Remember, Remember

by Hazel McHaffie

  ‘Completely different.’

  As he leaves that night a slow grin changes his expression.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘An unworthy thought.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You married the right man.’

  I’m completely mystified. ‘How come?

  ‘He was called Burden. And you’ve carried a heavy burden all these years. Oh, I don’t mean to suggest Lewis was a burden, only that you’ve had an over-developed sense of responsibility and shouldered too many burdens.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes. In a word. Now what you need is freedom – to be yourself. To enjoy life.’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Next time make sure it’s a wise man.’

  He departs with a wave, not waiting for my response.

  I’ve returned to the dining room at Bradley Drive with renewed energy. He’ll be back in nine days.

  The upholstered chairs are assigned to the tip. No flame-retardant labels. Ironic, really. All this time Mother has been wandering in a twilight zone, playing with fire quite literally, and no one has torn these unsuitable possessions away from her.

  While I’m already on my knees emptying the sideboard, I use the opportunity to peel back the carpet. It was laid in the era before gripper rods were invented and the tacks are in to stay. I can only manage to drag up one corner.

  The newspaper lining the floorboards underneath is dated 1945. The end of the war. Before my memories begin. Perhaps when the room is empty and the carpet is rolled up for the tip, I’ll have space to read some of it; to enter the world of my mother’s hey-day.

  I picture her spreading the pages, pausing to study a column that catches her eye. Dreaming perhaps of the children who would one day prance around on this same floor.

  And it was in this very room that she surprised a burglar not long after they moved to Bradley Drive, a young lad, down on his luck. She sat him down in the kitchen, listened to his story, sent him away quietly with a full belly and a few pounds.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that today!’ she said, wagging a finger. ‘Nowadays they’d pull a knife rather than apologise. Things were different back then. Before benefits and allowances came in.’

  ‘…kind and unselfish.’ Aaron’s words ring in my head.

  Why couldn’t life be more kind to her? It had stolen so much. Left behind an empty ruin.

  As I stand up the decanter on the sideboard clinks against the glasses. My mind flips to a film: some Agatha Christie adaptation. Mother and I together watched the butler slip poison into the decanter before serving Lady Something-or-other at dinner. The decanter was washed out and refilled before anyone could suspect anything, never mind examine it. As I battled to get Mother to swallow her medication that night, the idea hustled into my mind – poison or medication, it can be the same thing. Just given in different quantities. How easy it would be to disguise the fact. Murder refashioned as a merciful act.

  I shiver now, remembering. How vulnerable she was… how close I came. But for the grace of God…

  The massive table with its extra leaves will accompany the sideboard. It’ll be a wrench to see it go.

  How many family milestones it has witnessed. Birthdays, Christmases, funerals, reunions. I suddenly want to hold one more special occasion, on this very table, in this room… to bring Mother back to her rightful place, presiding over the family she created.

  I crumple onto the chair she occupied for so many years. The force of her incapacity hits me. Very soon all that will remain will be the ‘whine of dementia and the hieroglyph that looks like her’. I read that in a book I was glancing through yesterday. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  By the time James arrives, I have stripped two walls of paper.

  ‘Dare I enter?’ he hisses around the door.

  ‘Yes, the stepladder’s over this side,’ I call.

  ‘I was thinking more of stepfathers than stepladders!’ he says, sidling in with a grin.

  ‘Shush, James.’

  ‘I am agog to meet this man who can make my mother blush.’

  ‘I think Gran has done all we need to put him off, without you sticking your oar in.’

  ‘So what did she do?’

  ‘Oh, only treated him to a comprehensive display of all her worst tricks.’

  ‘Oh dear. How did he react?’

  ‘As if he saw this kind of thing every day and I was making a mountain out of a molehill.’

  ‘Well, you do take Gran’s behaviours too personally, you know.’

  I stare at him for a long moment. ‘Do I? Aaron said something like that.’

  ‘Well, you do, sometimes. It’s the Alzheimer’s making her do these things. She can’t help it. You can’t help it.’

  ‘But she’s my mum.’

  ‘So? Am I responsible for what you do? Heaven forbid!’

  In spite of myself I feel the clouds lift.

  ‘Mother, you have to stop worrying and accept that this bloke is as keen as mustard. He doesn’t care what your crazy family is up to. He sees you – hard-working, loyal, warm-hearted, little old you. And it’s you he wants.’

  James’ banter keeps me from dwelling on the doubts. But when I collapse into bed at midnight, sleep evades me in spite of the physical exhaustion.

  I am not the woman James and Aaron think I am. I’m not. I’ve felt hatred for my own mother. I’ve shaken her. I’ve tried to drown her. I’ve walked away and tried to pretend she doesn’t exist. The fact that I’ve stepped back from the brink is more a measure of my cowardice than anything else. The return of warmth and tenderness now is thanks to the dedication of the carers at The Morningside, relieving me of responsibility, not to my forgiving nature.

  This tendency to put family carers on a pedestal, to laud their self-sacrifice, merely adds to my burden. I gave up. I couldn’t do it. I put my mother into a home. Adeline and Aunt Beatrice were right: her place is in the family. I should have listened to them. I don’t deserve happiness built on my rejection of her. Nor do I merit praise.

  Forgive me, Mum. Forgive me. Tomorrow I’ll come to see you. Tell you I’m sorry. Sorry I failed you.

  Maybe I will arrange one more party at your table.

  Chapter 8

  AARON RINGS ME every evening on my landline, ‘To make sure you go home and get your beauty sleep.’ And I know I need that! I’ve become so much more conscious of wrinkles and aches, of late.

  Ours is a strange courtship. Dusty clothes, hard work, the smell of paint and plaster, have given our relationship the ease of a long cohabitation rather than the thrill of a new romance. We are too tired to pretend. But as we work we talk.

  He tells me about Gisela: her artistic temperament and skills, her bouts of depression, her long struggle with emphysema. Their marriage – 32 years – more stormy than Aaron would have liked.

  A softness enters his voice as he speaks of his two daughters. Jacquiline (a French spelling at Gisela’s insistence), born with a hare-lip and cleft palette; an opportunity for her father to feed her with specially designed cups until the cleft had been repaired and healed. The bond they still share. Jesslyn, the tomboy in the family, the rebel. He worries about her impulsive behaviour. He shares photos of his adored grandchildren; three already, a fourth on the way.

  It’s easier to trade my own experiences of life in exchange for his. Marriage, siblings, teaching. Husband, children, grandchildren. Weaknesses, intolerances, hopes. No secrets.

  I’m ready to introduce him to James.

  But it’s Pandora he speaks to first.

  We’re sorting out papers in the den, the room my father called ‘his’ before two sons steamrollered through the whole notion of privacy. It’s odd, now I pause to think about it, I feel no compunction about allowing Aaron to read these family documents. Aside from James I can’t think of anyone else I would allow to be involved in this task, but I’d gladly hand the whole thing over to
him. His legal brain will separate the wheat from the chaff far better than I can.

  The sheer size of the job, never mind its complexity, is formidable. After Father’s death my mother retrieved the essential papers to take care of the funeral and his will, and then closed the door on this room. It remained unused. But once the fog descended, it became all too common to discover her in here, emptying drawers, pulling files, flicking through books, looking for who knows what? Harassed beyond reason, I’d bundle everything away to create an illusion of order, but I’m embarrassed now by my slovenly practices.

  I’m in the middle of arranging certificates of completion from building control in chronological order, when the phone rings in the hall. Aaron answers it.

  ‘Hello, Pandora.’… ‘A friend of your mother’s. Aaron Wiseman.’… ‘Yes, of course. I’ll go and get her for you. One moment, please.’

  By this time I’m at his side. He smiles and gives me a swift hug before passing me the receiver.

  ‘Pandora. Sorry. I was sorting Gran’s papers.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A friend of mine. A solicitor. He’s helping me with clearing Gran’s house.’ And so much more. But that can wait.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you could have Max on Friday for the weekend, please. Something’s come up and I need to go away. Karah’s fine. She’s happy to stay with a friend. But I’d be happier knowing that Max was with somebody who’ll watch him properly.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll have him. I’d love to.’

  ‘Thanks. If I bring him over at five, is that OK with you?’

  ‘Five on Friday. Yes. I’ll make sure I’m home by then. And it’ll be nice to have a weekend simply being a grandmother.’

  Aaron pulls a face when I tell him about Pandora’s request. His own plans for me must be put on hold. But I’m definitely not ready for Pandora’s reaction to his place in my life.

  He shrugs. ‘Well, my own grandchildren will no doubt use the bonus time to quiz me about my absences from home. My daughters are too suspicious to ask outright!’

  To compensate, Aaron suggests we give ourselves tomorrow off. ‘Just to be together.’ He’s always wanted to see the Trossachs.

  Aaron, Max, the house… the days slip by and my burden of guilt grows. I must visit Mother. What happened to my resolve to visit her daily?

  She’s wearing a yellow cardigan when I arrive. Yellow! It’s tantamount to having someone else’s false teeth in her mouth. Her own muted shades lie neatly in the drawer. Undisturbed. She no longer even rummages.

  Her pale skin is almost translucent.

  ‘Come on, let’s go out and see the roses. Dad grew roses, didn’t he? You always loved them.’

  The scent from the borders envelops us. I keep up a trickle of conversation: ‘Ena Harkness, Dad’s favourite… Peace – too wishy-washy, he always said… Apricot Nectar – heady perfume but raggy flower.’

  She shuffles along for a few minutes, then starts pulling back.

  ‘Oh, it’s such a lovely day, let’s stay outside.’

  She takes no notice.

  ‘Should I insist?’ I ask the carer who’s holding the door open for us.

  ‘Difficult to insist if she won’t go. Maybe try again later.’

  We repeat the excursion three times. Same route. Same roses. Same comments. Same attention span.

  Back in her room she’s just as restless, standing up, sitting down, wandering round her bed, back again, over and over and over again. She strips off the yellow cardigan and fumbles with a rose-pink one. She peels it off again. She gets up again leaving a spreading wet patch behind her.

  While the carers clean her up I sit in the garden.

  Aaron’s words echo in my mind.

  ‘It’s the Alzheimer’s making her do these things. She can’t help it. You can’t help it.’

  But it feels deliberate.

  Birgitte, one of the carers I’ve grown to know and like, finds me. ‘All done. But you look exhausted.’

  ‘Oh, you know. It’s only Mother. And the house.’

  ‘Why don’t you take a break away from this place? Go somewhere nice. Pamper yourself for a while. Or let that nice man pamper you.’

  I sigh. ‘I know you’re right. I’m not much use to Mother if I’m so tired I haven’t got the patience with her.’

  ‘I was meaning for your own sake. Doris will be OK. We’re here to take care of her. But you need a break to stop yourself from cracking up. I’ve seen it before. You dedicated ones are all the same. Knock yourself into the ground before you’ll concede that you have needs too.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  I know I need it. It was Aaron who brought me face to face with my own lack of sensitivity, the impatience that left Mother behind.

  It was on his third visit to her that I saw it first.

  ‘George? Are you George?’ she asked him.

  ‘No, Doris. I’m Aaron. But this is George. Look. George.’ He picked up the photo of Dad from her bedside table. ‘What a handsome man.’ A pause. ‘And I hear he was very good with his hands.’ Pause. ‘I’ve seen the tree house he made at Bradley Drive. I’d love to be able to create something as clever as that.’

  He stopped talking and moved the picture closer. She was staring.

  ‘George,’ he said softly, watching her. ‘This is George.’

  For a long moment they sat side by side, both looking at the picture, as if sharing something precious. Then she started to move her hand towards it. He reciprocated. Her fingers hovered, touched the glass.

  ‘George,’ he whispered.

  ‘George,’ she repeated.

  Once her attention wandered, he replaced the photo and talked to me, giving her space. And then…

  ‘We have something in common, you know, Doris. You have a daughter, Jessica. Here she is, look. Jessica. Jess.’

  ‘Aaron,’ I remonstrated. He reached out to lay a hand over mine, but kept his eyes on Mother.

  ‘I’ve got a daughter with a similar name. Jesslyn. We call her Jess sometimes. Jessica. Jesslyn. Two Jesses.’

  My mother peered at him. ‘Did I invite you?’

  ‘No, but I chose to come and see you. And I’m very pleased to meet you.’ She was so still I half-expected her to reach out to shake his hand. He waited a minute and then spoke again, this time in a different tone. ‘I came with Jessica. Your daughter. Your lovely daughter, Jessica. Here she is. She visits you often. You’re a very lucky woman to have a daughter like her.’

  And somehow he managed to soothe her with his quiet words. Simple, positive words, that didn’t challenge or threaten or cast doubt on her distortions.

  As soon as we were outside, I asked him, ‘How did you learn to do that?’

  ‘After Gisela died, I decided I needed to do something useful. Volunteer somewhere. Help get things in perspective, stop me brooding. I started to visit our local residential home. Only an hour or two a week to start with. I had absolutely no idea how to manage some of the residents I met, so I enrolled on a course. It was designed for proper carers, but I learned some useful tips. Basically they taught that you have to enter into the mind of the person with dementia, try to understand their world and respond appropriately. The bits I remember are, don’t ask questions and don’t contradict them. And you look for things they still relate to. I’m not very expert at it, but sometimes it works.’

  ‘You’re better at it than I am!’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m a mere novice compared to you. You’ve been keeping your mum going for years. I’ve seen her a few times – for short visits. And this is the first time I’ve said anything more than the common civilities to her. You’d soon see how superficial my skills are if you watched me for long enough. Beginner’s luck, today. Nothing more. Or maybe your mum was so overwhelmed by a strange man appearing with her daughter that she had to be quiet to assimilate the possibilities!’

  ‘Beginner’s luck or not, you’re exactly the kind of perso
n I’d like to visit me if I was confused and disorientated.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that lucky, then?’

  Only then did I realise what I’d said. The colour leapt to my cheeks.

  He smiled that smile that does something indescribable to my insides, and took my hand in his for the rest of the walk to the car. Before we got in he stopped and looked at me.

  ‘Pity your mum’s room doesn’t overlook the car park.’

  ‘Is it? Why?’

  ‘I could kiss you here and she’d spend the next hour or two puzzling as to whether or not she really saw what she thought she saw.’

  ‘I take back my admiration of your abilities. It’s all a charade.’

  ‘Or an excuse!’

  I’m still wondering what else I don’t know about this man who has raced back into my life before I can properly count the cost.

  As we drive another thought strikes me.

  ‘Aaron, can I ask you a couple of things in your professional capacity?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘You’ve seen what she’s like. Is it all right, d’you think, for the doctors to use her for teaching purposes? Or is that some kind of abuse of her vulnerability?’

  ‘Hmm.’ He pauses. ‘If they couldn’t use someone else who could give informed consent, if their motives are exemplary, if it’s done respectfully and if you’ve given permission, I’d say it’s OK. Same as with research, I guess.’

  ‘And what about giving her medication? They asked me that too. If she refuses to take her drugs, is it acceptable for them to disguise them in her food?’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘It was. If she needs the medicine for health reasons, or for her quality of life. And if there’s no other kindly way of giving them.’

  ‘I agree. In an ideal world, one wouldn’t want to deceive, but it might be the kindest option available in these circumstances. No merit in inflicting an unnecessary degree of distress for the sake of a principle.’

  ‘Is it right, me deciding?’

  ‘A team approach is best, I’d say. A consensus decision – you and the medical team. You all look at what you know about her and her previous values and opinions. And you decide what’s in her best interests. And you document everything – the process as well as the decision. Records are so important. Sorry, I sound horribly lawyerish.’