The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

  I feel Ingrid’s eyes on me and I sigh. Ingrid knows, of course, what I did to Diana—everyone in the entire hospital knows about the assault. That’s what the nurse who discovered us called it. An assault. Actually, it is probably an accurate description, though Diana was quick to refute it, insisting, even after she was taken to emergency on a stretcher, that it was a private family matter. I have to hand it to her, Diana Goodwin will go to any lengths to avoid making a scene.

  ‘You’re a bit of a hero around here, you know,’ Ingrid says, opening Harriet’s chart. ‘Everyone’s wanted to give their mother-in-law a head injury at least once in their life.’

  ‘Even you, Ingrid?’

  ‘Especially me! And my daughter-in-law wants to give me one occasionally, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ I say. ‘If I had a mother-in-law like you, Ingrid, I’d be over the moon.’

  ‘Ah, you think that now.’ She smiles. ‘But I’d get on your nerves after a while. Everyone, given enough time, will get on your nerves if they join your family.’

  ‘Why is it that mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law always seem to have issues, and never sons-in-law and fathers-in-law?’

  Ingrid scribbles something on the chart. ‘Sons-in-law and fathers-in-law don’t care enough to have issues.’

  ‘So we have issues because we care?’ I ask.

  ‘We have issues because care too much.’ Ingrid glances at her watch, then makes another note on her chart. Then she replaces the chart on the end of Harriet’s cot. She’s in the doorway, about to leave, when she pauses.

  ‘Your mother-in-law has been calling a lot, you know.’

  ‘She loves her granddaughter,’ I say. ‘I’ll give her that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ingrid says. ‘But you should know that each time I’ve answered the phone to her, the first person she’s asked about is you.’

  When Ollie arrives at the hospital half an hour later, I tell him I have to go. He doesn’t ask where, and I’m sure he assumes I want to go home and shower, or change my clothes, or get something for Harriet—we have been tag-teaming in this way for a week. I let him assume that.

  As I drive, I am thinking about what Ingrid said. We care too much. I wonder if it’s true. If I didn’t care, I could go on with my own life, accepting the mother-in-law I have. Like Patrick has. He doesn’t like Diana particularly, but unless she has done something to irritate him in that particular moment, he is positively undisturbed by this dislike. He doesn’t pretend to get along with her, or get upset about it. It doesn’t seem to affect him at all. And so I’m going to forgive Diana. Not because I like her or because I think what she did was forgivable. I’m going to forgive her to release myself. I’m going to give up caring so much.

  I pull up in front of Tom and Diana’s house, behind Tom’s car which is parked in the drive—unusual, for a work day. I ring the bell but no one comes. After a while, I press it again.

  It takes a long time for Diana to come to the door, but finally I see her through the glass.

  ‘Lucy,’ she says.

  I blink. It might be the first time I’ve seen Diana without makeup. Her hair is wet and combed straight back over her small, oval head, and her entire face—skin, eyelashes, lips—appears to be the same washed-out beige colour. She puts a hand to her chest. ‘Oh no. Is . . . it Harriet?’

  ‘No, Harriet’s fine.’

  But Diana is shaking. All of her, trembling. I reach out and steady her.

  ‘Diana, Harriet is fine,’ I say again.

  But she continues to shake. I grasp her shoulder and bring her into the house. Something isn’t right. She stares at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. I take her other shoulder, about to ask her what’s wrong, when her knees give way. I catch her and lower her to the floor.

  ‘Tom?’ I call. ‘Tom? Are you here?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, starting to sob. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy . . . It’s Tom. It’s my darling, Tom.’

  ‘Tom has MND,’ Diana says. ‘Motor neuron disease. It’s—’

  ‘I know what it is,’ I say. I remember the ice-bucket challenges a few years back, people dumping ice water over their heads to raise money and awareness for MND. Clearly it was successful, as before that I’d never heard of it.

  ‘Tom has suspected something wasn’t right for a while, but he kept it to himself. It’s all crystal clear in hindsight. His muscle cramps. Weakness. His handwriting is worse than Archie’s. His drooling.’ A tear slides down her cheek, but other than that, she’s regained her composure. ‘I always found it so adorable when he drooled. Little did we know . . .’

  Diana and I are sitting in the good room. Diana holds a cushion in her lap and fiddles with the little bits of gold thread woven through it. ‘The MND won’t affect his intellect, but it will strip his physicality from him until he is no longer able to express his intellect. Until people are speaking to him like he’s a child and he’s powerless to tell them that he’s not deaf.’ Another tear slips down her cheek. ‘But I’m not going to let them do that. No one will speak to him like he’s an imbecile. He will have me.’

  Diana brushes the tear from her cheek and gives a little nod, as if this fact pleases her. And likely it does. She may not have any control over Tom’s illness, but she has control over how he is treated and she’s going to make sure he’s treated well. Diana is someone you want on your side. Perhaps that’s the problem. I’ve never felt like she has been on mine.

  ‘What can I do?’ I ask.

  Diana gives a hopeless little shrug, the saddest shrug I’ve ever seen. She blinks slowly, hugging the cushion to her body. She looks so fragile I want to grab a throw rug and wrap it around her shoulders. I’ve never wanted to do this to Diana before.

  ‘Diana—’ I start as my phone begins to ring. It’s Ollie. ‘Sorry, I’d better get this. It might be about Harriet.’

  ‘Don’t tell him, Lucy. Please don’t tell him.’

  Diana looks at me and it’s as though her soul has returned to her body, the sharpness has returned to her eyes. She’s on. It makes me feel sad and also strangely privileged that she let her guard down with me, even just for a few seconds.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  She turns her head away as if to give us some privacy.

  ‘Ollie?’

  ‘Harriet’s awake,’ Ollie says. I hear her babbling in the background and maybe it’s the news of Tom’s illness but my need to have my daughter in my arms is so fierce it takes my breath away. ‘I thought you’d want to come.’

  ‘I do,’ I say. ‘I do want to come. I’ll be right there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Diana says as I put the phone in my purse. ‘Tom really wants to be the one to tell the kids.’

  It’s funny hearing her call Ollie and Nettie ‘kids’. But perhaps that’s how a mother always thinks of her offspring. I wonder for a moment whether that’s at the root of all our problems.

  I sit in Diana and Tom’s good room, but this time I’m in on the secret. Nettie and Patrick sit next to each other on the overstuffed couch, upright, to attention. Ollie and I sit in the armchairs, facing each other, and Diana and Tom sit side by side opposite Patrick and Nettie.

  ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ Diana asks and we all shake our heads, eager to get to the point of tonight’s family meeting. I know Ollie assumes it’s about what happened to Harriet. I haven’t been able to tell him otherwise without admitting what Diana told me about Tom, and I don’t want to do that. For one thing, I think it’s Tom’s right to tell his children this. For another, it’s the first time I’ve had Diana’s confidence and I’m determined to prove that I can keep it.

  I watch Tom, in the armchair, looking for symptoms of his MND. As far as I can see, he is healthy. As for his gentle slur, it’s something I’ve become fond of, and always attributed to the fact that he is usually on a scale between tipsy and drunk.

  ‘All right I won’t mince words,’ he says. ‘We all know I’m here to tell you something, and yo
u’re probably feeling like it’s something bad . . . which I’m sorry to say, it is. I’ve been diagnosed with motor neuron disease, which you’ve probably heard of. It’s the disease everyone was doing that ice-bucket nonsense for a few years back. It’s otherwise known as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease. Anyway, it’s a degenerative disease affecting the nerves in the brain and spinal cord that tell your muscles what to do. Eventually the disease will progress to the point that my muscles will weaken, stiffen and waste. I won’t walk or talk properly, I won’t be able to eat or drink very well, even breathing will be difficult.’

  Tom speaks quickly and he sounds mildly irritated, but I know it’s just because he feels off-kilter. He’s always the one in the family that smooths things over, makes problems go away. It would be killing him to be the one creating problems this time.

  ‘Anyway, it is what it is, and I’ll make the best of it,’ he says. And then he doesn’t say anything.

  Nettie’s and Ollie’s reactions surprise me in that they have precisely no reaction at all. No movement, no sharp intake of breath, just a rhythmic blink, a second or two out of sequence. Patrick brings a hand to his mouth, rests his chin on his thumb.

  ‘Will you die?’ Nettie asks finally.

  ‘I will die, yes. As will you, your brother, your mother, Lucy and Patrick . . . all of us will die. But I will likely be the first one to go. Probably in the next five years. Maybe even in the next year.’

  Diana reaches for Tom’s hand.

  ‘No one lives forever,’ Tom says, ‘so I’d like to make what’s left count. For me that means lots of time with family. My wife, my children and their spouses,’ his gaze finds mine, ‘and my grandchildren, if you’ll allow it, Lucy. I am responsible for what happened to Harriet. If she hadn’t recovered, I’d never have forgiven myself.’

  ‘Of course you can see the kids, Tom. As much as you’d like.’

  ‘Dad, I . . .’ Ollie sits forward. He appears to wrestle with something, but finally continues. ‘I know this is early days, but you’ll want to get your affairs in order. Your power of attorney, your medical instructions. You’ll want to look at succession planning for the business, and a sale to a partner if you want to go that way.’

  Idly, I wonder how Ollie knows this. It rolls off the tongue, as though he were a wills and estates lawyer rather than a recruiter. Then, suddenly, he looks awkward.

  ‘Also, you’ll want to make sure your will is up to date.’

  ‘Oh, I think it is too early to start discussing that, hon,’ I say.

  ‘Everything is in order,’ Tom says.

  Ollie nods. ‘Can I ask what it states?’

  ‘Ollie!’ Diana and I exclaim together. I understand bad news can bring out unusual reactions, but Ollie is being extraordinarily insensitive.

  ‘There’s no secrets to be had here,’ Tom says. ‘In the event of my death, everything goes to Diana. If we both go at once, everything goes to you kids and your partners, an even split.’

  I glance at Ollie. He seems appeased.

  ‘You never expect to have to discuss these things with your family,’ Tom continues. ‘Deep down, we all think we’re going to live forever. This is, I’ll admit, a bit of a rude awakening.’ He tries for a laugh, but his voice cracks.

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Ollie goes to Tom’s side and puts his arms around him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

  Tom leans into Ollie and his eyes close briefly. It’s a beautiful moment.

  I only wish it had happened before they’d discussed the contents of the will.

  39

  LUCY

  The present . . .

  It’s strange, being back at Tom and Diana’s. Gerard gave us strict instructions that we were not permitted to remove anything other than sentimental items, but Nettie and Patrick were here yesterday and things have vanished since then. A vase that was on display in the good room, for one thing. I can’t really say I blame them. With the financial hardship we are in, I could be tempted to pick up a vase or two myself. I’m relieved, though, that Ollie hasn’t suggested it. His behaviour has been so strange lately, I’m glad to see he is still the man of integrity that I married.

  In the library I watch him open a photo album, flick a few pages, then put it down again without looking at it.

  ‘We don’t have to do this all today, you know.’

  ‘We have to do it some time,’ he says. ‘Might as well be now.’

  I take him by the hand, walk him over to the couch and sit beside him. ‘Ollie. Talk to me.’

  He closes his eyes, massaging his forehead with thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s just being here in this house . . . It’s weird, right? I can’t believe she is gone.’

  ‘I can’t either.’

  He opens his eyes, stares right ahead. ‘I have no parents. That shouldn’t freak me out, in my mid-forties, but it does. On top of that, my sister doesn’t want anything to do with me.’ He blinks several times as if processing this. ‘You’re all I’ve got, Lucy. You and the kids.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  He looks at me. Nods slowly.

  I try to picture what our life will be like now that we are financially ruined. I’ll have to get a job. Archie and Harriet will have to go to before- and after-school care and Edie will have to go to full-time daycare. It will be different, that’s for sure. But we’re not going anywhere.

  ‘You look different, lately,’ Ollie says. ‘Your clothes aren’t so . . . wild.’

  I look down at myself, at my black jeans, grey T-shirt and nude ballet flats. The shirt has a bedazzled picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front, but it’s a relatively plain outfit by my standards. I don’t even have any hair accessories or adornments in. The only jewellery I’m wearing, in fact, is the necklace Diana left to me.

  ‘My style is . . . evolving,’ I admit.

  Ollie smiles. ‘This outfit actually reminds me of something Mum would wear.’

  I smile back. I don’t tell him Diana didn’t own a pair of jeans, and she would roll over in her grave if she heard anyone suggest that she might wear a bedazzled T-shirt. His point, that I’m favouring plainer, more practical outfits lately, is a valid one. Odd as it sounds, Diana might have played a role in that.

  We go through a few more items before we decide to call it a day. Then, as we are about to get into the car, I hear gravel crunching on the driveway.

  ‘Lucy! Ollie!’

  We turn in unison. Housseini and Jones are coming down the driveway toward us. Immediately I go on high-alert.

  ‘Hello,’ I say uncertainly.

  They continue walking toward us. They’re not alone. Beside Housseini is a woman in workout gear whose face is far from friendly. She plants her feet, several metres back from us.

  ‘It was him,’ she says quietly to Housseini. ‘Him. Definitely.’

  Housseini remains beside the woman, and Jones continues a few paces further up the driveway, stopping in front of us.

  ‘Can we help you?’ Ollie says.

  ‘We’ve just been talking with the neighbours again,’ Jones says, ‘trying to ascertain who was the last person to see your mother before she died.’ She glances back over her shoulder at the woman in the active wear, the woman who is looking at Ollie but slightly south of his face, as though she’s nervous to look him in the eye. Nervous to look at Ollie.

  ‘It was him,’ she says again, louder now.

  ‘What was him?’ I ask her.

  ‘I live across the road,’ she says. She seems happy enough to look me in the face. ‘I was headed out for a run last week, the same day Diana was killed, and I saw him,’ she jabs a thumb at Ollie, ‘walk through the gates.’

  ‘Were you here, Ollie?’ Jones asks. ‘The afternoon your mother was killed?’

  Ollie shakes his head, baffled-looking. ‘No.’

  ‘You were. You were wearing navy trousers. And a checked shirt.’ The woman nods deeply, as if becoming more convinced herself. ‘Blue and white!’
/>
  ‘You must be getting him mixed up with someone else,’ I say. ‘Or maybe you saw him here another day.’

  Both are reasonable explanations. Besides, Ollie’s not particularly distinctive looking. Tall, medium build, brown hair. It would be easy to discount this woman’s account of things, and that’s exactly what I do. Until a memory flashes into my mind. It’s Ollie, arriving home from work the day Diana died.

  He’s wearing navy trousers and a blue and white checked shirt.

  40

  LUCY

  The past . . .

  ‘Shhh,’ I say to the kids as we enter Diana and Tom’s house. Of course it doesn’t make the blindest bit of difference. It’s impossible to silence kids’ plastic shoes against marble, and Archie and Harriet scamper loudly through the place, feet slapping as they go.

  We let ourselves into the house these days. I get the feeling Diana isn’t delighted about this, but her life is about practical matters now that she is caring for Tom around the clock, and it’s not practical for her to be answering the door all the time.

  I follow the kids, hauling baby Edie in her car seat through the main floor. Everything has been moved onto this level since Tom has been in his wheelchair. I like the house more like this actually. With the extra furniture down here, the house is filled out nicely and has a cosy feel it didn’t have before. Also, everything is closer together. You can call out and pretty much anyone in the house can hear you.

  ‘It’s us,’ I say as we enter the back room.

  Tom’s wheelchair is pushed up to the table. Diana is beside him, reading the newspaper aloud, but she pauses to hug Archie and Harriet, who throw themselves at her with abandon.

  ‘Give Papa a hug,’ she instructs them.

  They look at her uncertainly and she nods. Go on. They’re a little frightened of him now. His hands are gnarled and his head is bent. He can be difficult to understand, but he is determined to keep talking. I think this is wonderful but the kids get frustrated by it or lose interest, or worse, say something rude.