you mean controversial? It is easy: I will give a detailed account of all of our lives with as many facts and data that I can provide,” he answered.

  “That can become a very one sided affair,” Hanna said provocatively. “I can only imagine what you are going to say about me or about yourself for that matter.”

  “Subjectivity is difficult to achieve in such affairs,” Walter lectured her. “However, if anyone in this family is capable of it than it would be me. I hope that my notes won’t be the only source of information about your generation. History won’t end where I leave it. You can write your own story and put it next to mine. Then whoever reads it can make up their own mind about you.”

  “I guess that’s fair enough,” Hanna agreed. “How would you like to be remembered by the future generations?”

  “You will find out when I have written that part of the chronicle,” he said, slightly defensively.

  “I have read my share of autobiographies and most of them reek of self-glorification. Doesn’t it always end up as your version of what you would like to be the truth?”

  “That’s a very good point,” Walter said. “No biographer can guarantee complete distance from the events. I shall hope that my true character comes through in my notes, written between the lines as it were. Maybe you and your brothers would do me the honour and add a few things, post mortem?”

  “That would definitely produce a different picture of you,” Hanna said.

  “Just try to be objective,” he replied.

  “It is hard to do that. I would write it already quite differently now to the way I would have done as a teenager,” Hanna said.

  “How did you see me as a teenager then that is so different from now?” Walter wanted to know, suddenly very interested.

  “Well, we’ve both changed over the years,” said Hanna evasively. “Of course, I would have thought of you differently back then.”

  “Then write about both phases. Don’t you want the old part of me remembered and passed on, too?” Walter said.

  “To be honest, I sometimes try to forget that person you were then. You were not much fun for me as a teenager.”

  “Well, now we are getting somewhere,” Walter tried, but failed, to disguise his hurt feelings.

  “It can’t come as a big surprise to you that I thought that, Dad. Come on. You were there. How do you remember our relationship when I was a child?” Hanna defended herself.

  “I remember teaching you sports, taking you and the boys to places. You had all the opportunities you wanted. You could learn instruments, I paid for trainers, tutors and sports lessons, we went hiking and cycling and spent a lot of time together, I can’t understand why you paint me as unlikeable. We went bowling, rowing, to water parks. You name it and we did it. Other children have parents who just sit on their fat bottoms, staying inside all day, who only ever watch TV and don’t pay any attention to their kids at all.”

  “I know, that is true and I appreciate it. But you did not exactly ask us if we wanted to do any of those things,” Hanna told him. “If one of us declined an offer that you made we had to suffer you in a sulk for d
ays. So we went through the motions for your sake. Those things you did were fun for you because they were what you were good at.”

  “I spent time with you kids and I tried to teach you to get better at whatever you did, to improve yourselves. I hoped you would surpass me if I kept encouraging and challenging you. Does that not count for anything?”

  “Of course it counts for something,” Hanna assured him. “You were very rigid though. And fortunately you and I have a better relationship now. You have evolved. I don’t know how much of your previous stubborn self I would want to mention in your chronicle.”

  “It should all be there, at least in traces,” Walter stated. “Truth matters.”

  “I just don’t know how much I believe in your history project in the first place. Who will really want to know?”

  “I would want to know these things about our forefathers, if only I could,” Walter said passionately. “I hate that everything about our family might be forgotten. I don’t even have any grandchildren as a legacy and may never have, the way things are looking.”

  “But even if there were grandchildren, most chronicles and biographies are contrived, made up myths and legends, rather than giving out true and valued information about a person and what they were really like,” Hanna said critically.

  “Many have hired publicists and ghost writers to do all that for them. That is no comparison to our little family and what I am trying to do,” Walter contradicted.

  “It is the same principle,” Hanna insisted. “The second someone puts pen to paper to write about themselves their story is already coloured the way they want it to be. Either by how they see themselves or by how other people tell them they are: there is no such thing as objectivity.”

  “You are taking it to the extreme, Pumpkin.”

  “Not really. Your chronicle is going to create a myth about our family and how you thought it was. Future generations may believe it and start using it as a role model. Defining themselves in concepts that you have created that may or may not have been there.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “People may end up believing what they are prone to be, or think they should behave in a certain way because their ancestors were like that – according to your notes. The talk of a family tradition can limit realistic perceptions and expectations, discouraging our self-fulfilment and self-determination,” Hanna declared full of enthusiasm.

  “You are always so dramatic, Pumpkin! Who is going to read my notes and suddenly say: I come from a family of communists, so I must become one myself?” Walter stated, trying to ridicule her argument.

  “More people than you might think: tradition can be a great comfort, or an excuse for bad behaviour.”

  “I would like to think that what I am going to pass on is beneficial for the next generation,” Walter defended himself. “People like to know about history purely for the sake of interest, without agendas and consequences. To know the background they come from can be informative. That way they can be aware of potential tendencies, such as alcoholism. They also have a right to know that some of our family left their home country for their political beliefs.”

  “Yes, our great family heroes. If they had been real communists they would have gone to Russia, not the UK. There is your first myth already. How much do we really know about that claim?” Hanna said.

  “You’ll get to read it, Pumpkin,” he said, irritated, and fell silent.

  His daughter retreated to her room and left a grumpy Walter alone with his thoughts. What she failed to realise was how his wife’s disease had worn down his self-esteem, and how hard her words had hit him.

  Most of his life he had never cared much about what other people thought. He knew that Biddy’s illness was nothing to be ashamed of and he would meet any rude comment or provocation head on. Only, such judgement, pity and ridicule were never spoken out loud or voiced in public where he would have been able to confront them. It all happened behind his back - he could feel it and knew it was there. He had heard people talk openly about ‘old lunatics’, before Biddy had been diagnosed. It was obvious to him that this was still going on and would not stop when it came to him and his wife. He braved the outside world for her sake and took her to the familiar places in town, but he hardly went out by himself now and he socialised next to never, feeling far too uncomfortable and paranoid.

  There were fewer invitations anyway. Partly because more of their acquaintances and friends had died over the years or had become incapacitated by age related causes themselves, but Walter felt that there was a stigma attached to Biddy’s condition and the people who still held parties were definitely avoiding them.

  Walter had been almost arrogantly sure of himself up to this point in his life and had never feared criticism. He had taken comfort in the daily routines and his belief that what he did for Biddy was the right thing. After dealing with the disease for several years, the Korhonen family disagreed strongly on the best way to handle Biddy. Hanna objected to Walter’s theory that a regular timetable and a routine to Biddy’s life were the key to slowing down the mental deterioration process. She claimed that it was not worth the struggle. To her the only thing that had any relevance was laughter and happiness for the patient and anything that could achieve this was acceptable.

  His flighty daughter had never really cared much about routine and discipline - even in her own life, which was probably why she was jetting around the globe for a living, never settling anywhere, was single and was always looking for inspiration and meaning in new places and pastimes. It did not make her an expert in his eyes even if he had to admit that she knew how to make his Biddy smile.

  Now she was adding insult to injury by bringing his role as father into discredit. Would she – and also for that matter other people - see him at all as the good, loyal father and husband he was trying to be, a man who was taking care of the family and his wife? Or was he seen as the neurotic control freak and a cliché of a grumpy old man who had lost touch with reality over his own little problems? Did people still respect his lovable and remarkable wife, or did they all laugh about her behind their backs, as he feared they would? Did they respect him at all?

  As his life came closer to its completion, and as he was writing this chronicle, he often wondered if he could look back on it and be as proud as he wanted to be. Or was he just fooling himself: had he actually made a mess of it all?

  The phone rang and forced him to leave these heavy thoughts aside. Walter almost sprinted to answer it. He hated it when Biddy’s afternoon nap was interrupted. It was that paramedic - Walter could not understand the name but he recognised the voice. He seemed to be very keen on Hanna. Only a few days ago, Walter had learned in a romantic comedy that dating etiquette required the man to wait three days after the first date before calling the woman again, or else he was considered too keen. Well, today was only one day after the date. What was wrong with this guy to wantonly break the rules? Hanna had abandoned a string of perfectly great men for no apparent reason whatsoever. The few boyfriends that she had introduced to the family seemed perfectly nice and suitable but then she left them and never provided a reason for the split. He handed the receiver to his daughter and ushered her up the stairs - out of earshot.

  “I am sorry, Karim,” she apologised once she was upstairs. “My father is worried about waking up my mother from her afternoon nap. I hope he wasn’t rude to you?”

  “No, not at all and if he was rude I would understand,” Karim said warmly.

  “She sleeps like a rock and her hearing is getting worse as it is,” Hanna was annoyed at her father. “I seriously doubt a phone call could disturb her but in his mind interrupted sleep is the worst thing that could happen.”

  “He has a point. Physical routine can be very beneficial.”

  “Go and agree with him. You two would make a right pair,” she said jokingly. “So what can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I have put all of my notes together from last night at t
he restaurant. I have constructed a document for you that sets out all the points for your defence, as it were. Legal and medical jargon included. I was wondering if you wanted to go over it with me sometime.”

  Hanna inwardly jumped for joy. The thought of such a document was very comforting.

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “If your mother is asleep right now, would you consider meeting me at my sister’s house? I am on ‘mother-watch’ and mine is asleep too.”

  “Sure, why not!”

  “The address is 18, Sion Hill.

  “Oh, I know where that is. I used to have a school friend in that road at number 31. I will be with you in about ten minutes,” she promised.

  Hanna hung up and went downstairs to tell her father about her plans.

  “Dad, I am meeting up with the paramedic. If you think you can hold off with dinner until six I will be back in time to cook. I bought a lot of food that might go off otherwise.”

  “Of course. Well, well. Two dates in two days,” he commented with a smirk.

  “If you mind me going I can reschedule. I know I said I was going to be here to help you out with Mum,” Hanna admitted. “I am sorry to mess up your plans.”

  “Don’t worry, Pumpkin,” Walter said with a sigh. “I managed before you came and I will have to do the same when you leave.”

  Chapter 12: Saturday Afternoon

  The house at Sion Hill was enormous. Detached with three floors, huge gardens and a private driveway; this was a proper mansion. Even with twelve children there would be enough space for an elderly woman.

  Before Hanna got to the door Karim came out of the house and greeted her by shaking hands.

  “You made it sound as if your mother was living in a tiny cupboard of a room with children’s toys and clutter everywhere,” Hanna joked.

  “Sorry if I have been misleading. If you ever meet my sister you will see that for her this is exactly the way you describe it. She runs a tight ship.”