His & Hers

I stare down at the silver SOS Talisman bracelet on her wrist. A gift from me last year to ease my own guilt – she was involved in a minor car accident and nobody at the hospital knew who to call – but for some reason she now has his name, and his number written inside instead of mine.

‘You do know that Jack isn’t your son, don’t you? He used to be your son-in-law, but we got divorced, so he isn’t that either anymore. Do you remember?’

‘I know. I might be a bit forgetful, but I’m not senile! I still think it’s a shame; you were good for each other and he’s been good to me. He made me go and see a doctor.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t want you to worry, love. There are lots of things that can slow down dementia now; sadly they seem to slow me down too. I’m so tired. That’s why the place is a little disorganised. Jack thinks it might be time for me to move on, get a bit more help, and I think he might be right. Most days I feel fine, but then sometimes… I don’t really know how to describe it. I just seem to disappear. There’s a residential care village not too far from here; it really is quite something. I’ll still have my own place, just with a few gadgets and gizmos to call for help if I need it. People to keep an eye on me when I lose myself.’

Part of me knows I should feel gratitude, but all I feel is a growing anger inside me.

‘Jack should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I could have helped.’

‘He was here, my darling. That’s all.’ She doesn’t need to add that I wasn’t. ‘Anyway, while you’re here, why don’t you pop up to your old bedroom and see if there is anything you’d like to keep. I was hoping you might pay a visit before I needed to start on it. Go on, you go up and I’ll finish making the tea. I’ll add a splash of fresh honey the way you used to like it.’

‘There’s no need, Mum.’

‘Let me do that for you. I can’t do much else.’

I reluctantly head up to my old room. Even the narrow staircase is littered with clutter; mostly dusty books and old shoes. She was never good at throwing anything she had once loved away. I also spot a few Christmas presents I have given her over the years, things that she’s never used that are still in the boxes they came in, including a mobile phone I suspect she never even opened, an electric blanket, and an electric kettle. I should have known. The landing is the same: a cardboard obstacle course obstructing my path to the bedroom at the back of the house. The one that was always mine.

I don’t know what to expect, and reach for the door with a certain amount of dread, but when I open it, I see that my room is exactly the same as it was when I moved out. I was sixteen when I left and it’s as though time has stood still in here. I take in the sight of the dark wooden furniture, the homemade floral curtains and matching cushions, the shelves of books, and the desk in the corner where I used to do my homework. There is a folded-up piece of cardboard still wedged under one leg to keep it steady.

Unlike the rest of the house, which appears to be covered in a thick layer of dust, everything in here is perfectly clean. The bed linen smells recently washed – even though I haven’t been to visit in such a long time – and the furniture isn’t just spotless, it’s been recently polished. A faint whiff of Mr Sheen still in the air. On the dressing table I see a familiar perfume that I was fond of as a teenager – Coty L’Aimant – and spray some on my wrist. The scent brings it all back, and I almost drop the bottle, before wiping away the residue of a memory I’d rather forget.

I notice movement outside again, and peer out of the back window that overlooks my mother’s beloved garden. For as long as I can remember, it has been divided into four sections; the reading lawn (as she always called it, despite being a rectangle of grass no bigger than a bed), the orchard (which consisted of just one apple tree), the vegetable patch (which is a little unsightly), and the potting shed. The front garden may be pretty, but the one at the back of the house has always been practical.

My mother takes organic to the extreme, and started to grow almost all of her own food after my father disappeared. She’s a big believer in foraging, and would often disappear into the woods, always knowing exactly where to find edible mushrooms, berries, seeds, and nettles for us to eat. She also makes honey.

I watch as she shuffles her way to the far corner of the garden, before lifting the lid off the old beehive. She doesn’t wear a mask or gloves, never has done, instead she just reaches inside with her bare hand. It used to scare me as a child, but then she taught me that if you trust the bees, they will trust you back. I don’t know whether that’s true, but she never got stung. She looks up at me looking down at her and waves. She seems OK to me. Maybe she doesn’t need whatever pills some doctor has prescribed and my ex-husband has encouraged her to take. Maybe the pills are the problem.

She disappears back inside the house and I return my attention to my old room. Not all of the memories it reawakens are welcome. I’m drawn to the wooden jewellery box that was a gift from my father, the last one he ever gave me. It is engraved with my name on top and was a souvenir from one of his many work trips.

I feel the four symmetrical letters spelling out the name he gave me, and push down hard on the wooden shapes, until they leave an imprint on my fingertips. Then, when some form of morbid curiosity prevents me from resisting any longer, I open the box. There is a single red-and-white friendship bracelet inside, along with a picture of five fifteen-year-old girls, one of whom used to be me. I put the photo in my pocket and the bracelet on my wrist, then leave everything else exactly as it was.

A thought occurs to me then which stings, so much so I wish I could unthink it: Mum always kept my room nice like this in case I might come home. She’s still waiting, and it breaks my heart a little to know how much my distance must have hurt her.

Something about the old Victorian fireplace catches my eye. Our house was always so cold growing up – my mother refused to turn on the central heating unless the temperature was below freezing – so open fires were often the only way to keep warm. I remember the last time I used mine, but it wasn’t for heat. I burned a letter that nobody should ever read.

The bedroom door bursts open, making me jump, and my mother appears, wearing her warmest smile and carrying two cups of honeyed tea. Her face changes as soon as she sees me, and she drops them both, pieces of china and a pool of steaming liquid forming a murky puddle on the wooden floor. She stares at the fireplace, then at the friendship bracelet on my wrist, then she takes a step back and looks genuinely afraid. I barely hear the words she whispers.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘Nothing, Mum. I was just looking at my old room, like you said I should—’

‘I’m not your mum! Who are you?’

I take a step forward, but she takes another step back.

‘It’s me, Mum. It’s Anna. We were just talking downstairs, do you remember?’

Her fear morphs into anger.

‘Don’t be bloody daft! Anna is fifteen years old! How dare you set foot in my home pretending to be her! Who are you?’

This is the sort of behaviour Jack had described but I didn’t believe it. Her face is twisted into fear and hate and a mother I no longer recognise.