The Broken Ones (5 page)

“That’s okay,” he says without hesitation.

“Look, I know you were hoping to meet again, but I’m really… sorry… I… umm. The thing is, I have too much going on right now. I’m pretty much caring for Mum full-time and—”

“I don’t mind,” he interrupts. “I live with my mum too. I think it’s great that you take care of her.”

“Right. And that’s nice of you, but I can’t fit
anything
else into my life right now.”

“What are you saying, Sophie?” I might be being oversensitive, but it sounds as if his voice has taken on an icy edge. He’s annoyed.

“I’m saying that there won’t be a second date. It’s nothing to do with you. You’re very… nice. I can’t… I can’t date right now.”

When he next speaks, it’s as though he’s talking through gritted teeth. “Then why did you complete the dating profile in the first place?”

I’m taken aback. I didn’t expect this level of hostility. I knew he was a bit odd, and the phone calls were quite intense, but now I’m actually worried. “It was nice meeting you, Peter.” My voice betrays my nerves with a slight tremor. It’s physically uncomfortable for me to deal with confrontation. “I have to go now.” And in a quiet voice, I add, “Please don’t call me again.”

I hang up, hurry through to the living room to check Mum is still asleep, then I boot up my laptop and sit at the dining table. My heart is still beating quickly as I delete my profile from the dating website. Then I lean back in my chair and try to process what just happened. Maybe I’m overreacting. He didn’t threaten me. There was nothing about
what
he said; it was
how
he said it that disturbed me.

My bones ache when I stand up to make a cup of tea. The shrill sound of the house phone startles me, and a jolt of anxious energy shoots up my spine. I place a hand on my chest to calm myself. It’s probably telemarketing.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I scratch the back of my arm. Gooseflesh spreads over my skin.

“Who’s there?”

Still nothing.

“Peter?”

The caller hangs up.

I place the phone back down on its base and step away. There are so many questions in my mind, but the one that stands out the most is: was that Peter? And if it was Peter, how did he get my home phone number?

“Who was that?” Mum’s face is slack and puffy from her slumber. She rubs sleep away from the corner of one eye and frowns at me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “They hung up.”

“Probably one of those people selling PPI insurance or whatever it is,” she says.

It’s odd to see her so lucid after a nap. She’s usually confused. But this disease is so variable. She has good moments, bad moments, good days, bad days… I can’t keep up.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “It was… I don’t know.”

Her eyes narrow. “What’s the matter with you? You’re all pale.” She takes a step towards me, and I try not to cower as her eyes scour my face, inspecting me for clues. She loves to guess when something is wrong, because she loves to be right. “You know who called.” The corners of her mouth twitch up, half smiling.

It’s amazing how one hard glare from my mother turns me into a ten-year-old girl who squirms as she forces the truth out of me.
Who threw stones at the car, Sophie? Tell me. It was the neighbour’s kid, wasn’t it? You’re covering for him.
I cringe away from her, expecting those strong fingers to wrap around my arm and drag me through the house, then storm next door and bang on the door. I can feel her fingernails digging into me. I close my eyes and swallow, forcing the memory away.

“I don’t know for sure,” I say when I’m composed.

“Well, whoever it is, they’ve given you the heebie-jeebies. Come on, then. Spit it out. Who is calling our house and hanging up, and why are you scared?”

“Peter,” I blurt out. “The man I met from the dating website. I think it’s him, and I don’t know how he got our home number. I only gave him my mobile number. He’s been calling me a lot, but I thought he was a bit over-keen but harmless. Then, when I told him nothing was going to happen, he sounded quite… angry.”

She sucks in a long breath and straightens her back. Her fists clench at her sides, and I take a step back. “You
stupid
girl! I told you not to meet anyone from the internet, didn’t I? I warned you this would happen. But, no, you never listen to your mother.” I go cold all over as I watch her spit the words. As always, her body is completely still as her head shakes and nods with anger. Her eyes are wide now, and the sagging skin of her cheeks wobbles as she becomes more and more agitated. “You’ve been nothing but a little idiot all these years. Going against everything I say and
failing
at everything—”

“That’s not… I haven’t failed… I’m a—”

“Did I say you could speak?”

There’s a moment of complete silence where I shut my mouth and wait.

Then she continues, more slowly, more deliberately. “You’re nothing but a magnet for morons. What was that dumpy fool called? Jimmy?”

“Jamie.”

“Of all the men you could choose, you went with that fat little man. I told you from the beginning that he was a loser, didn’t I? But you let him trample all over you like the good little doormat you are.” She laughs. “Of course, with that chin, you can’t hope for much more than an egg-smelling fatty like
Jamie
.” She imitates my voice as she says his name.

I find myself staring at my feet, like I have my entire life. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes. In the past, I’ve broken down completely and begged her to stop. But I know now that these outbursts are inevitable. Whenever she’s stressed about anything, she takes it out on me. If I can just take it, if I can let her get all this vitriol out of her system, it’ll stop, and I won’t have to worry about it for a little while.

“Get a haircut and stop dressing like an eighty-year-old librarian and you might actually find a fella.” She snorts. “Didn’t I tell you how, years ago? Didn’t I show you? I could have any man in the village if I wanted.” This was perhaps true ten years ago, when Mum was still an attractive forty-five-year-old woman. Also, she’s already
had
nearly every man in the village. Her affairs are the worst-kept secret in Eddington. “How did I raise you? How did you end up this frumpy prude who needs the
internet
for a date and only attracts perverts and idiots? What did I do as a mother to deserve a daughter like you?”

The last sentence hangs in the air. It’s nothing I’ve not heard before, but the vitriol always surprises me. I shut my eyes and a memory floats into my mind.

It’s afternoon in winter, and the low setting sun floods the kitchen. I’m young, only six or seven years old, waiting for my dinner. Mum is banging pots and pans, shouting at the gas stove, which won’t work. The room is freezing cold, and I’m wearing a thick jumper. Mum swears, and I stare down at my fingers, trying to block out the bad words. Then she spins around and stares at me. Her eyes are cold. She speaks in a cold voice. “It was never supposed to be you. You’re not the daughter I deserve.”

I open my eyes, but she’s gone.

“Mum?”

There’s the sound of keys jangling.

“Mum!”

I rush through the living room to see the door yanked open. “Mum, no!”

Her back disappears into the street. I hurry, calling after her, but she’s quick. Narrow-shouldered, petite, and swift on her feet as she dashes out into the street. I watch in horror as the car comes towards her. She stops in the middle of the road and turns towards the car. There’s a screech of brakes. I stop. Then I start again, running towards her. Her hands are out in front of her face.

“Mum? Are you all right?”

There’s the slam of a car door. “She ran out right in front of me!”

I put my arm around Mum’s shoulders. She’s crying, wetting my blouse. “I know. I’m sorry.” Mum feels frail beneath my touch. Her shoulders are bony and rigid. Old bones.

“What was she thinking?” the driver says. I get a good look at him now. He’s young, with a stubbled jaw and mousy hair.

“I’m really sorry. She has dementia.”

He falters. “Oh, I…”

That’s right. There’s nothing to say. I open my mouth to respond, but I find nothing to say, either. I guide my mother back into the house.

“I may not be the daughter you wanted,” I whisper to her. “But I’m the only person you have to care for you now.”

I don’t know if she hears me.

*

Night comes quickly. After the incident in the street, I make us a sausage casserole. Mum is silent throughout the entire meal. Afterwards, she looks at me and smiles, but it seems as though she’s remembering someone else. Someone from her past. Then her eyes regain focus and she frowns, her hand held up towards my face as though she’s going to stroke my cheek.

I take her up to bed and helped her into her nightie.

“You have to check the wardrobe for the shadow,” she says.

Dutifully, I open the wardrobe doors and shift the clothes to the side so that I can check every corner.

“Mum, what is this ‘shadow’? You keep mentioning it, but you won’t explain what it is. Why does it seem familiar to me?”

Her mouth gapes open and then snaps shut. She shakes her head. Her eyes are so piercing that I know she’s found a moment of lucidity. “I don’t know what you mean. There is no shadow. It doesn’t exist.”

I sigh. “Good night, Mum.”

“Yes,” she replies.

She rolls onto her side and places her head on the pillow. I switch off the light and head downstairs to pour a large glass of wine.

From now on, I know I’ll need to keep the house and car keys away from her. That’s one more thing I’ll need to think about every moment of the day.

I gulp down a little wine, replaying the moment the car was hurtling towards my mum. My heart beats faster and a sense of dread works its way up my body. But it isn’t the fear of losing her that causes it. It’s the thought I had when I saw that car coming towards her. It was only fleeting. Yes, only a split second. But it was there, and it was too loud to ignore. I can’t pretend it never happened, even though I’d like to.

I thought, for one brief, tiny instant, that if the car kept going, if it hit my mum—if that car had mowed down my mother right in front of me, everything would end. She would be gone. She would no longer be suffering with this disease, with the pieces of her mind disappearing bit by bit.

And I would be free.

In my dream there’s a mirror without a reflection. I press my hand to the mirror. It’s cold, rigid. A small crack forms from the place my fingertip touches the glass. Gradually, the crack spreads across the surface as I watch in utter fascination, following the lines with my eyes as they form narrow veins. Those lines expand until the glass begins to shatter. I step away, finally pulled out of my trance, saving my hand from a multitude of cuts. I’m out of harm’s reach, but I experience pain anyway. It comes from my stomach and radiates out, crushing me from the inside. That’s when I realise I’m hollowed out. I’m broken up. I’m as shattered as the mirror with no reflection.

When the pain ends, the sensation that someone is watching me sweeps over my skin, as light and ticklish as the bristles of a paintbrush. I shudder from its touch, dragging my nails over my flesh.

There’s darkness behind me. I sense a presence, and that presence is familiar, but I don’t know why. I start to turn. Slowly. Gradually. I need to know who is behind me. The desire is instinctual. Primitive. It’s as vital as breathing. The need claws at my intestines, demanding to know this presence. But this is where the dream ends, with my body half-twisted, my chest rising and falling in anticipation, and the whisper of darkness reaching out to me but not quite finding me. This is where I wake.

I open my eyes. My skin is slicked with sweat. It’s slippery and cold when I rub the dreams from my eyes. The alarm blares and I lash out, tangling my hands in the bedsheets. It’s 6am and my day has begun.

I find my phone and switch off the alarm. Then I swing my legs out of the bed and heave my weight up. Despite eating less and less each day, I feel heavier. It’s not body fat that’s weighing me down, it’s stress. It’s the knowledge that I’ll spend another day worrying. The pressure of caring for my failing mother is dragging me down, and I can’t deny it any longer.

At least the soft cotton of my dressing gown is comforting. I walk across my room and open a window. There’s a bitter scent in the air. Perhaps it’s my body odour from the nightmare. Perhaps it’s the basket of laundry overflowing from neglect. The morning breeze is fresh and pleasant on my skin. I could linger here for another minute, maybe three or five, but I can’t. I need to get ready.

My feet drag across the carpet on my way out of the room. When did my steps slow to a crawl? I used to be swift. On school trips, my pupils complained that they couldn’t keep up, but I’d tell them not to dawdle because there was so much I wanted to show them. So much art, so much literature, so much technology.

The door shuts behind me with a firm
clunk
. The handle of Mum’s door is cold, and it triggers an image from my dream, of my fingertips pressing the glass of the mirror. I shake the image away and open the door.

The smell hits me first. It fills the room. Vomit. Then I hear her. I hear the strangled sound coming from her throat, like a growl bubbling through soup. Her skin is waxy and pale. There’s foam seeping between her lips and a spray of food on her pillow. My hand rises to my mouth as my stomach lurches. My mother is choking on her own vomit.

I stop breathing. I don’t move. The temperature in the room seems to plummet. I stand there in my dressing gown, listening to that strangled noise. Then her head tilts towards me and her bloodshot eyes open. I spring to action, turning my mother onto her side, opening her mouth and performing the disgusting task I would not wish on anyone—clearing her airway of the vile mixture clogging it.

“It’s all right,” I soothe. “Stay on your side now.”

I hurry back to my room, pick up my phone, and dial 999. Then I go back to Mum and watch her suck in air as though she is reborn.

There’s no denying it. I hesitated again. I almost let her die.

*

I sit next to her in the white room. The brightness is blinding and unnerving. The hospital smells are making me claustrophobic and uncomfortable. The seat is hard and my back aches against the cheap plastic, but I wouldn’t be able to relax anyway, not when Mum is lying wan and thin in the bed beside me. There’s a tube coming from her arm, to “hydrate her”, the doctors say. One of them approaches me now, holding a file and not smiling. I stand to greet her, shake her warm hand, and then step back to wrap my arms around my unsupported chest.

“Ms. Howland?” she says, emphasising the “Ms”. She seems like the kind of woman who has everything together. She’s probably five or six years older than I am—judging by the grey in her dark hair and the wrinkles around her eyes—but it feels like a generation. She holds herself with confidence. I imagine that she’s the mother of brilliant teenagers who will ace their GCSEs in a year or two. She’s the kind of woman I always assumed I’d grow up to be. Someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed by bills and dating profiles. “I’m Dr. Masood. I’ve been taking care of your mother this morning.” She glances at my pyjamas with a frown.

“My mother’s carer is bringing me clothes,” I explain. “It was all a blur when the ambulance came this morning.”

“Quite,” she says. “Well, that’s good that you have help. You mother is suffering with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, is that right?”

“Yes,” I say. “Diagnosed a little over a year ago. She’s progressing very fast. She’s been quite confused lately. She has better days, though.”

“I’m sorry to hear that she’s progressing through the disease at such a fast pace. Unfortunately, it’s not an uncommon occurrence for patients with early Alzheimer’s.” She pauses. “Has your mother hurt herself in any way? Or shown a desire to hurt herself?”

“No,” I say. “Although I did find some bruising on her arms. She said she didn’t remember how it happened. Well, that’s not strictly true. She said it was a shadow. She’s been mentioning it a lot, this shadow. She says it hides in her room.” I try to let out a small laugh to lighten the mood, but it comes out callous.

“Right,” the doctor says. She glances down at her file and then back at me. “It appears that your mother drank some bleach. It wasn’t a lot of bleach, but enough to make her sick.”

“She… what?”

“Sadly, patients with dementia as severe as your mother’s do display strange or odd behaviour. It might not mean that she intended to hurt herself, but it could be cause for concern if anything like this happens again. You did the right thing. You acted with a cool head and saved her life. We managed to get to her before there was any permanent damage done from the bleach or from the lack of oxygen. Well done. You should be proud of yourself.”

I think of that terrifying moment when I stood there and watched my mother struggle to breathe. I don’t think I deserve any sort of praise. I should not feel proud. In fact, I want to throw up. I want out of this stuffy room with the flickering strip light and IV drip.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Masood asks. “You’re a little pale.”

“It’s been quite a morning,” I admit. I try to swallow, but my mouth and tongue are arid.

“Are you coping well? I know how hard it is to care for a patient with this disease.” She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s a small “there, there” gesture from a no-nonsense woman. “I’ll bring you some literature just in case. There are charities that can help.”

I accept her help with thanks, but I can’t imagine that she’ll bring me anything I haven’t read already.

As she leaves, she turns around and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll be discharging her as soon as her vitals are back up and she’s rehydrated. Your mum will be home with you soon.” She flashes me what I believe to be a rare smile and disappears into the long stretch of hospital corridor.

The moment she’s gone, my knees fold under me. I clutch the back of the visitor’s chair to steady myself. There’s the tang of bile at the back of my throat, threatening to lurch out of me. My head is light, my vision blurry. My stomach roils at the realisation that the doctor thinks I’m so anxious to have Mum home when only hours ago I hesitated before helping her. I watched. It was only a fragment of time, but I watched her choke.

What kind of a person am I? What kind of a daughter? Mum has her faults, that can’t be denied, but she never gave up on me, and she never abandoned me. She fed and clothed me, and now here I am doing the same for her—and I almost let her die?

I’m a monster.