by Farah Cook
‘That’s all very nice,’ I said.
‘I also packed enough warm socks, ordered a new pair of leather shoes from Amazon, which will arrive in couple of days. If you need anything else, I can always bring it when I come for a visit. We’ll talk all the time on the phone. You have nothing to worry about.
‘Finally, we get to go through your things,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘This one is heavy, what’s inside?’
Her eyes penetrated mine. A curious deep look. I swelled with irritation.
‘It is mine,’ I said. ‘Leave it.’ My box filled with old memories. The only few things that reminds me of my past. Old photographs, original birth certificates, news clippings and tapes. The silver box containing broken seashells. And then there’s her diary. I took it and hid it in the shed so she wouldn’t find it and wouldn’t write nasty things in it again. Amira can’t see that. She would ask questions.
The rain was slamming harder against the glass. It knocked open the window. Wind whirled in, stirring the papers in my box. Amira grabbed the newspaper clipping that flew out. She was about to read the yellow marked headlines. I snatched it quickly out of her hand and hurriedly shoved it all back in and pushed the box back into the cupboard. I made sure to hide it at the back where she wouldn’t find it. Amira said nothing. She stood watching me, arms crossed over her chest, mouth half open as if lost for words. Outside the rain came down. Splat, splat on the windows and on the roof.
Amira changes gear with one hand and with the other she wipes away the moisture on her cheeks. No words come out, but I know she’s been crying. The car goes faster, doesn’t turn. Doesn’t swing into any street for there are none. The white smoky veil lifts and reveals the road, which is familiar. Tall swaying trees with wind-beaten branches arch to the side. I’m sure I’ve been down this road before. I know where it ends.
The dark forest and the misty sky close in on us. We climb the track that passes big black gates that swing open to the house on the clifftop, and the car sweeps into the drive. It’s a long way up to the red brick house with two tall towers on each side.
I straighten my back, peering out towards the sea ruffled by strong winds. My breath quickens. We stop at a sign that says Ravenswood Lodge Care Home. Amira cuts the ignition, sits drumming her hands on the wheel. The engine ticks.
‘We’re finally here.’ She looks over her shoulder. ‘And look, look how beautiful it is.’
I roll down my car window. The cool breeze travels in from the coast. I taste salt in the air. Hear the slapping of water against rocks.
Yellow light suddenly floods over us from the arced windows of the house. A dark shadow is standing inside the tower on the left looking out, watching me. It disappears behind the shifting curtain. I have been here before. It’s not a hotel but a house with high walls and dark panelled walls. ‘Have you brought me to see Nisha?’
‘That’s right.’ Behind the sadness there’s a smile on her face. ‘She lives here, too.’
Amira tells me to step out. I don’t move a muscle and stay inside the car. I wrap my chador tighter around my body like it’s a lifebuoy. If I leave the blow from the ocean will ambush me, sweep me right with it to the bottom of the sea.
‘I’m not leaving. Do you hear me?’
The wind seeps through the car window. A blowing gale travels over the house. To the left, there’s a terrace shielded in glass with benches and tables. It slopes towards the garden to the end where a pond is circled by stones. Beyond the edge of the garden is what I at first think looks like a row of giant men, but is only a line of birch trees standing shoulder to shoulder rooted in the soil, black like midnight.
‘Ami, come out.’ Amira turns around to face the house.
A tall, thin woman dressed in a white uniform appears in the doorway of the house. Arms crossed, she starts walking briskly our way, galloping down the steps, crossing the lawn. She stops in front of our car and lowers her head, looks in and smiles. She has an ashen face. Her skin is gaunt, teeth stained yellow. The wrinkles form hard lines around her mouth as if carved into her skin.
‘Well, a very pleasant good morning and welcome to Ravenswood Lodge Care Home. We’ve been expecting you Mrs Malik. My name is Myrtle Brown and I’m the head nurse of our beautiful and unique care home.’ Her cold silver eyes dart at me. I reach out to grab Amira’s shoulder. She’s already skirted round the side of car. Her hair, thick like ropes, whips around her face. She tucks it in behind her ears several times. It spindles loose like long black flames.
Amira opens the boot, removes my suitcase. I hear her chatting to the woman in white uniform with the cold grey eyes. I don’t know what she is saying. The woman doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look at me. I roll the window back up. Through the nylon stockings tight around her milk white skin, thick green lines push out as if screaming to cut lose from her body. She tries to open my door. Yanks the handle. Holds back and smiles. I’m not leaving the car. I’m not going anywhere.
A white van with blinking lights takes off to leave through the black gates. Its wheels crushing the path, spraying stones from beneath the tyres. I watch the sharp yellow and green colours blinking at the sign. The R in Ravenswood is black and bold slanting forward like a bow, the L in Lodge is formed like an anchor. The other two words, Care and Home look like dead bodies hanging from a rope. I don’t want to go in there.
Across the sky, gulls wheel in an effortless glide. I wish I had their wings. I wish I could fly.
I can see Amira gesturing I should come out. I shake my head and look away.
The morning sun throws a line of gold into the heart of the forest. The hills in the distance are embraced by the fog. Nothing moves out here except the fallen leaves dancing in the wind.
The van disappears into the morning haze and I wish I was sitting inside it. I am willing to go anywhere so that I can flee this cold and lonely place, which is nothing Amira said it would be. A hotel?
I have a feeling my daughter has not taken me on a holiday.
Nor has she taken me to visit Nisha.
Amira is abandoning me.
PART TWO
Separation
Chapter 11
AMIRA
Seven days earlier
Wednesday, 13 November 2019
I tap my fingers on the mahogany desk. The picture frame on it depicts him with his wife, her long spider-like fingers curled around my son’s shoulder. I’ve seen the same one hanging up on the entrance wall of their home – a top-floor flat that some would call a penthouse. I’ve glimpsed inside it occasionally, but today as I dropped Mum to be with Shafi I had a better look. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling. Outside, a balcony, its empty chairs overlooking the stillness of the River Ness.
How I used to walk along Bank Street dreaming of the day we’d be living in this neighbourhood, where misty mountains can be seen in the distance. I wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to afford a Victorian stone-built house in the Crown conservation area. That perhaps we wouldn’t fit in. The small place we rented above the Italian was little bigger than a prison cell, and there was always the fresh smell of tomatoes and basil coming in, and the sing-song voices of the Italian waiters made for a chaotic symphony hanging in the air. There, we fitted in. We were happy during those years we spent in our cell with Shafi bouncing between our knees while the tea kettle whistled, and hot cross buns toasted in the mini electric oven.
Haroon is on the phone. He hangs up and the phone rattles against the base. Sighing and scratching his chin irritably, he throws me a stare that reveals an austere uncertainty. ‘Don’t be discouraged by what I am about to tell you.’ I feel as if I am one of his patients waiting for bad news. That anytime now Dr Khan will inform me I only have two months to live.
‘Matters are quite convoluted, Mira. The process appears to be harder than I thought it would be.’ He continues to scratch his face, moving his fingers across his cheek.
‘What do you mean?’ impatience floods me. ‘There�
�s got to be something you can do,’ I lean forward. ‘Please, I beg you. Try harder.’
‘My hands are tied Mira. I’ve spoken to all the medical professionals I know in the field.’
‘Speak to them again!’ I shout. ‘Get a second evaluation from someone else. Just do something. Anything! They can’t take Mum away. I am her daughter, her carer. I’ve looked after her all these years. I know what she needs. Does that mean nothing? Are they suggesting—’
‘No one is suggesting anything,’ his voice is calm. ‘Now, please, try and relax. You have to accept the decision that’s been made about your mum.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I stare down at the white linoleum floor. ‘I can’t believe they are going to take her away.’
‘The case is with social services. A John Buchanan, who you spoke to at the Carers Support Group for Alzheimer’s raised a red flag some months earlier. He reported that you appeared to be under severe stress during your visit and he was worried when you never showed up again.’
‘That’s rubbish. I wasn’t stressed. He asked me questions that I openly and honestly answered. That’s what people do in those groups.’
Haroon pauses.
‘What’s the matter?’
He hesitates to tell me more. ‘Never mind.’
‘Please, Haroon. I need to know what you know.’
‘Well, if you must . . .’ he says in his soothing voice. ‘Mr Buchanan believes you are incapable of looking after your mum. You told him that you feared something like what just happened at your home would happen, which it did, suggesting—’
‘Bloody hell, nothing happened. I was sick in bed and Mum went on one of her typical cooking missions. She lost a little control, forgot what she was doing, that’s all. I was there in time before matters turned worse.’
I knew I shouldn’t have gone to the Carers Support Group when Meena first brought it up. I told her it was a bad idea, but she reassured me it would help offload the feelings I’ve been carrying around for years and help me connect with carers in a similar situation. And John. He encouraged me to speak. Ensured me the group is there to help. Confidentiality my arse. ‘You know I’m more than capable of taking care of my own mother.’
‘Mira, please.’ His eyes rest on mine. ‘It’s not what I think that matters. People talk, and apparently he was tipped off anonymously by someone who knows you.’
‘Who?’ I curl my hands into fists.
‘Do you know a Sylvia Nesbit? She contacted social services to file a complaint. Apparently, she’s been filing several since early this year.’
Fuck!
‘I knew it,’ I slam my fists on the desk. ‘Mrs Nesbit lives across the street.’
‘She claims you kept your mum locked inside the house all day. And sometimes left her there alone. That’s the reason she would run out and behave strangely around the neighbourhood, knocking on doors, pulling on door handles.’
‘That’s not how it happened—’
‘Other neighbours were concerned something wasn’t right,’ he says. ‘And after Shafi moved out there was even stronger reason to believe being in isolation and looking after your mum may not be healthy for your own mental well-being.’
‘What do they know about my mental well-being?’ I crack my knuckles.
‘Mira, don’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone can feel a little mad in a situation like this. Have you considering speaking to a therapist?’
‘Bollocks,’ I say, and laugh. ‘Why should I speak to a therapist? I don’t suffer from any sort of mental health issues.’ He gives me his full attention.
‘Take my advice and speak to Mr Abdullah. He’s a retired doctor living in Glasgow.’
‘Why would I do that?’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘You can trust him. Mr Abdullah is a friend of my family. His wife was a lovely Sikh lady. She also suffered from dementia and recently passed away. It helps talking to others.’ Haroon spots my uncertainty. ‘If you change your mind about talking to a professional—’
‘I took your advice about joining an online chat forum for carers. I have a support network. I don’t need to speak to any professionals. Especially not some retired old doctor.’
He expresses his apologies. ‘I never meant to offend you.’
‘You’re the one who suggested Mum be reassessed. Said the new memory loss clinic next to the hospital could help, and everything else bundled into the dementia package that came with it.’
‘Well, didn’t it?’
‘No!’ I touch my flushed cheeks. Mum answering stupid questions over and over about what year and month she was in. She had to repeat her name and address, and then count backwards from ten. ‘Those exercises made it worse. Had I known, I wouldn’t have agreed to any of it. What a load of rubbish.’
‘Mira, you’re clearly upset. Try to control yourself. I have patients outside, waiting.’
I cover my face, suppress the tears. I can’t blame Haroon. He has nothing to do with any of it and is only trying to help. I’m angry with myself. How could I have been so stupid?
‘I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. They said journaling could improve her memory. In the end, nothing did. Mum kept getting worse over time, and it’s all my fault.’
He sits next to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. You’re a wonderful carer. And mother.’ There’s a touch of relief in his smile.
How could I have let it come this far? Perhaps I should have spoken to Mrs Nesbit, and I should have told the neighbours and people who know Mum that she wasn’t well. But instead, I kept her dementia a secret, as if she was carrying a dangerous illness I wanted nobody to find out about. I was embarrassed. Felt too ashamed to talk openly how forgetful she was becoming, as if she was defective. If only I had had the courage to raise awareness, Mum would have been accepted and not rejected. Perhaps even in Asian communities where dementia doesn’t have a name and mental health doesn’t get addressed.
‘I didn’t want anyone to judge us. So I decided to keep it a secret.’
‘But why?’ Haroon tilts his head to the side. ‘It’s nothing to feel embarrassed about.’
It’s like Mum said, ‘The Pakistanis in our community would pass judgement. Spread lies and say her willpower has failed, or even worse, they’d start believing she is defective. Mentally ill. Call her pagal, mad. I didn’t want that. I was only trying to protect her.’
‘When we first met, you cared so little about what other people thought.’
‘If only I had listened to Mum. Not been so dismissive of what she was telling me, then she may not have gone down to the kitchen that day. I didn’t do enough. I failed her.’
‘You can’t change what’s happened. The council wants your mum admitted. I’ve been told they have a place for her at a care home called Ravenswood Lodge. A patient sadly died. Your mum will get the room, and I highly recommend you take her there. It’s a first-rate private facility. I was also informed you are eligible for funding support. The grant you will receive is enough to last a couple of years. You don’t have to worry about anything for now. Isn’t that at least some relief?’
Ravenswood Lodge. I remember the glossy brochure John pressed into my hand that day I went to the Carers Support Group. Speak to them. They are like no other facility. They might be able to help you. How promising his words sounded. And how stupid I must have seemed telling him everything that bothered me about Mum. He used the situation against me to take her away.
‘You don’t understand. Mum doesn’t belong in a care home. She is not familiar with the customs. A new environment will only make her anxious.’
He swings back into his chair behind the desk. ‘What makes you say that? Your mum has lived in this country her whole life, has she not?’
‘She has become even more traditional now. Mum will not like it there.’
‘Mira, your mum will adapt over time. Most patients do. And besides, traditional views are changing. More Asians are
going into care homes. It’s not the children’s responsibility to look after their parents. Don’t feel guilty.’
‘She isn’t like most patients. She’s a proud Kashmiri woman. Her views about traditions and culture don’t fit among—’
‘Goreh, white people. Is that it?’ he says stroking his beard.
I am surprised at how Haroon has neglected his cultural values. ‘If anyone should understand what I am saying it should be you. Would you ever want to put your own mum into a care home?’
‘From a medical point of view, I would, if she needed to be in one,’ he says. ‘I know this is hard for you to come to terms with and accept since you’ve been caring for her all these years. A place like Ravenswood Lodge was created to care for people like your mum.’
People like my mum? His words are unaffectionate. ‘It’s an institution,’ I say raising my voice. ‘A cold, clinical care home for people nothing like Mum.’
‘Have you been out there, have you seen it?’
‘I have.’ I twitch my nose. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘It’s a very privileged place for the elderly. Beautiful, actually. Unlike any other care home I have ever seen with a rich history and traditions. And they don’t only care for patients with Alzheimer’s—’
‘Blimey, Haroon! You know I don’t care about all of that.’
‘Look.’ He draws in a deep breath. ‘If it’s any consolation a friend of my distant relatives from Glasgow now works in Ravenswood Lodge as a carer. According to her it’s the best place for people with dementia. They are well looked after. It will do her good to be there.’
‘What do you mean do her good?’ I arch my brows.
‘Alzheimer’s is a serious brain disorder and requires medical attention. You know how lucky you are that your mum has been given a space out there? I know people who’d kill for their parents to be in Ravenswood Lodge, that’s how well regarded a facility it is.’
I look out the window. It’s a dull day and I think it will rain soon. I get up, help myself to a glass of water. The nurse dips in and tells Haroon he has patients waiting. She stares at me for a while, an unfriendly look. Then shuts the door and leaves.
