by Farah Cook
‘I try not to leave Mother alone anywhere around the house,’ says the woman with short blonde hair. ‘She empties Nutella out of the jar with a spoon and then there’s the honey pot—’
‘Thank you, Bridget,’ says John. ‘For sharing that with us. Shall we, um, let Amira continue where she left off?’ He sends me an approving nod.
‘I no longer ask Mum what she wants for her meals. I give her what I know she needs, even when she refuses to eat what I plate in front of her. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes I find that she makes her own meals when I am not around. She goes to the shop without my knowledge. Once, she left the shopping in the back of the car. I’ve had to throw meat away several times because she leaves it out for too long. I want to stop buying it. I want Mum to eat more vegetables.’
‘She’s forgotten how to cook, hasn’t she?’ asks Susan.
I nod. ‘Yes, she no longer remembers the recipes.’
‘My mum does something similar,’ says the man I took to be in his forties. ‘Once, she woke up early, took all the meat out from the freezer and left it on the counter, where it sat for the whole day. She said she wanted to prepare Christmas dinner for the family. I said to her, Christmas isn’t due for another six months. She didn’t believe me. I get that a lot and—’
‘Thank you, Tom, for sharing your insights.’ John looks back over at me.
I go quiet. Look down at my thumbs and twirl them round and round.
‘I appreciate coming here today to share my experiences. Caring for Mum the past couple of years has been hard. And it’s getting harder. I’m not sure how long I can manage to look after her. I’m terrified that some day something will go wrong.’
‘What do you think might happen?’ John grabs a biscuit for himself. ‘If you were to leave your mother all by herself, is there a risk of danger?’
‘The house is secure. I’ve had fire alarms installed. But I worry she’ll forget what she’s cooking and burn things.’
‘Me dad’s carer makes what he likes. Neeps and tatties. Boiled eggs and toast,’ says the heavy man. ‘But he burns the food when she’s gone and eats all the black bits. He says it’s delicious. I told him it’s dangerous and that he’ll end up causing a fire.’
‘Mum is terrified of causing a fire,’ I say. ‘She’s always been worried about it, ever since I can remember. I contacted her doctor, and spoke to a memory loss clinic that was recommended to me. I told them about Mum’s condition. She should be due for an assessment soon, and one of the nurses said she might be better off living in a care home. I’m not sure I agree with them.’
‘And why is that?’
I shrug. I don’t tell him that in Pakistani culture the children are obliged to care for their parents. That we simply do not put our elders in a care home. It’s considered amoral.
‘My neighbour told me she doesn’t like Mum wandering about the neighbourhood peering into people’s houses. She said, “Why don’t you place her in a care home? It’s where she belongs.” I think she called the social services. They almost took Mum away because she was shouting at pedestrians passing by our house to help put out the fire. People thought she was crazy. Our house has never been on fire. Mum has a phobia of lots of things. Loneliness, losing her jewellery. Fire is also one of them.’
John makes a note in his book of what I’ve just said. ‘Go on, Amira.’ He rolls the ‘r’ again.
‘Earlier this year, I felt more tired than usual. I started to sleep in for an extra hour in the morning. Some days, I could barely get out of bed, let alone take care of Mum. I don’t want her to go into a care home. I can’t afford to put her into one. But I also have to think of what’s best for her. I have to think about her safety.’ I look over at Susan. ‘I would never be able to forgive myself should anything happen to her.’ She nods.
John thanks me, says I shouldn’t worry. There’s help if I need it. And I can tell by the look on his face that he thinks I need it.
I fold my hands and place them in my lap. I can’t finish my tea. It’s cold anyway. So is the room. Everyone is staring at me. No one says a word. I don’t think they expected me to say this much on day one.
Before I go, John pulls me aside. He gives me what looks like a leaflet. Ravenswood Lodge Care Home. ‘Speak to them. They are like no other facility. They might be able to help you.’
‘How?’ I ask.
‘They offer grants for special cases,’ he says, before he leaves.
I look at the glossy brochure in my hand. There’s a picture with tall trees and a Victorian house on a cliff top, sleeping like a silent tomb.
I recognise this place. I’ve driven the long route to the rural Highlands, with its curved lanes bouncing over ruts and channels. The loose gravel spraying from beneath the tyres and wearing them out. And the deer, there must be thousands of deer out there in the wilderness roaming free.
One misty morning I remember driving past these large gates and the twisted driveway that leads up to the old manor. Beyond the hedgerows, I caught a glimpse of the sea. There was something beautiful and dangerous about the way the house stood there swallowed by dark woods and quiet hills facing the ocean. Powerful, and with a real presence marked by two tall turrets, it seemed out of my reach. I wondered who could live in a place like this. I imagined a wealthy family, or someone who wanted to live off-grid, undisturbed and in peace.
But now I know it’s just some fancy care home I would never be able to afford to put Mum into, and Mum is not a special case. Just an old woman with dementia.
I flick through the brochure. Happy faces of elderly people selling false hope. Mum wouldn’t be happy living in a care home anyway. I throw it in the bin and walk out of the building. I don’t look back. I feel the guilt creep under my skin.
It was a mistake coming here.
Chapter 2
AFRAH
Monday, 5 August 2019
It’s a raw, stinging pain I feel each time I bite my nail to the nub. When there’s nothing left to chew, I move on to the next and start all over till I see pink flesh. I spread out my hands and stare for a moment. Wiggle my fingers once, twice. I don’t like what I’m looking at. The faint blue veins pattern my hands like fish scales.
Gold bracelets rub against my wrist. I used to have six, now I have four. One is elegant – ladylike, says Nisha – but I know she likes it when I wear four, two on each wrist, the way she does. She’s one of those friends who’d never truly express what she really thinks. Nisha wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings. Unlike my daughter, Amira, who says (often in a serious tone) that I shouldn’t wear any of my jewellery because I’ll end up losing it. She may be right. I hate to admit it, but she is so often right. At times, Amira wears the two gold bracelets I gave her. Mostly, though, she doesn’t.
I open the bedside drawer. What I am looking for is not in there. My reading glasses, my diary – I must have left them by the wash basin. I fold back the cover and sit on the edge of the bed staring at the blank wall. I push my feet into a pair of velvety slippers. They envelop my mottled skin that stretches over lumps that have deformed my knobbly feet. Shoulders slumped, I go into the bathroom, unable to straighten my hunched back, with its sore, pained muscles. I use the toilet, flush and pull off my stained underwear.
I halt on seeing my own reflection. The face in the mirror doesn’t look too well. I suppose I am not. I am a frail woman with bony shoulders. Pretty, perhaps, in my youth, I now feel washed out and hollow. Stone-grey eyes, with swollen lids sitting in pink crests, glare back at me. Snowy hair with no volume nests over a messy head, giving it the appearance of a sack. I try to keep it neat, braiding it tight. The strands spindle loose and smudge like ashes against my forehead. Coconut oil is rubbed into my scalp, the fragrance slightly bitter and helping to tie my hair in a knot the size of a walnut. A birthmark speckles my neck, ringed with lines. In the dim evening light, I memorise the features of my face. The fair skin on my cheeks and under my chin jiggle. Lips dry and thin. A p
roud looking nose. Several milia dot the dark circles under my eyes, which appear darker each day. Bright are the gold studs that glint in my saggy earlobes. I’m not a young girl. I am fifty-five years old.
What am I doing in the bathroom? Was I looking for something?
Sometimes I leave the house and forget what I went out for, or I switch on the television with no recollection of what programme I’ve just seen. Of course, I can’t admit any of that to Amira, who has noticed that I am forgetting things more frequently now. No longer just misplacing my jewellery and my reading glasses. Once, I left grocery bags at the back of the car for hours.
The milk had turned sour, the ice cream had melted. I didn’t say a word when the thick veins in her neck pulled hard like wires. I don’t remember going to the supermarket. I don’t remember buying anything. I wanted to cook korma, the way Amira likes it with coconut and poppy seeds. The raw chicken sitting on the counter for too long had turned bad. A feast for flies, and a little bit for the stray cat that’s moved in with us.
I pinch the dirty underwear between the tips of my fingers and go back to the bedroom and hide them behind my pillow. On the wall, there is a string with clothes pegs holding photographs. Some of them are curving at the edges. I pick one at random of me and Amira. We look so happy sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. I have trouble remembering that we ever were so carefree. Next to the pictures the board says Life Story Work. It shows different range of foods, music, literature and locations. I go through the list of dishes. Korma, saag aloo, tandoori chicken. Titled tracks of Qawwali songs, Urdu books and poetry, Bollywood films. Lahore, it says in big letters. The name of the city in Pakistan in which I was born followed by a map of Inverness with an arrow pointing to the Highlands. I read the collage again. The props are familiar, filled with forgotten memories. Is this my life, my story? I don’t know. I feel as if I am floating, lost from the existence that belongs to me. My mind settles on the memories that sum up my life the way it used to be. Some I know, others flutter away like butterflies.
Edging closer, I glance at the pictures again. Looking back at me is the face of a child. Chestnut brown eyes. I recognise the Kashmiri features: aquiline nose, high cheekbones. Could this be Amira? Riding a bicycle, strolling along the windswept beach collecting broken seashells. Playing in the garden with sticks and rocks wearing wellies and a yellow raincoat. I remember a pair of wellies leaving a trail of sand and mud over our kitchen tiles. I don’t remember the raincoat. There’s another picture of a dashing looking man. I feel like I ought to know him. With a thick moustache and jet-black hair, he is leaning against an apple tree, in an orchard. What’s that handsome Hollywood actor called again, Daniel Day-Lewis? That’s him.
The moon throws shafts of silver through the gap in the curtains into the gloomy world that surrounds me. The curtains ripple and a draft of the summer breeze slips through. The wind howls over the trees in our garden, the trees sway over the pond. I don’t like these awful sounds, they keep me awake. Howling like screams from a grave. It reminds me of something bad, very bad. I mustn’t think about that. It’s the one thing I must forget and yet I cannot. Grief latches onto me. My chest feels heavy. I step back, feel the wall against the knobs of my spine. I know I shouldn’t chew at my nails. Amira stopped asking about the pink flesh visible around my nubs and replaced her questions with sighs. I can’t tell her the reason I bite my nails.
The bed squeaks each time I turn from one side to the other. My skin is clammy with sweat. I look at the digital clock. The bright red colour shows 02:38. After a while, I look again. 03:06. I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. I roll onto my side, then my back, then to the other side.
The dream I just had twists like worms inside my head. I need to jot it down so I don’t forget. From the desk drawer, I take out my reading glasses and my diary, the black leather smooth against my dry palms. I push on my glasses and turn the pages at random. I use coloured bookmarks in my diary to jump back and forth in time. The yellow bookmark placement marks a lot of joyful memories, reminding me of my summers spent at sea, walking along the shoreline. The blue bookmark section mentions numerous arguments I had with Amira. There’s a lot of sorrow and a lot of pain in the pages. We disagree. We never agree to disagree. I turn to a grey bookmark. I have a lot of grey bookmarks in my diary among which I’ve written down the web of dreams troubling me.
In my dream a distant, familiar voice calls for me. Leaving the house barefoot, I go outside and pass the rose bush in the garden. A sharp sensation prickles my skin, holding me back. The spine of a stem is outgrowing like tusks. It’s clutched onto my leg and I shake it off, leaving behind withered leaves. I push open the gate and enter a mossy track that leads me straight to the misty graveyard where a tombstone sleeps beneath a yew tree, its branches stretched out like claws. They reach for me with their hooks. Grab and pull me towards the open grave. I do not want to look and yet I do. A blackened corpse rises from the dirt, eyes hollow, hair thinned and flaring in the wind. It is rotten and has been dead for decades, but still it comes to life most nights in my dreams. It looks at me and cackles, saying the same thing over and over. Now look. Look what you did to me.
Wednesday, 21 August 2019
An echo crawls through my bedroom. It sounds like laughter coming from downstairs. I’m fully awake now and look for my reading glasses. They are not on my desk, not on the shelf, or on the stand next to the chair. Without them I can’t read the newspaper strewn across my bed. I need to go through the headlines. I don’t want to miss anything that’s been written about her in the papers. It was front page news for a long time. It screamed at me from every street corner. Everyone wanted to know how it happened, who did it. It was unexpected and sudden. A ‘tragic accident’. I still keep some of the old news clippings in the box in my wardrobe.
Tossed into the bin basket is the journal Amira gave me. She asked me to keep track of what I do every day. What do I do every day? Every day is becoming more unfamiliar.
The journal is for taking note of the amount of fluids I drink in a day.
No, it’s for drawing.
Or perhaps it is to record the number of times I visit the bathroom in a day. That’s what Nisha uses her journal for, under doctor’s orders.
I’d ask Amira again what the journal is for, but I try to avoid confrontation. Nisha says that’s because being confrontational is inappropriate in Asian culture. She avoids it with her own daughter, too. But I remember an ill-mannered skinny girl with dark skin and button-black eyes calling Nisha silly and careless in front of others without showing trace of guilt or shame. If I am to believe the blue bookmark of my diary, my own daughter is no different.
Wasn’t I looking for something . . .? What could it be? I walk around searching the room.
‘—Ouch.’
I feel a stinging in my foot.
I look down. Caught between the knots of the rug is a small metal screw. I pick it up and place it on the bedside table. Could this belong to the hinges of my glasses? Where are my glasses? I look across the desk, open the drawers and empty the contents of my handbag onto the bed. I move the coins, receipts and scrawled pieces of paper, among which I find a set of keys. No, that’s not it.
My glasses are sitting next to a pile of books on the bedside table. The lenses are dirty. I clean them against my nightgown. The left temple is slightly bent and the hinges are loose. Where is the screw? I had it a second ago. I am sure I did.
Never mind.
I adjust it so that it fits snugly behind my ears. Now I can read the headlines of The Inverness Courier scattered on my bed. One of the headlines is highlighted in bright yellow marker.
Woman killed in a hit and run. A 52-year-old Scottish woman was struck and killed while crossing a road near Beauly.
That’s not far from where we live.
Amira doesn’t like it when I highlight articles in the papers. She wants me to stop worrying about the terrible things happening in the world. But
I can’t. What if something were to happen to her? The fear of losing her terrifies me. On my left palm I write, get today’s paper. I must jot this down so that I don’t forget to ask Amira.
I need to know if they have caught the killer.
I look up and see Amira standing in the hallway, letters from the post in one hand. She stares at me as if I were a ghost.
‘Are you alone?’ I say. ‘Who’s there with you? I heard laughter. Voices.’ I try to look past her, but she blocks my view. Now beside me, her hand rests on my arm.
Her expression turns into a cloud of confusion. ‘No one is here.’ She looks over her shoulder. To assure me that she is right and I am wrong. ‘Are you hearing strange sounds again?’ She raises her voice even though she’s right next to me.
‘I am not.’ I look at her, but she is busy examining the post. ‘Anything for me?’ I notice my name on one of the envelopes.
‘No, nothing,’ she says while opening a letter.
‘Are you sure? Because that one has my name on it, see, it says Afrah Malik. That’s for me.’ I point at it.
‘It’s nothing.’ Amira opens another addressed to Amira Khan. I don’t think she has noticed her surname is wrong. ‘You can’t go about looking the way you do,’ she glimpses at me and smiles. ‘I’ll iron your shalwar kameez.’
‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?’
‘Ami, you are still in your nightgown.’
‘And, so?’
‘Well,’ she smiles again. ‘I thought that today I could help you to a shower.’
She knows how much I hate taking showers with her hovering over me, telling me how to apply soap and water on my skin. I don’t want an argument. It makes me feel disoriented. Too often, I lose my words.
