I swallow and keep my voice smooth, even though my nerve endings are ablaze, my flesh crawling with trepidation. ‘I’ll be there within half an hour.’
‘Thank you,’ Amanda says, the relief in her tone evident. ‘Half an hour sounds good. The sooner, the better, Grace. The sooner, the better.’
18
Amanda is standing at the door as I pull up and swivel my car into a space designed for a vehicle half the size of my large SUV. I manoeuvre it in and somehow squeeze out of the door then barrel across the car park to where she is standing, arms folded, her face creased with concern. The look she gives me turns my insides to water. Eyes narrowed, a groove in her brow, she looks every inch a troubled woman. Beyond the automatic doors, I can hear the wails and screams of a frenzied resident. I don’t need to ask who it is. Nothing would please me more right now than to turn and walk away, to get in my car and just drive. To keep on driving with no destination in mind. Anywhere away from here. Anywhere away from what I am about to be faced with. Instead, I smile, do what I can to appear calm and controlled when I am anything but.
‘I am so sorry, Grace. I wouldn’t usually ring you, especially this early on a morning but our usual tried and tested methods don’t appear to be working with her.’ Amanda gives me a meek smile and I almost weep for her. She looks tired, her deep brown eyes full of shadows. I wonder if my mum did that to her – embedded the creases in her otherwise beautifully smooth skin. I suspect so but then remember that Mum isn’t the only resident here with violent tendencies.
I also wonder how often they call on family members as a last resort because their usual procedures don’t work. I pray I am not the only one, that my mother isn’t alone in causing them these kinds of issues. The idea of being the daughter of the most aggressive person here fills me with a deep sickness. What happened to the sweet, caring lady she once was? The stoic woman who endured so much, complaining rarely, loving always?
I used to hear her, though, weeping at night for her losses, for the husband who fell, for the child who never came back, the sound of her crying escaping through the walls of her bedroom, filtering into my room, making me wish there was something I could do or say to right the many wrongs that had been thrown her way. I was a child, helpless, unable to do anything except be the best version of me that I could be to help make her life that little bit easier. The last thing I ever wanted to do was heap more misery onto our ever-shrinking family.
And now here she is, utterly helpless, often out of control, locked in a place she doesn’t recognise with people she barely knows. I swallow down the lump that sticks in my throat at the thought of Mum’s lot in life. I hope that deep in the part of her that still understands what is going on in the world around her, that she is happy, that she realises this is the best place for her and that neither Kim nor myself are trained to deal with her wants and needs, her unpredictable rages, her physical demands. She is fast becoming incontinent and her medication needs to be administered three times daily.
‘It’s not a problem,’ I say, forcing myself to listen, bracing myself for whatever is happening on the other side of those doors. The yelling and shouting continues: the wail of a tortured woman, a desperate woman locked in a mysterious, strange world, robbed of everything she loves and once held dear. I wince, swallow hard and attempt a half smile.
Amanda bites at her lip and nods. ‘Come on,’ she says, our gazes locked in a second of mutual understanding. ‘She may just stop once she sees you’re here. I’ll explain what happened once we’re inside. We can talk on the way.’
‘It started last night,’ Amanda tells me as we head down the corridor to Mum’s room. ‘We decided to take a small group of our residents out into the garden. They love feeding the chickens. Your mum isn’t so keen, but we thought she might appreciate a bit of fresh air before supper. She got a bit agitated when we first took her out but then seemed to calm down. Rochelle took her for a walk around the garden, showed her the roses coming into blossom. She was fine, quite perky actually, and then suddenly, she completely freaked out, started clawing at the chicken coop and screaming. It took three of us to drag her away and even then, she somehow wriggled free.’ Amanda stops talking, sneaks a glance at me before continuing. ‘She dropped to her knees and began pulling up huge clumps of soil with her bare hands. She tried to push herself underneath the coop, kicking out at anybody who was nearby. We had to get the other residents back inside before anybody got hurt.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ My words come out in a rush. I don’t know what else to say.
‘Don’t be sorry, Grace. Your mum is ill. This isn’t her. Always remember that. Dementia stole your mum a long time ago.’ Amanda stops walking, turns to me and smiles. Every smile is gratefully received. Every kind word and gentle reassurance. I need them all, like a baby craving comfort from its main caregiver.
We are here, outside her room. The noise coming through the wall is an unearthly shriek. I shiver, swallow down my reticence and fears, wishing I had magical powers, any kind of ability to stop this horrid sound.
‘Has she been like this all night?’ I can’t begin to imagine how she has found the energy to do this. Surely not all night?
‘She’s slept on and off. Half an hour here, an hour there but every time she wakes, it’s with a scream. Usually, when she sleeps, she forgets what happened the day or even the hour before she nodded off, but it seems that whatever is bothering her now is still fresh in her mind. I must warn you,’ Amanda says cautiously, her hand now resting on the door handle, ‘that the room is in a bit of a mess. She overturned the cabinet and has tried to push the wardrobe over. I didn’t want to get her sectioned, I really didn’t. For the most part, your mum is settled here but last night, something set her off and no matter how much we tried, we just couldn’t calm her down. We administered a sedative but it didn’t work, which is when we decided to ring you.’
I nod, my heart beating fast as she turns the handle and we step inside. Even with Amanda’s pre-emptive speech, I am nervous, unprepared, unsure of what I am supposed to do, how I will wield the few skills I have and use them to calm her down.
The room is as bad as I expect, the noise just as disruptive. Mum’s wails bounce off the walls. In the corner sits Rochelle, her eyes as wide as saucers, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She is sitting near Mum on the bed, a safe distance between them as Mum’s arms lash out, pushing and slapping at thin air.
I step forward. Amanda remains in the background, her figure framed in the doorway, watching me closely as I attempt to halt this terrifying tirade.
‘Mum. It’s me, Grace.’
A sudden silence. Heavy breathing. I’m not sure who it’s coming from. There is so much tension and fear in the room, it’s hard to distinguish who is doing what, what is coming from where. The hostility radiating from Mum is palpable.
‘Am I okay sitting down?’ I pick up an overturned chair and gently lower myself into it, making sure I keep my movements slow and non-threatening. My eyes follow Mum’s as she scans the room, her anger and suspicion so thick, I can almost taste it.
‘They’re dead. They’re all dead. But he’s still here, you know. He’s still here!’ Her voice is hoarse from all the shouting, her words gravelly and rasping. Part of me thinks that sectioning her would have been the right thing to do. She would be cared for by people who are better qualified than I am to deal with this situation. What if she tries to attack somebody? What will I do then? What if I am the one on the receiving end of her fists? Something tells me she wouldn’t do such a thing, but I don’t know that for certain. Right now, I don’t know anything.
‘Hi Mum. It’s me, Grace.’ I hold out my hand and slowly place it over hers, keeping my touch as light as possible, as if her sensing me touching her will rupture this moment. I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb while leaning forward to get closer to her. It’s paper thin, her skin. As dry as sand. A sour, stale odour is emanating from her body, the stench of frustration and fury wafting close to me. The stench of a woman locked in a world full of secrets and misery with no means of escape. ‘What’s happened, Mum? You can tell me what’s upsetting you. I’m here to help.’
Silence punctuated with the growl of her heavy breathing. Then, ‘You need to find him. He’s still here.’
She begins to rock, a slow, deliberate movement that reaches a crescendo as she moans and lets out a high-pitched scream. I seize the opportunity and wrap my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. I’m taking a chance here. I have no idea whether it will calm or enrage her. I just know that it is the right thing to do. The only thing.
I take a breath, wait to see what her reaction is going to be and my whole body relaxes, crumpling with relief as she succumbs to my coaxing and begins moaning, a soft, rhythmic sound, the screams now melting away, replaced by a childlike whimper that tugs at my heartstrings with such fervour, I struggle to contain my tears.
Her body goes loose. She is weakening, her resistance waning. Then a sudden heaviness as exhaustion takes hold, her tiny frame leaning against me for support. The whimpering stops, is replaced by a stream of sentences, a tiny whisper like the murmuring of a small child but loud enough for me to hear every word. I push my body closer to hers, shush her and stroke her hair, resting my chin against her scalp, inhaling the scent of her, hoping, praying that Amanda and Rochelle don’t get the gist of what it is she is trying to say.
‘I did it. I killed him. I did it. I killed him. I did it. I killed him.’ Over and over, her voice a murmur, sing-song like until she eventually stops and sinks into my solid embrace, sleep taking her to a place where she will be safe.
‘This is the longest she has slept in the past twenty-four hours. I don’t think she’s going to wake now. Why don’t you get yourself off home? We’ll give you a call if anything else happens and we can’t placate her.’ Amanda is standing next to my chair, her body casting an elongated block of grey over the bed where Mum is slumbering silently.
I nod and stand up, afraid the slightest noise will wake her and we end up back into the same situation. That nightmare scenario where Mum’s past came leaking out, our family secrets aired in public.
Leaning down, I kiss her forehead then step back, keen to let her rest. I hope she is resting properly, her body allowing itself time to heal and forget, not tortured by nightmares and images from the past that won’t leave her be. Her words from earlier bang against my brain. Nausea sits in the pit of my stomach. I think about Amanda’s reassurances, telling me that Mum has dementia and nothing she says or does is representative of the woman she used to be. This isn’t my mother speaking. It’s the disease, that’s what it is.
And yet I cannot shake the feeling that something awful is going on here. Wasn’t I the one who told Kim that Mum’s words always contain a grain of truth? Why should this be any different? If that is the case, then I don’t want to think about what she said only a few hours ago. I want to ignore everything that comes out of her mouth and shut off to any ideas about my own mother being involved in Simon’s disappearance. It’s nonsense. On this occasion, she is completely confused, her brain too scrambled to even begin to comprehend what she is thinking or saying. Words. That’s all they are. Words tumbling around her head, coming out in the wrong order, senseless and anachronistic. They are meaningless, throwaway comments from a demented, old woman.
‘Please ring me if she deteriorates again.’ I almost mention calling Kim but decide against it. I cannot see my sister handling our mother with the care and compassion she deserves. There is too much fire in her, too little compassion to manage any of this with sensitivity. Despite Mum’s temper and ongoing rages, she would be no match for Kim’s cool and often ruthless manner. Kim affords her few cuddles, the very thing that brought Mum out of this latest rage.
‘I hope we never have to, but it’s good to know you’re only a phone call away. And thank you. A secure unit isn’t the right place for your mum. She’s better off here. I’m just relieved she eventually calmed down.’
I nod my agreement and despite my warmth towards Amanda and her team, I am keen to go home, to leave this place and its memories behind me.
The drive back to Woodburn Cottage allows me enough time to unwind, to forget her words. I play my music loudly, think about my latest manuscript, about Gavin coming back to England, about anything but what has just taken place. Because thinking about it compounds my problems. I can’t take the word of a demented woman and worse than that, even if I could, I can’t do anything about it. So I do my best to forget.
19
