The Broken Ones

by Sarah A. Denzil

  The last sentence hangs in the air. It’s nothing I’ve not heard before, but the vitriol always surprises me. I shut my eyes and a memory floats into my mind.

  It’s afternoon in winter, and the low setting sun floods the kitchen. I’m young, only six or seven years old, waiting for my dinner. Mum is banging pots and pans, shouting at the gas stove, which won’t work. The room is freezing cold, and I’m wearing a thick jumper. Mum swears, and I stare down at my fingers, trying to block out the bad words. Then she spins around and stares at me. Her eyes are cold. She speaks in a cold voice. “It was never supposed to be you. You’re not the daughter I deserve.”

  I open my eyes, but she’s gone.

  “Mum?”

  There’s the sound of keys jangling.

  “Mum!”

  I rush through the living room to see the door yanked open. “Mum, no!”

  Her back disappears into the street. I hurry, calling after her, but she’s quick. Narrow-shouldered, petite, and swift on her feet as she dashes out into the street. I watch in horror as the car comes towards her. She stops in the middle of the road and turns towards the car. There’s a screech of brakes. I stop. Then I start again, running towards her. Her hands are out in front of her face.

  “Mum? Are you all right?”

  There’s the slam of a car door. “She ran out right in front of me!”

  I put my arm around Mum’s shoulders. She’s crying, wetting my blouse. “I know. I’m sorry.” Mum feels frail beneath my touch. Her shoulders are bony and rigid. Old bones.

  “What was she thinking?” the driver says. I get a good look at him now. He’s young, with a stubbled jaw and mousy hair.

  “I’m really sorry. She has dementia.”

  He falters. “Oh, I…”

  That’s right. There’s nothing to say. I open my mouth to respond, but I find nothing to say, either. I guide my mother back into the house.

  “I may not be the daughter you wanted,” I whisper to her. “But I’m the only person you have to care for you now.”

  I don’t know if she hears me.

  *

  Night comes quickly. After the incident in the street, I make us a sausage casserole. Mum is silent throughout the entire meal. Afterwards, she looks at me and smiles, but it seems as though she’s remembering someone else. Someone from her past. Then her eyes regain focus and she frowns, her hand held up towards my face as though she’s going to stroke my cheek.

  I take her up to bed and helped her into her nightie.

  “You have to check the wardrobe for the shadow,” she says.

  Dutifully, I open the wardrobe doors and shift the clothes to the side so that I can check every corner.

  “Mum, what is this ‘shadow’? You keep mentioning it, but you won’t explain what it is. Why does it seem familiar to me?”

  Her mouth gapes open and then snaps shut. She shakes her head. Her eyes are so piercing that I know she’s found a moment of lucidity. “I don’t know what you mean. There is no shadow. It doesn’t exist.”

  I sigh. “Good night, Mum.”

  “Yes,” she replies.

  She rolls onto her side and places her head on the pillow. I switch off the light and head downstairs to pour a large glass of wine.

  From now on, I know I’ll need to keep the house and car keys away from her. That’s one more thing I’ll need to think about every moment of the day.

  I gulp down a little wine, replaying the moment the car was hurtling towards my mum. My heart beats faster and a sense of dread works its way up my body. But it isn’t the fear of losing her that causes it. It’s the thought I had when I saw that car coming towards her. It was only fleeting. Yes, only a split second. But it was there, and it was too loud to ignore. I can’t pretend it never happened, even though I’d like to.

  I thought, for one brief, tiny instant, that if the car kept going, if it hit my mum—if that car had mowed down my mother right in front of me, everything would end. She would be gone. She would no longer be suffering with this disease, with the pieces of her mind disappearing bit by bit.

  And I would be free.

  Chapter Six

  In my dream there’s a mirror without a reflection. I press my hand to the mirror. It’s cold, rigid. A small crack forms from the place my fingertip touches the glass. Gradually, the crack spreads across the surface as I watch in utter fascination, following the lines with my eyes as they form narrow veins. Those lines expand until the glass begins to shatter. I step away, finally pulled out of my trance, saving my hand from a multitude of cuts. I’m out of harm’s reach, but I experience pain anyway. It comes from my stomach and radiates out, crushing me from the inside. That’s when I realise I’m hollowed out. I’m broken up. I’m as shattered as the mirror with no reflection.

  When the pain ends, the sensation that someone is watching me sweeps over my skin, as light and ticklish as the bristles of a paintbrush. I shudder from its touch, dragging my nails over my flesh.

  There’s darkness behind me. I sense a presence, and that presence is familiar, but I don’t know why. I start to turn. Slowly. Gradually. I need to know who is behind me. The desire is instinctual. Primitive. It’s as vital as breathing. The need claws at my intestines, demanding to know this presence. But this is where the dream ends, with my body half-twisted, my chest rising and falling in anticipation, and the whisper of darkness reaching out to me but not quite finding me. This is where I wake.

  I open my eyes. My skin is slicked with sweat. It’s slippery and cold when I rub the dreams from my eyes. The alarm blares and I lash out, tangling my hands in the bedsheets. It’s 6am and my day has begun.

  I find my phone and switch off the alarm. Then I swing my legs out of the bed and heave my weight up. Despite eating less and less each day, I feel heavier. It’s not body fat that’s weighing me down, it’s stress. It’s the knowledge that I’ll spend another day worrying. The pressure of caring for my failing mother is dragging me down, and I can’t deny it any longer.

  At least the soft cotton of my dressing gown is comforting. I walk across my room and open a window. There’s a bitter scent in the air. Perhaps it’s my body odour from the nightmare. Perhaps it’s the basket of laundry overflowing from neglect. The morning breeze is fresh and pleasant on my skin. I could linger here for another minute, maybe three or five, but I can’t. I need to get ready.

  My feet drag across the carpet on my way out of the room. When did my steps slow to a crawl? I used to be swift. On school trips, my pupils complained that they couldn’t keep up, but I’d tell them not to dawdle because there was so much I wanted to show them. So much art, so much literature, so much technology.

  The door shuts behind me with a firm clunk. The handle of Mum’s door is cold, and it triggers an image from my dream, of my fingertips pressing the glass of the mirror. I shake the image away and open the door.

  The smell hits me first. It fills the room. Vomit. Then I hear her. I hear the strangled sound coming from her throat, like a growl bubbling through soup. Her skin is waxy and pale. There’s foam seeping between her lips and a spray of food on her pillow. My hand rises to my mouth as my stomach lurches. My mother is choking on her own vomit.

  I stop breathing. I don’t move. The temperature in the room seems to plummet. I stand there in my dressing gown, listening to that strangled noise. Then her head tilts towards me and her bloodshot eyes open. I spring to action, turning my mother onto her side, opening her mouth and performing the disgusting task I would not wish on anyone—clearing her airway of the vile mixture clogging it.

  “It’s all right,” I soothe. “Stay on your side now.”

  I hurry back to my room, pick up my phone, and dial 999. Then I go back to Mum and watch her suck in air as though she is reborn.

  There’s no denying it. I hesitated again. I almost let her die.

  *

  I sit next to her in the white room. The brightness is blinding and unnerving. The hospital smells are making me c
laustrophobic and uncomfortable. The seat is hard and my back aches against the cheap plastic, but I wouldn’t be able to relax anyway, not when Mum is lying wan and thin in the bed beside me. There’s a tube coming from her arm, to “hydrate her”, the doctors say. One of them approaches me now, holding a file and not smiling. I stand to greet her, shake her warm hand, and then step back to wrap my arms around my unsupported chest.

  “Ms. Howland?” she says, emphasising the “Ms”. She seems like the kind of woman who has everything together. She’s probably five or six years older than I am—judging by the grey in her dark hair and the wrinkles around her eyes—but it feels like a generation. She holds herself with confidence. I imagine that she’s the mother of brilliant teenagers who will ace their GCSEs in a year or two. She’s the kind of woman I always assumed I’d grow up to be. Someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed by bills and dating profiles. “I’m Dr. Masood. I’ve been taking care of your mother this morning.” She glances at my pyjamas with a frown.

  “My mother’s carer is bringing me clothes,” I explain. “It was all a blur when the ambulance came this morning.”

  “Quite,” she says. “Well, that’s good that you have help. You mother is suffering with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Diagnosed a little over a year ago. She’s progressing very fast. She’s been quite confused lately. She has better days, though.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that she’s progressing through the disease at such a fast pace. Unfortunately, it’s not an uncommon occurrence for patients with early Alzheimer’s.” She pauses. “Has your mother hurt herself in any way? Or shown a desire to hurt herself?”

  “No,” I say. “Although I did find some bruising on her arms. She said she didn’t remember how it happened. Well, that’s not strictly true. She said it was a shadow. She’s been mentioning it a lot, this shadow. She says it hides in her room.” I try to let out a small laugh to lighten the mood, but it comes out callous.

  “Right,” the doctor says. She glances down at her file and then back at me. “It appears that your mother drank some bleach. It wasn’t a lot of bleach, but enough to make her sick.”

  “She… what?”

  “Sadly, patients with dementia as severe as your mother’s do display strange or odd behaviour. It might not mean that she intended to hurt herself, but it could be cause for concern if anything like this happens again. You did the right thing. You acted with a cool head and saved her life. We managed to get to her before there was any permanent damage done from the bleach or from the lack of oxygen. Well done. You should be proud of yourself.”

  I think of that terrifying moment when I stood there and watched my mother struggle to breathe. I don’t think I deserve any sort of praise. I should not feel proud. In fact, I want to throw up. I want out of this stuffy room with the flickering strip light and IV drip.

  “Are you all right?” Dr. Masood asks. “You’re a little pale.”

  “It’s been quite a morning,” I admit. I try to swallow, but my mouth and tongue are arid.

  “Are you coping well? I know how hard it is to care for a patient with this disease.” She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s a small “there, there” gesture from a no-nonsense woman. “I’ll bring you some literature just in case. There are charities that can help.”

  I accept her help with thanks, but I can’t imagine that she’ll bring me anything I haven’t read already.

  As she leaves, she turns around and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll be discharging her as soon as her vitals are back up and she’s rehydrated. Your mum will be home with you soon.” She flashes me what I believe to be a rare smile and disappears into the long stretch of hospital corridor.

  The moment she’s gone, my knees fold under me. I clutch the back of the visitor’s chair to steady myself. There’s the tang of bile at the back of my throat, threatening to lurch out of me. My head is light, my vision blurry. My stomach roils at the realisation that the doctor thinks I’m so anxious to have Mum home when only hours ago I hesitated before helping her. I watched. It was only a fragment of time, but I watched her choke.

  What kind of a person am I? What kind of a daughter? Mum has her faults, that can’t be denied, but she never gave up on me, and she never abandoned me. She fed and clothed me, and now here I am doing the same for her—and I almost let her die?

  I’m a monster.

  Eddington, 1987

  The cold bites my skin the first time I pull the duvet down. My naked arms are freezing cold. Mum won’t put the heating on until December. We’re not made of money, she says.

  “Sophie?”

  I shrink back under the covers at the sound of her voice. The shrillness is a clear warning bell. She’s woken up in one of her moods.

  “Get up! We’re going out.”

  I hurry out from under the covers, shivering as I rush to my drawers to pull out underwear and clothes. Her footsteps come up the stairs, each one a stark prospect as she gets nearer and nearer. I’m pulling on trousers as she bursts through the door. It’s not a school day today, which comes with a unique set of difficulties. I don’t need to wear a school uniform, and Mum is particular about what I wear. As soon as she’s in the room, she strides over, pushes me onto the bed, and yanks the trousers down my seven-year-old legs.

  “Not those ones. Here.” She tosses me clothes from my drawers.

  Thick woollen tights, a corduroy skirt, and a woollen jumper with a high neck.

  “Mummy, they—”

  “What?”

  “They make me itch, Mummy.”

  “Nonsense. Put them on. They’re your favourite clothes.”

  I’m almost in tears as I pull on the tights over my knickers. The roughness of the material is harsh against my sensitive skin. The outfit is too small. The crotch of the tights sags down my thighs.

  Mum picks up a brush from the top of my drawers and begins to brush my hair. “There! Don’t you look nice in your outfit?”

  “It’s too small,” I say.

  She pulls my hair back, and I cry out. “Stop being silly, Sophie. This is your favourite outfit. Don’t you remember? You always used to wear it. Every winter, you’d wear this jumper.”

  “I suppose so,” I say. Maybe I do remember wearing it. It does seem familiar, at least. When I stroke my fingers over the sleeves, the gesture brings with it a memory of finding strands of hair stuck to the material. Then I think of the same strands of hair caught in my fist. My stomach flips. I don’t like that memory. I push it back down.

  Mum tuts. “I can’t do anything with this hair. What have you done to it?”

  I stay silent.

  “You need to look nice. We both do. I’m meeting Roger today.” She parts my hair and begins to braid the left side. “He’s our key, Sophie. He’s going to get us out of this mess. He’s rich, you know. He’s going to help us.”

  “But… I don’t understand, Mummy. I thought Roger was your boss. How is he going to help us?” The question is innocent. I don’t understand why Roger would want to help us. He has his own family to help.

  Mum’s hands stop moving. She tugs on the braid, pulling my head back.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me!”

  “You’re such an idiot, Sophie. You don’t understand anything.” She lets go of the plait and pushes me away. “He’ll never help us, not when I’m burdened with an ungrateful child like you. Look at you. You’re a mess. You look awful. No wonder your father left us. I bet he was trying to get away from you when he put his head through that noose. It’s all your fault. If I’d never had you…”

  I have tears in my eyes. Her face is bright red with anger. Her dark eyes flash. She throws the comb to the floor and stands up, clenching her fists at her sides.

  “I’ll just have to leave you here when I go to see him,” she says. “I can’t risk you messing everything up. I have to get this right, or he’ll never leave his wife. There’s bread in the cupboa
rd. You can have that for your tea. Not too much, though, or you’ll get fat. No one likes a fat girl.”

  Chapter Seven

  It’s in a taxi, six hours later, that I take Mum home. She’s disorientated, but not agitated. The doctors have administered medication to keep her calm. I appreciate the break from her distressed state, yet at the same time I’m wary of her new impassiveness.

  “Why didn’t you love me like a normal mum would?” I whisper. “Why is it that all I get from you is either nastiness or nothingness?”

  She can’t answer me. I wonder if she ever will. I regard her, then; I study her intensely. I examine her wrinkles, the curl of her hair, the flecks in her eyes. I see the sagging chest beneath her top—a long-sleeve t-shirt brought by Erin—the thinness of her legs, the veins on her hands. I see at it all, and I remember every argument, every harsh word.

  Until I scrutinise even deeper. A shiver runs up my spine. There’s a niggle in the back of my mind. I stare at her, and I get the strongest feeling that she’s hidden a part of my past from me. Why do I think that?

  “Mum, why did you drink the bleach?” I ask.

  Her eyes move in my direction, but there’s only the faintest glimmer of recognition.

  “Mum? Why did you drink the bleach?” I know she’s in there. I know it. A woman like Maureen Howland never goes away. She’s endurance itself. Even in death her spirit will be within me, criticising me, keeping me from reaching true happiness. “Tell me. Tell me why you drank it!”