Out of Control

Chapter 23

This time Fiona’s sleepless night wasn’t Joe’s fault. It was her indecision over Rob. If she contacted him again to find out more about his reparation idea there was the risk of spotlighting difficult memories and plunging herself back to that dark place she’d inhabited thirty years ago. And there was the risk of releasing additional complications into her relationship with Joe: he accepted, but wasn’t over the moon about, her close platonic friendship with Meeko, so how would he feel about a friendship with her ex-husband? To turn it the other way, how would she feel if Joe was choosing to meet with Rose even if there were no children to keep them close? She would definitely be wary of such a friendship. But if she resisted Rob’s pull then she wasn’t opening up new compartments to see where they might lead her. As dawn broke, she determined the only way to get some proper perspective on the previous evening was to go for a run and catch Meeko at breakfast. Joe was still breathing heavily at her side. Fiona crept downstairs and took her phone from the charger. There was a text from her mother, sent at 4 a.m.:

The days are long and empty. The nights are even worse. Would really appreciate a visit?

The guilt was like a brick wall toppling onto her. She’d got so wrapped up in her own life that she’d hardly spared a thought for her mother, who, in contrast, had so little in her life. If only it was possible to transplant half of her complicated situation to her mother. The old lady would love to get her teeth into the web of problematic people and connections that was fastening itself tightly around Fiona.

She sidelined the run and went straight into the shower instead. Beneath the pummelling of hot water, she remembered Adele’s agreement to extending a baby shower invitation to her grandmother-by-proxy. That would earn Fiona brownie points. Her mum would be delighted and, as the messenger, Fiona could bask in the glory of the invitation. It might go some way to mitigating the disaster of that awful date with Tony.

As she closed her eyes and massaged coconut shampoo into her scalp, Rob’s face came back to her. Two versions of her ex-husband, old and young, separated by a huge question mark. The correct, self-preserving action would be to shred his business card and to stay away from him at any club events. But even as she was resolving to do this, Fiona knew she couldn’t follow it through. There were too many questions. The only way to properly come to terms with the events of thirty years ago was to get everything out in the open. Rob’s ‘reparation’ might be the key to doing that. And finding peace of mind over Amber would give the relationship with Joe a better chance.

Joe. She rinsed the shampoo and reached for the similarly tropically-scented conditioner. Joe. He’d sidestepped the question when she’d asked about his early arrival last night. Maybe this was how long-term, live-in relationships worked and she’d have to get used to factoring in the needs of another person in all her arrangements.

When Fiona went back into the bedroom, he was in his boxer shorts and hunting through the single drawer in her chest that she’d allocated to him. She pulled her towelling robe more tightly around her. “Why did you come early for me last night?” she tried the question again.

“I couldn’t remember what time we agreed.” He was still searching for something.

“It’s not hard to remember a single instruction for a few hours.”

“Maybe not for you, little Miss Organised.” He paused in his hunt and looked up. “To be honest, I was tired after a long day at work being nice to patients who produce every excuse under the sun for not sticking to the exercises that would strengthen their knees, ease their spinal discomfort or increase the flexibility in their hips.”

Fiona didn’t like the emphasis on the words ‘at work’. He was muddying the waters with resentment at her early-retired status. She’d saved to retire early and wasn’t looking to him for financial support. If anything, it was the other way around.

“Did you allow Rose any freedom?” she snapped back at him. Then she was angry with herself for letting her confusion over Rob wind her up and make her react in this way.

Joe stared at her. “Rose wasn’t like you. She enjoyed her family.”

“Excuse me! You and Adele aren’t actually my family and have only recently parachuted in.” Fiona tried not to think about the family she might have had, if things had been different thirty years ago. She collected her clothes and went to get dressed in the bathroom.

* * *

Still angry, she rapped sharply on the front door of her mother’s flat. Then she realised she had to tame her mood — none of this was her mother’s fault. She took some deep breaths and listened for her mother’s footsteps; usually she was at the door within seconds, either eager for company or ready with some admonishment for her only child. Today there was silence. Fiona knocked again. Nothing. The old lady must have gone out. Fiona hadn’t responded to the early hours text to say that she was on her way — another little bit of organisation that had slipped through her fingers because there was too much other stuff going on in her life.

On the brink of walking away, she changed her mind. She’d come here to earn brownie points and get some positivity and goodwill into at least one of her relationships. The key to her mother’s flat was on the ring with her own house keys. She unlocked the door. The hallway was as neat as ever but there were no slippers by the door and no sign of the old cardigan that her mother wore around the flat in the winter but always took off and hung by the door before she went anywhere public. The little backpack which served as a handbag was still on the hall table. Fiona suddenly felt cold.

“Mum?”

No response. There were four doors off the hallway: kitchen/lounge, bathroom, ‘jigsaw’ room and bedroom. All of them were ajar. Fiona wanted to run away, scared of what she might find. “Mum?”

The bed was neatly made. The bathroom was empty. That left only one room. Fiona steeled herself and walked into the open-plan kitchen/lounge. The breakfast washing-up was on the draining rack and her mum was in her usual armchair, eyes closed and head lolling to one side. Steeled for the worst, Fiona walked closer, eyes on her mum’s chest. The old cardigan was rising and falling slowly. Fiona’s own chest sagged as the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding escaped her lungs. It was always at the back of her mind that one day she would find her mother’s body. It was inevitable, as she was the person who visited most and had a key if the door wasn’t answered. If the warden called and got no answer, Fiona suspected she would initially give her mother the benefit of the doubt and then, after a certain time period had elapsed, call Fiona and ask her to go in and check. No one wants to find a dead person.

“Mum! Wakey-wakey.” There was a smudge of saliva on the old lady’s cheek. Fiona gently shook her mother’s shoulder.

“Uuuh . . . what . . .” The older lady opened her eyes, blinked several times and then re-joined the world. Relief cascaded through Fiona. “I must have nodded off. I had a terrible night’s sleep so I got up and had breakfast at five.”

“You sent me a text, remember? Asking me to visit?”

Her mum sat up straight, picked up her glasses from the table and put them on. “So I did. I’ll make tea.” She pressed her hands into the arms of the chair, ready to push herself up.

“No, I’ll do it.”

In the kitchen Fiona breathed deeply. For a few seconds she’d thought this was the day she’d been dreading, and now a weird kind of elation had taken over. One day it would happen and perhaps it would be a blessing if her mother was taken overnight and quickly. But it would also be catastrophic — Dorothea’s death would leave Fiona orphaned, childless and without siblings. For a few seconds she panicked. Then an image of Meeko with his twinkling eyes and dimples came into her head, followed by the thought of the other compartments which were slowly opening. Joe would be there. And Rob had offered a possible olive branch. Maybe she could even build a relationship with Adele when they weren’t jostling under the same roof. All she had to do was stay open to the possibilities. But she still hoped her mum had a few more years yet.

Fiona warmed the teapot with scalding kettle water, spooned in tea leaves and flicked the switch to bring the water back up to the boil again. She popped a slice of bread in the toaster in case Dorothea was peckish again after such an early breakfast, and then spread it thickly with butter and marmalade. The pair of them rarely saw eye to eye but they were all each of them had.

Dorothea was back to her usual alert self when Fiona carried the tray into the lounge.

“Oh, you are a good girl!” Her mother went straight for the plate of toast and Fiona basked in the rare words of praise.

“I’ve come with an invitation, Mum.” The older lady looked towards Fiona’s handbag as if expecting an envelope to be handed over. “Not a formal one — that’s not how young people do things nowadays. You remember I told you about Joe’s daughter, Adele? She’s having a baby shower for all her female friends and you are invited.”

Dorothea’s face had lit up at the mention of an invitation but now it frowned into confusion. “A baby shower — don’t they have those plastic baths anymore? And why invite people to watch? The baby hasn’t been born yet, has it?”

Fiona fought to keep a straight face. “No, Mum. Baby showers are American, like trick or treating and Black Friday. It’s a party to celebrate the impending birth of the baby. It’s an excuse for presents and frivolity. Sometimes it’s used to announce the sex of the baby.”

“And she wants me to come?”

“Yes.” There was no need to say it had been Fiona’s idea to invite Dorothea.

“I would like that very much. Should I write a note of acceptance? What present should I bring? Me and you will need to go shopping. And what should I wear? How formal is it?”

“Too many questions!” Fiona smiled at her mother’s enthusiasm and imagined a gaggle of twenty-somethings writing out precise invitation acceptance cards in fountain pen ‘a la Jane Austen’. “A note is not required. There’ll be no formality. Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable in a room of strangers. I’ll get gift vouchers for us to give her jointly.” Fiona remembered the supermarket trip. “I bet her friends will go for cute little outfits but what she really needs is the practical stuff — like a plastic bath — but she hasn’t thought about that yet.” Fiona added an item to the list she’d started in her notepad app. Lists on the go, rather than pinned to the fridge, were new to her but were the only way to stop her head exploding with the baggage that Joe and Adele had brought.

Dorothea dabbed at the toast crumbs around her lips with the kitchen roll that Fiona had put beneath the plate on the tray. “A party to go to! And a new baby coming! And a granddaughter-by-proxy! I can hold my own at the coffee mornings now. I was thinking . . . for Christmas, could you get me one of those phones, like yours? I want to show photos around like everyone else.”

“Absolutely.”

Again her mother’s face lit up with pleasure and, for once, Fiona felt that she was achieving her mother’s high expectations of what a daughter should be.