My Mother's Silence (ARC)

by Lauren Westwood

  Mum hasn’t changed one single thing. The room is a time capsule, a wormhole to a different decade. It’s a shrine not only to my sister, but to our lives back then. A memorial to everything that was lost.

  I feel sick as I step inside, leaving the door open. There are two single beds, one on either side of a gabled window. I go over to the bed that was once mine and fling my bag onto it. Above the pine headboard there’s a poster of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, an original from the 1963 civil rights rally. Dad won it in a raffle. When Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016, I thought of that poster and about getting another copy. But seeing it here now, I’m glad I didn’t. There are other posters and flyers pinned to the wall around the room. Ginny’s Oasis poster: when she was sixteen, she had a mega crush on Noel Gallagher. There are also flyers for pub gigs that happened years in the past, a poster for the Hebridean Celtic Festival, and a picture of Billy Ray Cyrus torn from a magazine. I have the urge to rip them all down, but the memories seem tainted and I don’t want to touch them.

  I venture across the braided rug to Ginny’s side. Her Celtic harp is in the corner next to the wardrobe. I pluck one of the red strings: ‘C’. It’s flat. I think of that awkward conversation in the car with Lachlan: ‘The Bonny Swans’ and the chilling sound of the harp as it magically weaves its tale, unmasking the guilt of the cruel sister. I shudder. Maybe I can move the harp up to the attic while I’m here.

  I go back to my own side and open my suitcase. I unpack a few books, setting them on the bedside table. They look unfamiliar and out of place. I take out a change of clothes and my toiletries bag. A shower is what I need. Or better yet, a hot bath.

  When I’m back out in the hallway, I feel an almost giddy sense of relief. I’ve stayed in lots of dive motels when I’ve been between gigs, flats, or men. Some places were so bad: noisy, grubby, lonely – or all three – that they were almost worse than having no place to sleep. Right now, any of them seem better than my old room. If I’m going to stay here, even for a short time to help Mum out, then I’ll have to do something about it. I can’t live in a shrine.

  I carry my things to the bathroom. What does that room say about Mum’s state of mind? Does she keep it that way because she’s afraid of the memories slipping away? I think of how Mum used to talk to Dad after he died, and her earlier ‘slip of the tongue’ about Ginny singing. Is there a part of her that honestly believes that one day, Ginny might miraculously return from the dead and need a bed for the night?

  No. I don’t believe that. Mum’s too strong, too stoical for that. Too much of a realist. At least, she was back then.

  In the bathroom, the avocado sink and toilet have been replaced with white, which is a big improvement. The cast iron bath on claw feet is still there. I turn on the taps and wait until the water runs hot before putting in the plug. Mum used to bath all three of us kids together in this tub until we were about nine years old. Even after that we all had to use the same water. The cottage has a rainwater cistern, and even though it rains a lot we still had to ration the water. Maybe that’s no longer the case, but I’m not taking any chances.

  I undress and slip into the water. It’s so hot that it’s almost scalding. I quickly run some cold water and swish it around to the back of the tub. I don’t want to use too much. Once the hot water is gone, it’s gone.

  When the temperature is right, I put a towel behind my head and stare at the steam rising upwards to the ceiling. The light fitting is the same: a round half-globe letting off a pale yellow glow, speckled with shadows of dead moths. I’ve lain here so many times, warm and contented. But the last time I lay here was the night before I left for good, six weeks after my sister died. I had already packed my rucksack and my guitar. The coach ticket was in my bag, my place at the audition in Glasgow confirmed. And yet, I was wracked with indecision. How could I leave Mum after everything we’d been through? How would I ever be brave enough to make my escape, like I’d dreamed of doing for so many years, without my sister by my side?

  In my mind’s eye, I can see my younger self. Getting out of the bath, my mind made up. I’d tell Mum that I wasn’t going. That my place was with my family, together in our grief. Maybe there’d be another opportunity. Eventually… someday. But deep down, I knew that my chance was unlikely to come again.

  I went downstairs. I’d planned on making Mum a cup of tea, sitting her down, having a conversation. She’d said precious little to me after I came home from hospital after my car accident. She’d gone about the necessary tasks: arranging the memorial service for Ginny, graciously accepting casseroles, pies, and condolences. Even six weeks on there was a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers. People who ‘couldn’t believe it’ and ‘couldn’t get over such a terrible tragedy’. The kettle was on permanent boil. But we hadn’t spoken, not really. Because what was there to say?

  I paused at the door to the kitchen. Mum was talking on the phone to someone. Normally, I would just march in and make myself a snack or a cup of tea, leaving the dishes by the sink for Mum to wash. But this time, something held me back.

  ‘… seeing her, I’m just constantly reminded…’

  I knew I should go back upstairs, or else come into the room and have Mum alter her conversation accordingly. But I stood rigid, rooted to the spot.

  ‘… off to live her dream, and that’s for the best.’

  I gripped the edge of the doorframe, my pulse exploding in my head.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s wrong, but I do blame her…’

  I’d run outside then. Banging the front door. Waiting for her to suss out that I’d overheard. Waiting for her to follow me. Take it all back. What she said, and what she… felt.

  She didn’t do so.

  The light shade blurs as my eyes fill with tears. In a way, Mum’s icy arrow of blame was the thing I needed to set me free. I’d felt like I was doing the right thing when I got on that coach and passed through the misty veils of Eilean Shiel. Mum was right to blame me. I’d failed to protect my sister.

  6

  ‘Skye?’

  I jolt upright with a splash of cold water. The bath… I’m in the bath. A moment ago the water was steaming, now it’s cold and filmy. A moment ago I was standing outside the kitchen door overhearing that awful conversation. A moment ago… fifteen years ago.

  I’ve rationalised it over and over, many times. Mum was grieving. She didn’t mean what she said. Or if she did, it was just at that particular moment, the hurt and pain frozen like a fly in a bubble of amber. She didn’t know I overheard, so she didn’t know how it affected me, how deeply it lacerated what was left of my heart. In my darkest times – and sometimes happy ones too – I’ve thought about coming home. Dreamed about having a normal life: laughter, tears, arguments and hugs with what was left of my family. But each time I came to the same conclusion: Mum was better off without me. Better off without my presence bringing back bad memories. After all, she had Bill, a much more complete human being than I’ll ever be; she had her friends and her charity work at the church and the WI. She never asked for me, or expressed a wish that I return. I concluded that she too thought it best that I stay away.

  And now I’ve been back for less than an hour. It’s little consolation to feel that maybe we were both right.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, loud enough for her to hear through the door. ‘I think I must have nodded off. Jet lag’s a killer.’ I feel awful that Mum’s had to come all the way up the stairs to get me, when I’m supposed to be helping her.

  ‘Supper’s ready,’ she says.

  ‘Sure, I’ll be down in a minute.’

  I sweep the bad memories from my mind. The fact is that after her fall, she did ask for me. That’s a positive thing. Something to grab and hang on to. This will be the first Christmas we’ve had together as a family since before I left. Mum, Bill, his wife Fiona and their three kids, me. When I embarked on the long journey from America to Eilean Shiel, I even dared to hope that if we were all toge
ther once again, then maybe we could make some shiny new memories. Maybe I’m just being daft, but I’m determined to try.

  I get out of the bath, dry off and put on clean clothing. Mum’s gone by the time I leave the bathroom. I can hear her footsteps as she makes her way slowly down the stairs. Cane, foot, foot, cane. Her fall happened almost three weeks ago, so I guess she must have decided not to move downstairs to sleep on the sofa, like I would have done. According to Bill’s emails, she’s had a nurse from the local GP practice looking in on her, as well her best friend Lorna and a gaggle of church and WI friends. Does she accept help from them? Let them make the tea, carry the tray, and do the washing-up?

  I put on a pair of furry slippers and pad downstairs, pausing just outside the door to the kitchen where I stood all those years ago. I steel myself; I’m going to make this work. I want to be here – home after so long. I want to get to know Mum again and not be strangers. More than anything, I just want things to be ‘normal’ between us.

  Whatever that means.

  I enter the kitchen, noting that Mum’s set everything out on the table already, the food in blue and white stoneware dishes. ‘It smells delicious,’ I say, keeping a smile on my face even as I watch the excruciating process of her sitting down in the chair again.

  ‘I remember you always liked your stew,’ she says.

  I feel happy hearing that. She’s made an effort – a huge effort in her current state – to make my favourite meal. Maybe I need to stop over-analysing everything and let her treat me like a guest if that’s what she wants. In addition to the stew, there’s also neeps and tatties – turnips and potatoes – and parsnips. I haven’t had a parsnip since I was here last: I don’t even know if they have them in America. Maybe they’re called something else like courgette is called zucchini and aubergine is called eggplant. I say as much to Mum, more to make conversation than because I expect her to be interested in the international nomenclature for root vegetables.

  ‘Your dad loved parsnips,’ is all she says. That ends that conversation.

  Mum is quiet as we serve ourselves. I feel nervous and on edge and ramble on making small talk. What’s the weather supposed to be like? Is it still possible to take the path out to the beach? Oh, and by the way, Byron asked me to play at the festival. (Nervous laugh.) As if.

  Mum answers in a patient monotone. Whenever I pause to take a breath, the silence is heavy and cloying. I wish I knew how to dispel the tension, but it’s hard when I don’t want to bring up anything relating to the time when I left, or my fifteen year exile, or… much at all really. Maybe that’s how she feels too. If so, this is either going to be a very long visit… or a very short one.

  Mum is animated only on two topics of conversation: the cottages and Bill’s upcoming visit. She fills in more details about the refurbishment of the old farm buildings. ‘The Stables’, closest to the main house, now sleeps eight people, and the smaller cottage – ‘Skybird’ – sleeps four; six if you use the sofa bed.

  ‘What about the chap who’s there now?’ I ask, hoping to keep her talking. ‘How long is he staying?’

  ‘Through the holidays,’ Mum says. ‘I gather that he’s been through a nasty divorce. That sort of thing is difficult this time of year.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘He keeps to himself.’ Her brow wrinkles. ‘He didn’t even want to come in for a cup of tea when he arrived.’

  ‘Sounds dodgy.’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve seen him on the beach a few times with his dog. I guess he’s just… grieving.’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘Everyone does that in their own way, in their own time.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Once again it feels like we’re being sat on by the elephant in the room. I pounce on the other ‘safe’ topic of conversation.

  ‘So are Bill and the family, um… all going to stay upstairs?’

  ‘Oh no. There wouldn’t be room.’ Mum spoons the last of the vegetables onto my plate. I hide a wince. Parsnips are one of those things that taste better in my memory than they do in real life. ‘They’ll stay in the Stables. It will be much more comfortable.’

  I wish I had a family of eight so that I could stay in the Stables. I’m tempted to ask if I can sleep in Bill’s old room, but I know it’s best to leave it for now. There will be plenty of time to broach uncomfortable subjects if and when they come up. Right now, I just want to get through dinner.

  Mum pushes her chair back. I abandon the parsnip. I simply cannot watch her clear away and wash up these plates. The battle lines are drawn and I’m going to cross them. Mum makes to stand up, but I’m faster.

  ‘Let me.’ I practically grab her plate away and whisk it over to the sink.

  Mum sighs. ‘Don’t be silly, I can do it later.’

  I feel a satisfied flash of victory as she lowers herself back down in the chair.

  ‘There’s no pudding,’ she says. ‘I don’t eat many sweets. I hope you’re OK with biscuits. The ginger ones are home-made.’

  Why didn’t she say so before?

  ‘Great, Mum,’ I say. ‘Your ginger biscuits are the best.’

  ‘Yes, well. Ginny used to think so. I always thought you preferred shortbread.’

  My sister’s name is like a flare fired across enemy lines. It catches me off guard. Is Mum admonishing me for liking shop-bought biscuits better than her homemade ones? Is this yet another way in which I was an inferior daughter to her than Ginny?

  ‘I like both,’ I say. I fill the kettle with water and switch it on. I let the water run and squirt suds into the sink to make a start on the dishes. ‘But I don’t eat many sweets either.’ I give her a quick glance over my shoulder. She’s frowning in my direction.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You do seem very thin. I suppose it’s that glamorous lifestyle, or whatever.’

  I don’t really know what to say. I take one of the used knives and scrape just a little harder than necessary at the black residue at the bottom of the stew container. I must stop thinking that everything is a little dig. She’s probably struggling too as to what to say to me, how to talk to me after so long. How to broach the pile of unspoken issues, that with each minute of small talk is growing higher, like a rampant weed.

  ‘I do have a busy life,’ I say. ‘And I eat on the go a lot.’ The kettle switches off. I dry my hands and pour water into the teapot. It’s a relief to be able to make the tea and do the washing-up, anything to be useful. Anything to prove that I have a place here. ‘But I really want to slow down a little while I’m here. And also help you out.’ I take a breath. This feels like one of those now or never moments. ‘I mean… umm… is your leg going to be OK? Are you in any pain?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Mum says with a little tsk. ‘It was only a hairline fracture and some pulled ligaments. Your brother shouldn’t have made such a fuss.’

  Ask her… A voice screams in my head. Why did she go there? What was she doing? Why did she go out onto the treacherous rocks below the lighthouse at Shiel Point? The place where my sister died. I have to know, and yet, I don’t want to. What if she…? What if the person who found her, crumpled in a heap in the freezing rain, hadn’t come along?

  ‘Um, I’m really glad you’re OK,’ I say. My small victories topple, shot through the heart. I can’t do it. I’m too much of a coward. I have no right to ask her about… anything really. Not now, when I’m less a welcome guest than a total stranger. ‘I hope you’ll let me help out while I’m here,’ I repeat dumbly.

  Mum purses her lips. ‘And how long exactly are you staying?’ she says.

  I take the teapot over to the table. My hands shake as I put it down and bring over the milk and sugar, and the plate of ginger biscuits. ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m kind of… at a crossroads right now.’ I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t ask me to. My life in America is riddled with things I’d rather Mum didn’t know about. I’ve literally had nightmares over whether she’s seen the tacky videos on YouTube that people have
occasionally posted of me performing in some dead-end gig. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s the fractured relationships, the substance issues, the frequent ‘lack of a permanent address’ that sums up my lifestyle. My propensity to run away from my problems, rather than face them. And here we are, case in point…

  ‘I definitely plan to stay through the holidays – if that’s OK,’ I say. ‘But if you don’t need me here after that, then I can… make other arrangements.’

  I wait for her to answer – it’s killing me that she’s taking so long. I feel a pesky bout of tears coming on.

  ‘You know that you can stay as long as you like,’ she says.

  I’m so grateful that I want to hug her. I pour the tea and put a splash of milk in Mum’s cup, and two sugars in mine. How Mum takes her tea seems as familiar to me as my own reflection. That gives me a glimmer of hope.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I take a long sip of tea. This time when I look around the kitchen I notice the things that are familiar. The recipe books on the shelf of the china cabinet, a vase filled with shells and sea glass, a framed needlepoint of thistles and forget-me-nots that one of Mum’s friends did for her when Dad died. Little things that make a place feel like home.

  I take my cup over to the sink and finish the washing-up. I’m aware of Mum hoisting herself out of the chair. This time, though, she seems resigned to using her cane. As I’m drying the last dish, she comes over and takes a cloth from a pile by the sink. She goes back to the table and wipes it down. I don’t try to step in. Maybe in order for her to accept any help, she first needs to prove she doesn’t need it. Fair enough.

  ‘Good,’ I say, hanging the tea towel back on the fridge to dry. ‘Job done.’

  ‘Do you need anything else?’ Mum says. ‘Hot milk? A hot water bottle?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll go to bed if that’s OK? Do a little reading, and then, hopefully I’ll sleep.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Whatever you want. You have enough towels?’