The Broken Ones (11 page)

The next page is a photograph of me, Mum, and one of her boyfriends. Bob? Bill? Frank? They all had names like that. They were usually married, so I don’t expect to see many more photographs of them. Sure enough, the rest of the album is a mishmash of awkward photographs of me on a rare day out to Blackpool, or taking part in some sort of school event, or Mum drinking wine and smoking with the girlfriends she used to fall out with every week. There is the occasional boyfriend, nearly always bald and burned from holidays in Spain or the sun bed. There aren’t any photographs of me after the age of about fifteen.

We barely celebrated birthdays when I was growing up, and we never had a big dinner on Christmas day. I suppose it hasn’t really hit me—not until this moment—how strange that was. But what stands out the most are the missing photographs, which would have happened right around the time I was born. There are no baby photographs of me at all. There’s nothing until I’m at least six. Where have they gone?

I’m searching, but I don’t know what I’m searching for. Yes I do: evidence. I need to see it for myself. I need to see my mother faking the extent of her illness and doing these things to hurt me. I need the proof. At school, I can’t wait to open my laptop and plug in my headphones so I can listen to the file from that night. I listen to it while I watch Mum over the camera feed. I listen to that voice over and over, imagining her leaning towards the recording device and hissing out that rasp to fool me.

You will know me.

Maybe that’s what it means, her final reveal. I get to see the true vileness of her nature. I get to know who she really is. What’s her secret? Betrayal? Murder? All kinds of dark thoughts flit through my mind when I think about the missing photographs, the shredded clothes, the voice in the night.

At night, I take my laptop to bed with me and keep a bottle of wine on my bedside table. I watch the cameras and sip my wine and almost will my mother to act suspiciously. One night she actually does get out of bed. I get so excited I spill Chardonnay all over the bed sheets. It turns out she’s going to the toilet. But the interruption in her sleep causes confusion, and I find her asleep on the landing. I have to wake her up and take her back to bed. At first she doesn’t know who I am.

At least, that’s how she acts.

Back in my classroom, I put my head on my hands and rub my tired eyes. What am I thinking? She’s had tests and scans. There’s no doubt that Mum has Alzheimer’s. But there is a chance that she’s making it seem worse than it is, pretending that the disease is progressing faster while she’s actually still relatively lucid. All to drive me insane before the dementia washes her clean.

The bell rings, and the students filter out for lunch. It’s only at that point that I realise I haven’t set them any work for the last twenty minutes. I’ve been sat at the front of the classroom, staring at my computer screen, while the children talked amongst themselves. I watch Chloe follow the rest of the students out of the classroom and don’t even have the energy to worry about her anymore.

When the door opens and Moira walks in, I quickly shut down my laptop and smile, hoping it doesn’t appear too fake.

“Good lesson?” she asks. “It sounded pretty boisterous in here.”

“Oh, yes, it was a great lesson today,” I lie. “Everyone was having a lot of fun. We were acting out scenes from
Romeo and Juliet
.” I hope my bright red face isn’t an obvious indication of my inability to tell a convincing lie.

“Good, good.” Moira’s sensible heels click against the classroom floor as she walks towards the first row of desks. I usually straighten up the classroom while the kids are at lunch, but I haven’t bothered today. Chairs and desks are askew. I watch her trace a finger over the backrest of a chair with a pattering heart and a dry throat.

She pulls one of the chairs away from the front row and drags it towards my desk. She sits on the chair and leans over my desk, giving me a pitying smile followed by a sympathetic head tilt.

“How’s your mum doing?”

I feel like this is going somewhere. In fact, I know it. I pull at the sleeves of my top, nervously searching to give my hands a task. “The disease is progressing more quickly than I’d hoped. And we’ve had some problems with the nurses. We recently had to switch to a different nurse, which has been a difficult transition for her.” I fail to mention that there’s a possibility I’m being stalked by my own mother.

“And what about you? Are you okay? Are you coping?” The head tilt moves to a more severe angle, and her smile appears to freeze.

Irritation creeps up my skin, prickling at my nerves and making me grit my teeth. “I’m fine.”

She straightens her neck at last. “Are you sure, Sophie? I want you to be completely honest with me, because this is important.”

“Honestly, I’m fine. I’m tired, of course, and I’m stressed. But I’m still on time every day. I know I missed a couple of days, but term is almost over and I can catch up on sleep and get myself sorted out for next term.”

“Good. That’s good. Because, well, quite honestly, we’ve had some complaints from the other members of staff. And a couple of parents.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“Your class has been a bit disruptive recently. You’re making a lot of noise. And you’ve missed playground duty a couple of times. Also, some of the students haven’t had their homework back for a few weeks, and their projects have gone unmarked.”

“I… I know I’m a little behind, but…” There’s no end to that sentence. She’s right. I have let things slip. It’s not the students’ fault that my personal life is falling apart or that I’m a mess inside. “I had no idea it had got this far.”

“Sophie, you seem exhausted. I hate to point it out, but you do look a mess. We’re all worried about you because we care about you. Okay? If you want to take the rest of the term off for stress, we can find a substitute teacher to fill in for a couple of weeks. That way you’ll have a long rest during the summer break and you can come back right as rain for next year. How does that sound?”

“I… I don’t…”

“Why don’t you have a think about it today and meet me tomorrow lunchtime for a chat? I’ve already got an agency on hold in case this is what you’d like to do.” The chair scrapes across the linoleum as she stands. “We want what’s best for you. I hope you know how valued you are.”

But as she leaves the classroom, all I can think is that the words sound empty.

*

To top off my day, a withheld number calls my mobile phone repeatedly until I turn it off altogether. As it happens, I’ve never been watching the camera feed when the phone rings. It’s always been at times when I’m driving or have my phone in my bag, so I can’t say for sure it isn’t Mum at least some of the time. It could also be Peter, or anyone else for that matter.

At the end of the day I find myself stalling. I take my time rearranging the classroom. I mark a couple of maths questions from the test I set the students this afternoon. I glance at my sparse lesson plan for tomorrow, which I should have fleshed out but haven’t bothered with. And then Alisha walks in.

“Hey, Soph.” She wrings her hands together and stands awkwardly a few feet away from me. That’s not like Alisha. She’s a hugger. She’s someone who has no clue about personal boundaries. That was one of the things I liked about her, the fact that she would always be close to me, always liberal with little touches and kisses on the cheek. After a lifetime of coldness, her warmth was refreshing.

But not today. All that warmth has gone, leaving us with a huge gap where our friendship used to be.

“Did you know the head was going to have a little ‘chat’ with me?” I ask, not bothering to keep the venom from my voice. “Were you one of the staff members who complained about the noise coming from my classroom?”

“No. No, I didn’t complain, but I did say that I was worried about you—”

“What?”

“Hear me out, okay? You’ve not been talking to me much recently. In fact, you’ve barely spoken to anyone. You’re always cooped up in this classroom, staring at whatever is on that damn laptop. I thought we were friends, but you’re shutting me out of everything. I want to help you.” She takes a step forward, holding out her hands. The pleading expression on her face makes me turn away.

“Then find a way to support me, because every time we talk, all you do is try to make me dump my mother into a nursing home.” As I say the words, I realise they have become an instinctive defensive reaction and nothing more. I’ve changed so much over the last few months that I no longer desire to help Mum. No. That’s not why I want to keep her at home. It’s because I want
answers
from my mother. I want the truth. But Alisha doesn’t know any of that, and I can’t tell her. If I tell anyone, they might think I’m even crazier than they do right now.

“Sophie, I’m sorry I… Oh, Sophie. Don’t cry.”

But I’ve finally cracked, and I don’t know how to patch myself back up. I fold into Alisha’s arms and sob on her shoulder, letting at least some of it out while holding a little back because I worry that if I let it all out, I’ll never stop crying.

“We’re broken,” I whisper as the sobs finally begin to calm. “We’re both so broken, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I’d do anything to make you realise that you can’t keep this woman in your life. Anything,” Alisha says.

*

I turn down an offer of a cup of tea and head to my car, even though the tea is more than tempting. I want nothing more than to sit with my friend and chat. I want to talk until my jaw is tired. I want to offload everything that’s pressing me down. But I can’t. This weight is for me to carry alone, and I can’t shed it until I’ve found out that last piece of my past. It’s only Mum who can provide that, but I have to get it out of her gently before she shuts everything down forever. Sometimes I wonder who is hunting whom. There are times when I feel like an animal stuck in a trap—and there are other times when I feel like a hunter stalking a dangerous wild animal, treading softly through the forest.

“You’re late.” Susanne speaks with her lips moving around the cigarette dangling down. She lights the fag as she bustles out of the door.

I’m almost sad to see her go, because while she’s here I don’t have to be alone with Mum.

“I can’t stand that woman.” Mum appears in the doorway between the hall and the living room as I’m taking my shoes off. “She smells like an ashtray.”

“You used to smoke,” I remind her. “I thought you wouldn’t mind the smell.”

“Well, I do. What happened to the other one, the one with the piercings? I didn’t like her much either, but at least she didn’t smell as bad.”

“We upset her,” I reply, without going into much detail.

“Young girls scare too easily these days. We’re made of tougher stuff.” Her gaze travels up and down my body. “Well, I am, anyway. You look terrible, by the way.”

I pass her in the doorway and head into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. “That’s because I have you to look after and a job to hold down.”

“Oh, I’m a burden, am I? Why don’t you throw me in a home, then? Condemn me to death, like I know you want to.” Her eyes sparkle. She’s found something to fight against, and that’s what she loves more than anything. “Just let me die and have done with it.”

I lean against the kitchen table, digging my fingernails into the wood. The heat spreading over my skin is daring me to let it all out, to scream at her, tell her what she’s done to me over the years, to accuse her of driving me mad as she plays on her illness as cruelly as she can. I want it more than anything. My fingernails dig harder until the tips of my fingers are in pain.

We stand there, squaring off. Two women with irreparable damage spreading out like a canyon between us. She stands with her shoulders wide, arrogant, almost daring me to fight back, like she has my entire life. The only difference is that her sardonic smile—the one that spreads across her face when she realises I’m too chickenshit to stand up to her—never comes. There’s only a wariness about her. I’m not acting as beaten-down and pathetic as usual, and that frightens her.

When the phone rings, we both start. But for me, it unleashes a molten pot of boiling rage. All I can think about are the missed calls and the constant texts from Peter. I’m sick of being bothered.

I snatch up the receiver and bark down the phone. “Leave me alone!”

Only instead of the heavy breathing that I’ve come to expect, a meek female voice replies, “Is that Sophie Howland? I’m so sorry to bother you. My name is Eileen Woods. I’m Peter’s mother. I think we need to talk.”

Eileen is the kind of woman you expect to find in a library stamping books. She has a meek mouse appearance, complete with thick-lensed glasses and short greying hair set in loose curls around her face. She waves to me as I enter the café. When I frown in confusion, she explains that Peter showed her my profile picture from the dating website.

“I know my son is a complicated man.” She fidgets in her chair, as though the words make her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry if he’s been bothering you. He tends to latch on to people. But you should know that he’s harmless.”

I keep stirring my tea to waste nervous energy. “Are you sure about that? Someone broke into my house. I left a bag of clothes on my step for a charity, and someone cut them to shreds.”

Eileen leans back, her eyes wide with shock. “That doesn’t sound like Peter at all. He’s never done anything like that.”

“That you know of,” I point out.

“Yes, that’s true.” She breaks a cookie in half and stares at it. “He’s always been an odd duck. I know people are always afraid of loners. I tell myself that my Peter wouldn’t be one of those men who end up on the news, that he would never hurt a fly. But that’s what they all say, don’t they? The mothers.”

“Why did you want to meet me?” I ask.

“I try to reach out to anyone Peter might have latched on to. I want them to know that he has someone in his life who is here helping him. He’s loved.” She smiles, and the warmth is genuine. For a brief moment I actually believe that this woman could prevent her troubled son from hurting anyone.

“He’s not violent,” she insists. “All he’s ever done is call the women he tried to date. He calls them a lot for a while, and soon enough he gets bored.”

“And moves on to the next one.” I lift an eyebrow to illustrate how odd his behaviour is.

“I’ve tried to stop him going on these dates,” she says. “But he gets so lonely.”

“I’m sorry, but I think your son needs help. He needs to speak to a professional.”

“Oh, he has, in the past. He’s a little autistic, you see. He can hold down a job okay, but none of his relationships have ever worked out.”

I cringe at the thought of this lonely man growing old without a companion. Of course I feel sorry for him, but I’m afraid, too, of what that can do to a person. What happens when Eileen dies and he’s left completely alone?

“Have any of these women had a restraining order taken out against him?”

She sighs. “Yes. One. It was a few years ago, and I must say that he’s much better now. But at the time, he started following this woman. You see, things progressed further with her than anyone else.” Eileen’s lips pursed. “She was what I’d call a loose woman. Poor Peter thought he was in love this time. He kept turning up at her house long after the woman had broken off the relationship. But he was nearly physical with her.”

“Did he ever vandalise her property?” I ask.

“No, never.” She shakes her head firmly.

“Look, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Peter is the one who cut up my clothes. I think something else is going on there. But he has been calling me a lot, and if you could get him to stop… It’s just that I’m under a lot of stress at the moment.” Embarrassingly, my voice cracks.

“Oh, you poor love.” Eileen delves into her handbag and produces a packet of tissues. “After your coffee, Peter mentioned that you had a sick mother to care for. I wasn’t sure if it was true, or…”

“It’s true,” I reply. “She has early onset dementia. It has taken quite a toll, and with these phone calls and everything else…”

Eileen leans forward and squeezes my arm. “Say no more. Don’t you worry about my son. I’ll take care of it.”

On the way home, I can’t help wondering what my life would have been like if I’d had a mother like Eileen. Someone to pass me tissues when I was upset, to call me “love” and make me cups of tea.

I head back home to quickly pick up some extra marking before school starts. Eileen had agreed to meet me at 7:30, before we were both due at work. But as I pull up the car, Susanne is storming out of the house yanking a cigarette from her packet.

“She’s tapped, that one,” she calls out.

With the front door wide open, Mum stumbles out onto the drive in her bare feet.

“Don’t you ever come back, you whore. I know you stole him from me.”

I’m not sure what to address first, so I turn to Susanne. “What’s happened? You know she gets confused. She has Alzheimer’s.”

“Yeah, that I can deal with,” Susanne replies as she attempts to light her cigarette. “But punching me in the face? Throwing her cup of tea at me? Look at this bruise! How the old bird has the strength, I don’t know. This is a hostile working environment. Your mother needs two people around at all times. I need to go home.”

I sigh, completely deflated at this next turn of events. I can’t argue with Susanne, not when the shadow of a bruise shines along her left cheekbone.

“All right, you go. I’m sorry that she hit you. She’s not been in her right mind.”

“That’s the thing,” Susanne says. “She wasn’t even confused at the time. She was plain old mad at me for getting her tea wrong. That woman was a cruel, stone-hearted bitch long before the Alzheimer’s.”

I open my mouth to defend her. That’s what I do. I defend Mum’s behaviour. I’ve done it my entire life. But not anymore. I’ve changed. The part of me that has been chained to her my entire life is now free.

There is no way to defend her, so I shut my mouth and let Susanne go.

“Come on, Mum. It’s just you and me now.”

*

After getting her settled, I pick up the phone and call the school, requesting that they put me through to the head teacher.

Moira’s voice is as clipped and no-nonsense as always when she replies. But I detect a slight tone of pity as she uses a higher register and speaks more slowly than usual. “Sophie. Is everything all right?”

“That offer for sick leave—is it still on?”

“Of course,” she replies.

“I’d like to take it. And I’d like it to start today.”

I tell her about the nurse, about Mum’s assault, and how I have to stay with her all day now. She’s calm, patient, and kind with me, traits that I’ve never expected from her. When I disconnect the call, I know I should be relieved, but I’m not. Aside from the sadness, I feel cheated, as though a gift has been snatched from my fingers. All my life I’ve felt uncomfortable in my own skin, as though I’m not truly who I say I am. That’s the real reason why people avoid me, and why most of my friendships and relationships have fizzled out. I think Jamie saw that in me but was attracted to it. Attracted to my insecurity.

But being at the school gave me an identity. I was Miss Howland. I was well-liked and respected by my students. I’m a good teacher, confident in what I do but not unpleasant about it. Now that’s gone—at least for now—leaving me feeling like a lost teenager with no direction in life.

“I’ve wet myself.”

I turn around to find Mum standing in the kitchen holding her crotch. The air is filled with the tang of urine. Mum’s bare feet are in the centre of a puddle of pee, her skin covered in the urine.

“That’s all right. It’s only a little accident. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I help her up the stairs. She’s frailer than ever before, and tears wet her nose. I pity her. But most of all, I wonder if this woman, this bent over, piss-stained person, could also be the same person who’s been stalking me and driving me crazy. She drank bleach a few weeks ago. She forgets my name and forgets the name of her nurses. She wet herself and needs help getting into the bath. How can this be the same person sneaking around the house cutting up my clothes and hacking into my email account?

I bundle up the soiled clothes and put them straight into the washing machine while Mum soaks in the bath. Then I clean the pee from the floor and disinfect everything she touched. Then I help Mum back out of the bath, dry her off and help her into a nightgown. All the while, she calls me Mummy.

This will be the only time I hear that word. Uttered by my own mother. Yet, even in this dark moment, they make my stomach ache for a little girl to say them to me.

After I get Mum back into her bed, I slip downstairs, run the taps to fill the sink, and cry until my eyes are sore.

I want that ache to go away. I want, more than anything—more than I want to know the dark secret in my past—to feel whole. Because I never have felt whole. I’ve always felt as though a part of me is missing.

When the breakfast pots are cleared away, I take a glass of water up to Mum.

She sits upright in bed when I see her. For once, there’s a bright smile on her face. I set the glass down on the bedside table and watch as she opens the top drawer and takes out a bottle of pills.

“Look, Sophie—I’m taking them all at once, like you told me to,” she says.

I watch as she opens the pill bottle and takes one out. She slips it into her mouth and swallows it down with the water. Then she takes another pill from the bottle and opens her mouth to take it.

I snap out of my trance. “No! Mum, no. Don’t take that. I never told you to take all the pills at once. Don’t ever do that.”

With shaking hands, I remove the bottle of pills from her fingers and leave the room.