Chapter 24
FAYE
There’s a moment on the drive over to Mum’s house when the satnav turns into a jumble of lines with no real meaning. I am holding the steering wheel, but I am losing my grip on where I’m headed. The road in front of me no longer seems familiar. All I know is that it has no ending, and no beginning.
The feeling is fleeting but disturbing and when I come back to myself I pull over, drink some water and eat a protein bar.
The wine and late night are taking a toll on my body today.
Not to mention the embarrassment I felt after being sick in front of Alistair.
He laughed it off and helped me to bed, but still, I felt like a teenager at their first party.
I suppose that’s better than feeling ancient like I do a lot of the time.
Lists cover every surface of my home and important dates are circled in bold red pen on my calendar.
The fridge is covered in shopping lists.
Sometimes I tally up what’s inside and scribble it on a Post-It note on the fridge to save me checking more than once.
I’m supposed to live a quiet life of routine, but I keep ignoring that to go out on dates with a younger man and spontaneous dawn walks.
Maybe this is why the disease is progressing more quickly than I expected.
Do I really want to smoke weed with Alistair on the patio and stay out drinking wine after midnight?
Or do I want to keep hold of myself for longer?
That’s the balance – grasping hold of those joyous, spontaneous moments or sacrificing them for months or even years of maintaining the status quo.
Once the fog shifts and my confidence returns, I run my fingers along the veins of the roads tracked out on the map and put the car into gear. When I reach Mum’s house, it feels like an achievement to be celebrated.
She’s sitting with a crossword when I arrive and seems even more frail than the last time I saw her. Slumped forward, her chin almost reaches her chest. But she lifts her head as I come in through the door.
“Is that you, Faye?” she asks, squinting through her thick lenses.
“It’s me, Mum. I brought you those biscuits you like, with the caramel inside.” I take her hand and squeeze it.
“Ah, you found your key then?” she says.
I start opening the packet. “I never lost it, did I? Why would you think that?”
“Because when you came, you knocked and said you’d lost it.”
I pause. “When was this?”
“Two days ago,” Mum says.
“I didn’t come two days ago,” I say. “This is my first visit for over a week.”
Mum shakes her head. “No, you came two days ago, and we talked about your adoption again. Although given what you said, I understand why you might want to pretend you never came.”
“What?” I mumble. “No, that’s not right. I didn’t come on Monday.”
Mum sighs. “Why would I make this up?”
“Why would I?” I retort.
We both fall silent, staring at each other. Mum adjusts her glasses. My heart thumps against my ribs. The room is too hot, too stuffy, and the smell of air freshener is overwhelming.
It’s Mum who breaks the silence. “Perhaps you forgot. I… I know that can happen with…”
“With dementia,” I finish. Then I laugh. “Maybe we’re both losing the plot.”
“Maybe,” she says, but she doesn’t smile.
In an attempt to clear the tension and reset, I go into the kitchen, make two cups of tea, arrange the biscuits on a side plate and walk back in with a smile. She’s gripping the arm rest of the chair with her veined hand.
“I wasn’t wearing my glasses that day,” Mum says. “You asked Sally next door to take them into the opticians. Remember? There was that crack on the left side.”
“Right. Yes, I remember.”
“But it was you. It had to be.” Her voice begins to sound doubtful. “You had a cold, didn’t you?”
“What?” prickles shoot up the back of my neck. “I haven’t had a cold at all.”
“Hmm,” she says. “You sounded a little congested before. My eyes though…”
“Listen to me now, I sound fine, don’t I?”
“Yes, I suppose you do.”
“What did I say to you that day? Did we fall out?”
Mum’s fingers tighten around the arm of the chair.
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “You told me that I made a mistake adopting you. That your father and I were selfish people who didn’t think about the consequences of our actions.
” She pulls in a deep breath as though steadying her emotions.
“It came as quite a surprise, as you can imagine. I’d never…
I always thought…” Her voice begins to break.
“Mum, I don’t think those things and never have!” I say quickly. “Even if it was me… if I came here and left without knowing I did, I promise you, I don’t believe that for a second. If it was me, then it was the dementia talking. It can mess with your mind and even make up its own narrative.”
I think about the case studies I read online. Sons and daughters dealing with parents who change the history of their whole lives in the fog of their illness. Again, I thought I had more time, I was sure of it…
I stand, needing to do something with my body. Pent up anxiety powers my legs as I pace around the room.
“I remember all of Monday. I swear I didn’t come.”
She doesn’t reply with words, but raises an eyebrow instead. I sit back down.
“I spoke to a social worker at the adoption agency. They said I weighed less than six pounds when I was born. Did you know that?”
“No,” Mum says. I hear the surprise in her voice. “You were over six weeks old when we adopted you. They did say you were a little underweight and to take you for regular check-ups but they didn’t mention your birth weight. We were so wrapped up in you that we didn’t think to ask.”
“So, you don’t know whether I was premature or… or just small?”
She shakes her head.
For her this chapter is closed and has been for many years.
But for me it’s wide open. And now something strange has happened yet again.
There’s a possibility that someone came here pretending to be me.
I was busy writing on Monday, I haven’t had a cold and I can’t imagine being so cruel to my mum.
It seems insane but once more my mind drifts to the possibility of a twin.
But this feels like an attack, a violation.
As we drink our tea, I make small talk and I try to steer the conversation towards something more positive.
Mum doesn’t deserve to deal with my unhinged distractions, she needs peace and calm in her time of life.
I help her do some washing, trim her nails and then promise to bring Penny with me next time I come.
I put a good face on it, but the whole time, I feel like two people.
One person sitting here smiling through the tasks, the other desperately searching for someone through an abyss, screaming out a name unknown.