Finally More: The Evermore Series Book 5

by De Lune, Rachel

  The guilt that invades isn’t something I’m used to feeling, but knowing that I couldn’t be reached when I was needed doesn’t sit well with me. I stuff everything in my bag and storm out to my car. It would be a good forty-minute drive before I reach Mrs Franks.

  Mum has been suffering with early onset Alzheimer’s for the last year. She now has regular visiting caregivers who ensure she is doing well. During all my visits, she’d been fine. Maybe a little forgetful, but nothing that had me worried.

  Has she been hiding things from me? Have I been so wrapped up in my own life, I’ve let things with Mum slip to such a dangerous situation? My stomach rolls with guilt again.

  I push my Alfa Romeo Giulietta into the corners, eager to get to Mum. At this time of night, the winding country lanes are quiet. No faint lights through the hedgerows signalling oncoming traffic. My head raced as fast as my car, considering the possible incidents that might have occurred. A shiver pebbles over my arms. It might be summer, but that didn’t mean that one in the morning was warm.

  I drive down the lane of houses in the quaint village and pass Mum’s house on the right. It’s still standing with no sign of the fire brigade, so at least one of my considerations was out the window. I slow the car and take a sharp left until the road comes to an end. I pull into the wide gravelled drive and park.

  Mrs Franks lives in an old stone farmhouse, complete with stable door. As my heels sink into the gravel, an outside security light floods the drive, and I head to the door. Mr Franks opens it before I reach it.

  “Evening, Natasha. Sorry about this. We didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. Please, I’m glad you did. I’m just sorry it’s taken me so long to get here. Is she all right?”

  “Come on in, and we can explain what happened.” The old man steps aside for me to enter. The faint smell of an open fire drifts through the air. My heels click on the flagstone entry, and I make my way toward the kitchen.

  “They’re in the living room. Keep going past the kitchen and to the right,” Mr Franks directs.

  I enter and find Mum and Mrs Franks seated on upholstered chairs facing the Inglenook fireplace that dominates the room. Mum has a tartan blanket draped over her knees and looks to be sleeping in a chair.

  Mr Franks leads me to the sofa set out in-between the chairs, and I take a seat.

  “Thank you for coming, dear. We didn’t know who to call in an instance like this.”

  “That’s fine. What exactly did happen?” I hold my breath for the answer.

  “Your mum was found wandering around the village. The Stringers family on Silver Street heard her. Said she was looking for Christopher.” Mrs Franks gives me a sad look at the mention of my dad. “They brought her here first as they recognised her and didn’t want to phone the police. She’s fine, physically. She’s just very confused.”

  My heart lurches in my chest at the thought of Mum wondering around in the dead of night. She hadn’t mentioned my dad for years. He died when I was a teenager.

  “Okay, well, I can’t thank you enough for looking after her.”

  “I know she has help. I didn’t realise how far she’d progressed.”

  “She’s fine, Mrs Franks. She must have just had a bad day.” Alzheimer’s is a horrible disease. I stand and then kneel next to Mum.

  “Mum, can you hear me?” I gently shake her shoulder and try to rouse her. She blinks her eyes open and wobbles her head.

  Her once jet-black hair is almost all silver now. She always kept herself so tidy and pristine. As I take in her clothes and hair, sorrow stabs me. I’d seen her just a couple of weeks ago, and she looked so much brighter. Younger than the frail woman before me. “Mum, come on. We need to get you home.”

  She finally focuses her eyes and looks around the room in panic. Her body tenses as she takes in her surroundings. She looks right at me, and I give her the warmest smile I can muster.

  “Who are you? I was looking for Christopher.” She glances around the room “Annie?”

  “I’m still here, Agatha,” Mrs Franks’ voice soothes reassuringly. “Natasha has come to take you home. It’s getting rather late.”

  “Natasha? I don’t know any Natasha. Who is this girl?” Mum looks confused as she glances between me and Mrs Franks. Angst pours from her expression.

  “Mum, it’s all right. It’s me, Natasha. I’m your daughter. I’ll take you back home.”

  “No. I don’t want to go. Not until I’ve found Christopher. I don’t know you.”

  Alarm races through me as I watch Mum get more and more upset at seeing me. She’s never failed to recognise me before. She’s only had a few times where she’s forgotten words or memories.

  I fight off the hurt and focus on Mum. It’s late, and she is disorientated. That’s all.

  I take her hand and try to get her to look me in the eye. “Mum, yes, you do know me. I’ll take you back home.” I stroke her hand, resisting the urge to hold on and squeeze it like I used to do as a little girl.

  “Annie, why am I in your house? Is this your girl?” Mum is clearly restless and getting more and more agitated with my attempts to convince her.

  “You came to visit, dear. You nodded off in the chair. I can get you settle in the spare room no trouble.” Mrs Franks is so calm.

  “Yes. Yes, I don’t want to go home.”

  My heart pounds in my chest as Mum snatches her hand away from me. I keep telling myself that she’ll snap out of this in a minute and won’t have that vacant expression in her eyes when she looks at me again. That look—the look that went straight through me—will haunt me until she can remember me again.

  Mr and Mrs Franks set about getting Mum moved upstairs. I don’t interfere. The less I do, the calmer Mum seems to be.

  “I’ll put the kettle on, love.”

  “Have you got anything a little stronger, Mr Franks?” I ask.

  He heads over to the corner of the room to a makeshift drinks bar. He pours a finger of amber liquid into a cut crystal tumbler.

  “Here, I think you could use it.” He hands me the glass, and I take it gratefully.

  I tip back the alcohol and swallow the rich, oaky brandy in one gulp. It immediately warms my chest, combatting the chill that travelled straight to my heart when my mother didn’t recognise me.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll go and see if Annie needs a hand. You’re welcome to stay as well?”

  “No, I’ll go back to Mum’s and stay there. I can come first thing tomorrow then and hope she’s feeling better.”

  “Do you want to wait for Annie?”

  “Yes. I’ll be here.”

  Mr Franks leaves me, and I crash onto the sofa.

  The guilt I’d felt earlier is gnawing at my stomach. The alcohol doesn’t help. A few more shots might numb the unnerving sensation that has overcome me at being a complete stranger to my own mother.

  Tomorrow is Saturday. I could stay with Mum, make some calls to the company who nursed her, and see if they’ve noticed a change over the last few weeks. My fingers are crossed that this is just a problem with her medication. I didn’t want to think about the possibility that Mum had suddenly gotten so much worse.

  “Okay, dear. She’s all settled and on her way to being fast asleep. We’ll see to her tonight. You don’t need to worry.” Mrs Franks comes into the room and distracts me from my sombre thoughts.

  “Thank you, Mrs Franks. You’re very kind. I’ll only be down the road, so I can come and help tomorrow. Hopefully, a good night’s rest will change everything.”

  “Well, you need to go and get some rest, yourself. Are you sure you don’t want to stay here? I can make up a bed?”

  “No, please. You both have done so much already. I’m right down the road, and you have my number. Let’s all get some rest, and we can reassess in the morning.”

  I say my thanks and leave. I don’t bother moving the car. Mum’s house is just around the corner. I grab my bag f
rom the back of the car and go and let myself in to my childhood home. The house isn’t as inviting as Mr and Mrs Franks’. No tell-tale sign of smoke from the fireplace. I flick the switch in the hallway and look around the house. Everything is as it usually was. No mess. No signs that she’s not taking care of herself. I head upstairs to my old room. The bed has a delicate floral bedspread. The furniture has changed since I lived here, but it will always be my room.

  I dump my bag and rummage to find my small toiletries bag. I go to the bathroom to scrub my teeth before I strip off my clothes and climb between the cool sheets. I pull my phone charger from the bag and plug it in and set my phone on the nightstand. I lie back, my eyes searching the ceiling as if the answers to my problem were there for me to find.

  They weren’t.

  I let my eyes close and fight my mind from running over all the events of this evening. For the first time in years, I feel like crying. The emotion swells in my chest, threatening to spill over. The whole evening has shaken me to my core. I struggle to regain my composure. God, it feels like days since I left Solace. It has been a long night.

  My sleep is fitful. I feel like crap but am up a few hours later and back at Mr and Mrs Franks to be there when Mum wakes up. My boots crunch on the gravel again, and like last night, Mr Franks is at the door waiting for me.

  “Morning. She isn’t awake yet. Annie is just starting breakfast. Would you like some?”

  “Coffee would be wonderful if you have it.”

  “Sure, we can sort out some for you.”

  Coffee should be available at all times of the day. Preferably from a French press with freshly ground beans, but I’d settle for instant if I had no other choice. I take a seat at the large oak table at the end of the kitchen. Copper pots hang on the brick wall, and the kitchen has a homey feel.

  Mr Franks busies himself and brings me an empty mug and jug of milk. “It’s nothing fancy, but Annie likes to keep some fresh coffee for occasions.” He sets down a tray that has a French press, a bag of coffee grounds, and a small kettle pot which I assume contains hot water. This man is my saving grace.

  “Morning, Natasha.” Mrs Franks bustles in and sets about pulling items from the fridge.

  “Morning. How was Mum last night?”

  “Didn’t hear a peep out of her. I checked on her this morning, and she is still sleeping. I thought I’d set about breakfast first and then check again.”

  “Okay.” I go about my ritual and let the coffee bloom in the press before adding the rest of the water. The aroma calms me, bringing me a sense of familiarity while everything around me is on shaky ground. I concentrate on the deep chocolate liquid and pouring it into my mug. I ignore the milk. Who needed to dilute the good stuff?

  Mrs Franks serves up a traditional English breakfast to her husband and offers the same to me. I politely decline, happy with my coffee. We sit at the table in relative silence.

  As soon as Mrs Franks has finished, I want to go and check on Mum. “Shall we go and see if she’s awake?”

  “Sure, dear. Come on.” She offers me a compassionate smile. I refuse to dwell on the “what ifs” of last night. I could have been sitting in a hospital waiting room rather than in this farm house kitchen. I’ll have to find some way to repay the Franks for their kindness.

  I’m lead to a door off the main landing. I knock softly. “Mum, good morning. Are you awake?” I wait a moment before cracking the door and popping my head in. The curtains darken the room, although the morning light has begun to seep through the fabric. It looks like Mum is still asleep in bed. Her back toward me.

  “Mum?” I hear the hope in my voice that she’ll recognise me this morning.

  “Natasha?” she questions.

  The flood of relief is immense, filling every cell of my body. I slide into the room and kneel at the side of the bed.

  “Yes, Mum. It’s me.” She turns to face me in the gloom of the room.

  “What am I doing in Annie’s spare bedroom?” The look that she gives me supersedes any she gave me last night. She looks utterly lost.

  “It’s a long story. Shall we get you home?”

  “Yes, darling. Yes, please.”

  “Our service provides very early care for people with dementia and Alzheimer’s. Over the last few months, Agatha has struggled. We’ve all noticed the small changes, and I think it’s a good opportunity to review how you’d like to manage her ongoing care.” Mrs Fain is clear, and it seems I won’t be able to change her mind.

  “Yes, I’ll review the options.” The realisation of what this means settles heavily in my chest. I knew that this would be a hard battle. I didn’t appreciate how quickly she could change for the worse. During my occasional visits nothing gave me the insight that we’d have to consider more permanent care.

  “Okay. We’ll continue with our twice daily visits. But we’ll have to review that at the end of the month.”

  “I understand. Thank you for your time.” I end the call and take a moment.

  I’d been staying with Mum for the last few days. I wasn’t comfortable leaving her after what happened on Friday night. I had some holiday owning from work and had taken the rest of the week off. It was becoming clear that wouldn’t be enough time.

  “Natasha? Could you get me something?”

  I head into the sitting room where mum is knitting in her chair. “Yes, mum. What can I get for you?”

  “It’s one of those things. I can’t remember the name. They live in the kitchen drawer.”

  “Okay, just think about what you want and try and picture it. Try and describe it.” Maybe I’ve been naïve thinking Mum was doing all right. We’d had at least one of these conversations each day since Saturday. Thankfully she hasn’t had another episode where she couldn’t remember who I was, but I fast realise that this disease is consuming her—bit by bit—much more rapidly than I’d first thought possible.

  “It’s silver and black. I need it for this.” She holds up the knitting, shaking it in her hands. Her frustrations grow every time she can’t remember something or doesn’t know how to express herself to me. My frustrations are growing, too, with the guessing game that neither of us can master.

  “Do you need me to get the sewing box? That should have everything in it.”

  “No, I don’t’ need that. I just want to finish this.” She throws the dark grey wool to the side, letting the rows of stitching slip off one side of the needle. “Now look what you made me do.”

  “Mum, it’s fine. You can come to the kitchen and look with me.”

  “Well, it’s too late now. Just leave me alone,” she snaps. Her attitude had shocked me the first time she got cross. She’d never done that before. She was always so polite and caring. Now I would suffer flashes of rage she couldn’t control as her temper flared. I’d only seen glimpses of the Mum I always remembered. The Mum I still had up until a few weeks ago. Now, they were ebbing away and being replaced with an imposter.

  I count to ten in my head. It’s only been three remarkable days, and not in a good way. I need to find my patience if I am going to stay until I have a clear idea of the options in front of us. I need to make sure I am doing the right thing for Mum and am unsure what that will be.

  I go and put on the kettle. It has been a few minutes since my last cup of coffee. “Mum, do you want a cup of tea? I think we should talk about getting you some more help.” I call through, ignoring her reaction a few moments ago. We are both frustrated and dealing with the shifting traits of Mum’s illness. I’d spent the last few nights reading up on the disease. I’d neglected it when she was first diagnosed and am paying the price now. That adds to my guilt. Alzheimer’s is a silent killer, sweeping in and invading your body until there is nothing left but a shell of your former self. It breaks my heart to think about it, but I must get used to the idea that this is our reality now. “Mum?” I call again.

  I hear a thud and bang from somewhere else in the house. It’s too loud to be anything oth
er than Mum. My stomach drops away in panic. “Mum? Is everything all right? Where are you?”

  “Natasha?” Her strangled cry is filled with pain.

  I run toward her voice and find her on the half-landing of the stairs, curled up in a ball. “Mum, what happened? Are you all right? Can you move?” I go to try and help her. She uses me to right herself but doesn’t get up. “It’s all right, Mum. I’ll call the ambulance.”

  “I don’t need the fuss. Honestly…ohhh.” She grimaces when she tries to move her leg.

  “It’s no fuss. You might have broken something. Please, Mum.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and call for an ambulance.

  “Ambulance, please. My mother’s had a fall.”

  The Pines is the last of the homes I’d made an appointment to visit. Between the hospital and home, the last few days have been spent organising where Mum would go once she was released. I can’t care for her the way she deserves, the way she needs. The last thing I want to do is put her in a care facility, but the events of the last week have made it clear that’s what must happen. I have to ensure she’ll have the best care.

  So far, the other three places I’d visited weren’t options. The brochures might look nice, but I didn’t want to condemn my mother’s last years to any of them. I want her to have the best. She’d been completely lucid since her fall, no moments of forgetfulness, no anger or frustration consuming her. She didn’t need to feel like she was being institutionalized.

  She appeared sad when I first broached the subject. She listened and nodded, but I wasn’t convinced she remembered our conversation. I didn’t want her to think she was a burden, but that’s exactly how it sounded. I couldn’t look after her, so I had to put her away for her own good, despite how well she seemed.

  She broke her ankle in the fall. Luckily that’s all that she sustained. I’d spoken to the Doctor who treated her and the physician who had initially diagnosed her Alzheimer’s. Both agreed that I was doing the right thing, but it didn’t help my conscious.