September #2
‘She was upset,’ said Peggy, giving up on waiting any longer and pouring the weak tea into three mugs. ‘You know how she laughs it off sometimes, or tries to come up with an excuse?’
With a wince, I thought of her blaming the fact that she’d forgotten what she’d said about Noah on having too much to drink. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, this time she didn’t. I could tell, just from looking at her, that she was worried. After that, she wanted to go to bed. I didn’t want to stop her, or press the issue, so …’ She trailed off and added three splashes of milk.
‘And this morning?’
‘What?’
‘Has she mentioned it?’
‘It’s like it never happened.’ She picked up a teaspoon and started stirring, the watery liquid turning pale.
When Peggy went home, I suggested to my mother that we go for a walk on the beach. I’d always found it easier to talk to her in motion. That way, if the conversation became stilted, we could simply walk, free from eye contact, looking out at the sand and the sea.
That day, I found myself sneaking glances at her as we walked, searching for clues, something in her appearance that would tell me what she was thinking.
There was a breeze, but the sun was shining, and we were plenty warm enough, bundled up in coats and wellies.
The rubber of one pair – I think it was mine – was squeaking.
We’d brought with us a flask of tea, and cheese and pickle sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil.
My mother had a tartan blanket tucked under the crook of one arm.
‘How’s Noah?’ she asked, after a while, scanning the dunes for a suitable lunch spot.
‘He’s good,’ I said, touching my fingertips to my phone, nestled in my coat pocket. He would be up in the air by now, I thought, drinking the first of several Bloody Marys, his favourite thing about a long-haul flight. ‘Actually, he’s on his way to New York ; he’s teaching there this term.’
She kept walking but turned her face towards mine, her mouth open with expectation.
‘It’s OK,’ I said, ignoring the empty pit in my stomach and parroting what he’d said about it only being a couple of months. ‘And besides, it’s a good opportunity for me to spend some more time with you.’
‘Well, as long as you’re happy, then lucky me,’ she said, smiling.
I let go of my phone and smiled back.
‘Here we go,’ she said, gesturing to a sheltered patch overlooking the sea. ‘You sit down.’
I smiled as she shook out the blanket and joined me, stretching it across both our legs, the way she used to do when I was little. She held out a couple of plastic cups, and I poured some tea, the liquid piping hot and letting loose swirls of steam.
‘Sandwich,’ I said, handing her a small, silvery parcel.
‘Sandwich,’ she repeated, nodding.
As we sat there, listening to the waves rocking softly against the shore, I tried to work out how to approach the subject of her forgetting, what it was I should say.
I looked left and right ; as far as I could tell, we were the only ones here.
It struck me that I should have checked if confronting her was the best course of action, and again I fingered the phone in my pocket, wondering if I could get away with a quick search.
Very occasionally, back when we lived together, Anna used to sleepwalk, and I remember her telling me I mustn’t wake her up if she did. But this was different, wasn’t it?
By the time I’d plucked up the courage, the crinkle of her tinfoil told me she was done eating.
The September sun was warm on our faces, and when she leant back and rested her head against a grassy dune and closed her eyes, I did the same.
She sighed, a cheerful sigh. Relaxed, content.
I scrunched my already shuttered eyes tight, taking a mental picture of the moment.
I remember the feeling of fatigue sweeping over me, limbs softening, thoughts becoming clouded, but I don’t remember falling asleep or how many minutes had passed by the time I woke.
I was starting to feel the cold – especially my fingers, without gloves, clutching at my tinfoil ball, the skin pallid.
I turned to my mother to ask if she was cold too, to suggest we head home. That’s when it happened.
‘Mum?’ I tossed away the blanket and scrabbled to my feet.
The patch of sand beside me was vacant, the only sign of her being there a few tufts of grass lying flat rather than poking up towards the sky.
I looked out towards the waves, which were rocking harder against the shore now, but not as hard as my heart was thumping in my chest.
‘Mum?!’ I called her name louder this time.
I scanned the dunes then ran out into the middle of the beach. Looked one way, and then the other. I saw nothing. No one.
A far-off ship, maybe, swelling clouds, empty air.
I called her name again. And again.
Back to where we’d been sitting. Up into the dunes and over the edge, facing out towards the marshes between the beach and the house. More nothing, until something. There. A man, walking this way.
‘Excuse me!’ I ran towards him, heart thumping harder still. ‘Have you seen my mother?’
‘Your mother?’
‘She’s about my height, wearing a navy-blue Barbour and green wellies.’
His eyebrows lifted. Surprise? Pity? Judgement?
News headlines of distracted parents flashed before my eyes. Parents losing track of their child. Getting caught out by the tide.
‘Is that her?’
My eyes followed his pointing finger towards the house.
Another figure, walking in the opposite direction.
‘Mum!’
I was running again.
By the time I’d caught up with her, I was out of breath and tears were streaming from my face. ‘Mum.’ I hugged her. ‘Are you OK?’
For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Tears slowly welled in her eyes, which looked a lighter amber in the daylight, with less noticeable flashes of green. She pursed her lips together in the sort of tight smile that I knew from experience wasn’t genuine.
‘Mum, talk to me.’
It took another moment for her to say, ‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, Mum.’ I held out my arms and she clung to me. I held on tight, then I stroked her back, remembering how soothing I used to find it when she did the same to me when I was just a child.
‘I’m frightened,’ she said, her voice uneven, the way it often sounded when we were talking on the phone and she was busy gardening or cooking. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ She was growing breathless.
‘It’s OK, Mum, we’re going to figure this out. Just breathe.’ I tried desperately to keep a lid on my own emotions as I put my hands on her shoulders. Each time her chest rose and fell I counted to three.
In her bulky coat, she looked even smaller than usual, with a birdlike face and petite hands and feet. As she breathed in and out, she peered down at the tips of her wellies, the green rubber lightly coated with grains of sand.
‘We need to call the doctor when we get home,’ I said, still holding on. ‘Are you happy for me to do that?’
She nodded, still staring.
‘OK, that’s good,’ I said, puffing out my cheeks. ‘Now, shall we go home?’
She looked towards the house and said, in barely more than a whisper, ‘I think that’s what I wanted to do.’
That night, sitting up in bed in my old room, with my laptop balanced on my knees, I read stories of dementia-driven wandering.
There was a woman who would leave her house in the middle of every night, and a man who was often seen walking in the road.
Some people wandered across borders ; others simply wandered up and down corridors.
One died, another mysteriously disappeared.
They were either bored, or curious, or they thought they needed to do the shopping or pick up the kids.
They were trying to get home – in some instances, even when they were at home, in their pyjamas, ready for bed.
I pictured my mother heading in the opposite direction, away from our house, towards the waves, in nothing but her thin cotton nightdress.
When finally I fell asleep, I dreamed of my childhood.
It was as if my mother’s forgetting had sharpened my own remembering ; that, or the quiet of the countryside made space for echoing memories drowned out by the thrum of the city.
Sights, sounds and smells of days spent on the beach once again stirred my senses.
A bumpy crab with a cracked shell. The slipperiness of seaweed.
The sting of a jellyfish on the sole of my foot.
My father’s gravelly voice trying to coax me into the ice-cold winter sea.
My mother lifting her dress up above her knees, so it wouldn’t get wet, watching the way the water rippled against her legs.
Her body imprinted in the sand. A Thermos of tomato soup and more sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, sunlight on silver.
I woke up to an email from Noah. It was short, but it said all there was to say.
He loved me. He was thinking of me, and of my mother.
He was only a plane ride away if things got too much.
I longed to talk to him, to be grounded by his voice, but I worried that in doing so I would realise just how much I needed him, and I had to be strong.
Instead, I wrote back saying that I could manage, I hoped the start of term went well, and I loved him too.
Before I forgot, I messaged Robyn to thank her for recommending the counsellor, and to say that I hoped she was doing OK after her disappointing results. I also called Anna, who sounded somewhat distracted until I mentioned what had happened and where I was.
‘Oh, Cathy, I’m sorry,’ she said, focused now. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘I don’t think so but thank you.’
‘Are you OK? Probably a stupid question.’
‘I am. I just feel …’ I shook my head, forced a small laugh. ‘Irresponsible.’
‘Cathy.’ She continued, warily : ‘You know this doesn’t mean anything?’
‘I know.’ There was no need for her to say what she meant by ‘anything’ – that losing my mother didn’t mean I would be an irresponsible parent.