The Intentions Book

by Gigi Fenster

  At the end of Morris’s fifth year of study, Murray moved to England. He sent one or two letters and Morris sent one or two back. Craig took a job in Australia. Someone said he’d given up tramping in favour of surfing.

  Morris went back to Wellington after university. He rented a flat, which Joan helped him furnish. ‘Most of your mum’s furniture was pretty old,’ she said, ‘and you’ll want to start afresh, with nice modern things.’

  He bought a new television.

  Joan had got rid of the bar mitzvah television when Pearl moved to the home. She’d got the Salvation Army in.

  So Joan packed up your mother. Bim bam boom. And she packed up your childhood house, bim bam boom. And by the time you came back from university your home was gone. That would’ve been upsetting.

  Upsetting? I hadn’t lived there for years.

  That may be so, but this is your childhood home we’re talking about. The house that was frozen in time. The house that never changed. Except for your mother’s room.

  My mother’s room?

  The room that moved.

  My mother’s room never moved, I tell you. I can picture it.

  All right then—tell me what she had in there.

  In my mother’s room? A bed, bedside table. The usual.

  What else? Describe it for me.

  It was a room. A bed. Bedside table. Just a room. A lamp.

  Describe it for me.

  Enough, Sadie. Enough. I hardly ever went in there.

  Hardly ever.

  That’s how it was in those days. Children kept out of their parents’ room in those days.

  How you preferred it.

  Yes, actually.

  David, four weeks old, in their bed. ‘Of course I won’t squash him, Morris. Stop worrying. Go to sleep.’

  David, four months old, in their bed. ‘Just until summer, Morris. It’s too cold to get up and go to him in the night.’

  David four years old, in their bed. ‘He had a bad dream, poor baby.’

  Rachel, three weeks, three months, three years. ‘She was sitting all alone in the lounge, gazing at the television, which was switched off, weren’t you darling, weren’t you sweetheart? Move over, Morris. Make room for Miss Gorgeousness. Close your eyes, honey bun, I’ll tell you a story.’

  Sometimes both of the children would be in there, Sadie singing songs and making funny noises, and all three of them kicking their legs and waving their arms and laughing like monkeys.

  Snuggling. We were snuggling. Bonding. I was supergluing our family together.

  Morris, at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, in his study with the heater pulled close to his chair. Because there wasn’t space for him in the bed.

  Don’t give me that no space nonsense. You didn’t want to be there. It made you feel uncomfortable.

  Well, it was cramped.

  It was supposed to be cramped. Snuggling always is. And it’s good for children. Especially Rachel.

  Morris, seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, listening to Sadie singing off key and David trying to whistle, wondering how Rachel feels about all that racket first thing in the morning when she’s still sleepy, wondering whether she wouldn’t rather be in a quiet room where there’s space to think.

  She had more than enough quiet and space, more than enough alone time to think. She needed cuddling and tickling. That’s why I did it.

  Why you did it?

  You know how Stormin’ Norman insisted that you leave home and stay at the university residence, even though you didn’t want to?

  Yes but—

  He knew what you needed, even though you didn’t. That’s what parents are for.

  What parents are for?

  Well, maybe there was a bit of that with me and Rachel. I knew what she needed, even if she didn’t. She needed to be cuddled. I couldn’t let her go through life afraid of the snuggle, could I? Couldn’t let her be a snuggle-phobic person, could I? What kind of mother does that to her child?

  Snuggle-phobic?

  Look here, Morris, she was my little girl. We cuddled. Mothers and children do that, you know. Parents cuddle their children. You do know that, don’t you?

  Morris is four years old. Outside is howling wind and blustering storm and dark, though it’s past waking-up time on Sunday morning. Morris listens to the rain. He wonders how much wind it would take to blow their house down.

  From down the passage comes the sound of singing, whistling, clapping hands and marching feet. His bedroom door is flung open, his blankets pulled off and he’s on his father’s shoulders, in his parents’ room, on his parents’ bed, at risk of slipping through the gap between the two single beds that have been pushed together.

  His father lies back on the pillow, knees up. He pulls Morris up on to his knees, calls, ‘Hold on tight, the horse is going to gallop,’ starts jiggling his knees up and down, faster and faster. Morris holds on, shrieks, laughs, falls in a heap on his mother’s side of the bed.

  Luckily she isn’t there. She’s standing near the door, pulling her dressing-gown belt tight, tying it in a knot.

  ‘Again,’ cries Morris. ‘Again.’

  His father’s knees pop up, Morris takes his hands.

  ‘It’s six o’clock, a beautiful evening in Melbourne. The horses are in their stalls. At number seven, the favourite, Phar Lap, ridden by that famous jockey, that wonder of wonders, Morris Goldberg …’ Joe whistles through his teeth, jiggles his knees. ‘And they’re off, ladies and gentlemen.’

  The horse is galloping, the wind is blowing. From behind the roars of the crowd comes the sound of Morris’s mother vacuuming.

  Stop jiggling for a second and look around. That’s not your mother’s room. It’s the lounge. Before she moved rooms.

  She never moved rooms.

  Okay, if you’re so sure, describe it for me.

  It’s too long ago. I can’t remember.

  Look, Morris, look. You’re seeing the storm through a flat window. But the flat window was in the lounge. Your mother’s room had a bay window.

  Enough, Sadie. You can’t expect me to remember every little detail. I wasn’t even five then. And I was only six when she swapped the lounge and the bedroom.

  Aha. Got you. Freud would have been proud of me.

  Freud?

  Would’ve been proud of me for getting you to admit to the swap.

  Okay, so she swapped. Can I rest now?

  So the house wasn’t always frozen. Furniture moved there. When you got a television and when—

  When I was six.

  And the last move. When your mother went to the home.

  Joan kept phoning Morris in Christchurch. Do you mind if I get rid of Pearl’s bed? Do you want your mother’s recipes? Don’t say no without thinking. You might want them one day. Your wife might want them.

  At last he said, ‘Please, Joan, I don’t want anything. Take what you like and get rid of the rest.’ He heard her sharp intake of breath and said, ‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m studying and …’

  ‘I understand. I understand. And don’t you worry. Your things will be neatly packed up for you.’

  ‘Joan, I’m sorry, I …’

  ‘Morris, sweetheart, you get back to your studying and don’t worry about a thing. It’s a small job. Your mother lived … carefully. She lives carefully. And as for you, my goodness, Morris, your things could fit in a few boxes. But then I guess you took most of your things to Christchurch with you. Didn’t you? How will you manage to get it all back now? Should I get Norman to arrange for you to rail it up?’

  Oh Morris, she was needing support. Don’t you see she needed you to help her through it?

  I didn’t want to … to interfere.

  She needed you to interfere. It wasn’t fair to leave her to make all the decisions on her own.

  But she said it was a small job. She said my mother lived simply.

  She said. She said. Of course she said. Joan always said. She’d say anything to protect you
from distressing things.

  Distressing things?

  Like packing up your mother’s personal things, having your fingers in her tshatshkes.

  My mother never had, what do you call them?

  Tshatshkes. Except for her linen.

  Linen’s not a tshatshke.

  My God, all that linen.

  Joan said the linen would be easy to pack, just a matter of moving from shelf to box, box to shelf.

  Shelf to box, box to shelf and, later, when Morris and Sadie announced their engagement, on to Joan’s dining-room table.

  A bottle of champagne on Joan’s dining-room table. Four of Joan’s special glasses and a cake with M & S! piped in white icing. Norman all gruff and proud and pats on the back. Joan strangely shy, as if she’d been hiding something or caught stealing. Flustered and uncertain, making three trips to her linen cupboard to bring out all the linen, refusing offers of help.

  ‘I told your mother you were engaged. I popped over as soon as I heard the news. That’s what’s so good about being close to her. I can pop over any time. She … she’s thrilled for you. You know how sometimes she really seems to understand … She …’

  Norman put his arm around his wife. ‘Pearl wants you to have her linen. Joanie’s been keeping it for you.’

  Still starched. Still ironed. Some pieces still in the soft bags Pearl had sewed for them. Joan said she knew some of the pieces weren’t folded nicely and that they looked kind of wadded, but that’s the way you store them so they don’t get fold marks in the same place.

  ‘Your mother taught me that. It’s the way she used to do it. It’s the way she would have wanted it.’

  Sadie said there were too many pieces. They couldn’t possibly take them all. They didn’t have the storage space in Morris’s tiny flat. Joan must keep some. She’d have more use for it.

  ‘Especially the tablecloths. Please, Joan, you must choose the pieces you like best. Keep them for yourself. Give some to the synagogue. They’ll be nice on the brocha table for Friday night, won’t they?’

  She took a tablecloth from the pile, laid it across the table. ‘This is a nice one for the synagogue. Give them this one. Keep the lace for yourself.’

  Joan protested. ‘No, you keep them. They’re yours. Put them away for when you have children. Your daughter will like them one day. She’ll give them to her daughters.’

  Sadie said, ‘Isn’t it a big job to look after them? Not shy with the starch, was she?’ And Morris wanted to shout at them both to shut up, wanted to push Sadie aside, roughly even, to refold the cloth carefully, gently, you can’t leave it hanging over the edge of the table like that and actually there’s exactly the right amount of starch. Then, when it was laid just so, to run his hands along it, to feel its flatness. Its crispness. Its starch.

  Did Morris think about the linen when presented, in a hotel restaurant in Christchurch, with the decision that his mother who had recently had a stroke would be moved to an old persons’ home in Levin? Did he worry about practical things, wonder who would pack up the house, who go through her things, who put some clothes (not too much, the room is small) into a big old suitcase? Who place a few framed photos on the top of the clothes before closing the suitcase? Who call the Salvation Army to fetch the television which actually still works?

  Did he consider who would put the suitcase in the boot, strap his mother into the back seat like a child? Did he think these things through or was he too busy wondering, aged twenty-three and holed up in a hotel restaurant bathroom, what emotion to present to his uncle and aunt on returning to the table?

  Had Morris thought through the implications of the move he might have had an emotion to present to the table, but it came to him only later, and by then the decision was made and he was trapped. Had the emotion come to him at the restaurant, he couldn’t have taken it to the table anyway. It was too shameful. What son, on being told that his helpless mother is to be moved to a town two hours away, feels a great dose of fear?

  But fear is what Morris felt when, some weeks later, newly returned to Wellington, he set out on his first trip to visit his mother in her new home. For then he understood what the journey meant, and he knew it would not be the doddle that Joan had promised.

  It wasn’t the driving—Morris liked driving. And it wasn’t the thought of seeing his mother in that place. That was sad, yes, but not scary.

  It was the thought that he would be expected to stop, either on the way in or out of Levin, to visit his aunt and uncle.

  Joan would expect him to stay for a meal, to answer questions, to describe friends and what he was doing on the weekend. She’d want to know how he was settling into his new flat. Did he need cutlery? Crockery? Food? Was he eating enough? How was the job? What were his colleagues like? Her dogs would try to jump on to his lap and lick his face while she ran to the kitchen to pack a parcel of food for him to take home because she knew that young people never take the time to eat properly.

  It wasn’t the visits to his mother that frightened Morris. It was the visits to his aunt.

  He pulled the car on to a verge so as to think the matter over. He could slip in, visit his mother and leave again. No one would be any the wiser. But if he did that, they wouldn’t know he’d been there and Joan would be on the phone, saying, ‘Morris, Morris, I don’t mean to pry, but when last did you visit your mother?’

  He’d have to make his presence known. And that meant visiting them. Or going at a time when they wouldn’t be home. Maybe he could leave a note. When were they least likely to be home?

  Morris started his car, did an illegal U-turn and headed back towards Wellington. It was all too damn scary.

  He got halfway home before he did another illegal U-turn to face his car back towards Levin. He was an adult. He had responsibilities. His mother was one of them. Joan and Norman another. He would visit his mother every single week. He would phone Joan first to confirm the time. He would have a cup of tea with Joan and Norman unless he had a good excuse. Like today. Today he had to rush back to Wellington before the shops closed. He was already running late. But next week … next Saturday he’d have more time.

  So Morris’s visits to his mother became visits to Joan and Norman too. On his third visit, Norman pulled him aside and thanked him for including them. It made Joanie happy to see him. He was a good nephew.

  ‘Maybe some good has come of your mother’s illness,’ said Norman.

  Every week with his bag of fruit, because that’s what you take.

  Every week wondering what he would say to his mother. Once, even making a list of things to talk about but then being too ashamed to pull out his notebook—Pearl might have had a stroke, but she wasn’t blind.

  Every week looking at his watch before he went into her room, telling himself that he had to talk for at least fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and not a minute less before he could open the cupboard, take out the radio, sit with his mother and be quiet.

  The radio stayed on a high shelf where Pearl couldn’t reach it. The management had insisted. A stern woman with hair that looked like a helmet had called Morris into her office and told him that she was terribly sorry but Mrs Pearl simply could not have access to the radio. The problem was that Mrs Pearl kept fiddling with the dials, turning the radio too loud, blasting interference.

  ‘Electric noise,’ the stern woman said, ‘disturbs the other residents. Electric noise disturbs the nurses. I have had complaints from visitors about electric noise.’

  When Morris was in primary school, the class had made marbled paper. The teacher dropped little circles of oil paint into water and told the children to draw a toothpick through the paint. She laid paper on the water and used tweezers to pull it off. Then she hung the paper on pegs and invited the children to walk around, hands behind backs, and look at them.

  Someone said, ‘That one’s the best,’ and pointed to Morris’s. ‘Hands behind backs,’ said the teacher, and then she said, ‘It is nice, isn’t it?’r />
  Morris knew why his marble paper looked good. It was because he hadn’t stirred and stirred at his paint. He’d run the toothpick through it lightly and gently like his teacher said, then he’d stepped back while the others continued to poke and mix and get everything jumbled together. When he looked at his paper, he could see traces of the perfect pools the paint had once been.

  It was like that with Pearl after the stroke. Someone had run a stick over her, but they’d done it with a light hand. There were still traces of her smooth round circle.

  The helmet-haired woman stirred at Pearl’s circles like a child with a stick.

  ‘No doubt Mrs Pearl doesn’t mean to do it,’ she said, ‘but we can’t have one resident disturbing everyone else with their racket, now can we? And it’s not just the volume but the nature of the noise.’ She put her hands on either side of her helmet head and frowned. ‘So electric.’

  Morris said nothing, and she said she was glad they’d sorted that out. She wouldn’t confiscate the radio but the nurses would ensure it was kept high, where Mrs Pearl couldn’t reach it. It was only to be used under supervision.

  So, fifteen, no, ten minutes of talking before he could open the high cupboard. Then they could sit together, Morris and his mother, and listen to the wireless.

  Every Saturday, setting out with his bag of fruit and, later, with Sadie. Sadie who said it was unnecessary to take fruit from Wellington. They’d stop and buy some from one of the cute little fruit stalls on the way. It would be cheaper, fresher. It would be fun! Sadie who chatted all the way there, Morris thinking I must remember that, that’s something I could tell my mother. Sadie, who stayed at Joan’s house and presumably kept on chatting for the hour (exactly) that Morris spent with his mother.

  Dun dun dun dun … Surprising English girlfriend to the rescue. Go, Sadie.

  Dun dun dun dun?

  Sadie to the rescue. I came with you. I visited Joan and Norman. I let the dogs lick my face. You visited your mother. We both got the hell out of there. You could at least have thanked me. I mean, how many girlfriends do that for a bloke?