The Nurse(10)

I pictured my big happy, smiling father, in his car, dying alone. That he was dead was horrifying, that he had died alone, far from those he loved shattered me. One of the officers had gone into the kitchen. I could hear him opening and closing cupboard doors. Was he making tea? It seemed such an odd thing to do, but then what did I know? Maybe a cup of tea would make everything all right, reset the world, make the death of my father seem normal.

The other officer, he who had given my mother the bad news, was sitting in the chair opposite her. I thought he’d forgotten about me, but then he glanced my way and I could see the panic in his eyes. It drew me over and I sat on the sofa beside my mother. She was staring directly ahead, barely blinking. She didn’t turn to look at me, to comfort me, or to share our grief.

The officer got to his feet and knelt in front of her, shaking her gently. I could have told him there was no point. I could have explained about the cycles of neglect and indulgence – how she’d found it so hard to cope with my father’s absence that she’d struggle for one long day, turning inward and barely noticing the world around her, including me. I could have explained that it was only the thought of my father’s impending return that made her resume living.

I reached for her hand, prised it away from the grip of the other, and held it. There was no life in it, no warmth. She’d gone away and this time she had no reason to return. My father had left her for good. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her that I was worth staying for, that I was still here. In desperation, I tugged on her hand, but her whole body swayed and her eyes remained fixed ahead.

‘Do you have a doctor we can call?’

‘Yes.’ I released the hand I held, watched for a second in dismay as it immediately sought the other and her fingers were once more entwined as if I’d never parted them. I brushed tears from my eyes and went out to the hall table. An address book, filled with my mother’s neat writing, was kept in the drawer. It held the details of everyone we knew. Flipping it open to the correct page, I handed it over without a word.

While the officer made the call, the other came through with a laden tray. He’d used the fine china tea service my mother kept for visitors. She’d have been horrified at the way he had the cups stacked together. I was tempted to reach out and separate them to keep her happy, then realised what a stupid thing it was to consider. My father was dead; nothing was going to make her happy again.

The officer had obviously emphasised the urgency of the situation because the GP arrived less than thirty minutes later, a concerned look in his eyes.

‘Mrs McColl,’ he said, dropping his bag on the floor and taking my recently vacated seat on the sofa beside her. ‘You’ve had bad news. I’m sorry for your loss.’ He reached for her hand, moved his fingers over her wrist. Checking her pulse. I wonder could he tell from feeling it that her heart was broken.

‘She hasn’t moved and has barely blinked since I told her the news,’ the officer said quietly.

The doctor nodded. ‘She’s always been,’ – he hesitated as if searching for an appropriate, politically correct word – ‘a fragile woman. Mr McColl was her strength. His death is going to be hard for her to deal with.’

They encircled her, the doctor and the two officers, looking at Mother with so much sadness that I wanted to scream, what about me? I was only sixteen. My father was dead. My mother had left me. The cycle of neglect and indulgence I had lived with for so long had finally been broken – unfortunately, it had stopped with the hand pointing firmly at neglect.





8





When all the doctor’s attempts to get my mother to speak, move or react in any way failed, he made several phone calls, then took me into the hallway. ‘I know this is hard on you, Lissa, but I’m worried about your mother, and I think the best thing to do, is for me to admit her so she can get specialist care.’

The burden of everything, my father’s death, my mother’s breakdown – even with my limited knowledge I could see this is what had happened – they pressed down on my shoulders, and I staggered under their weight. ‘Specialist care?’

‘A private psychiatric clinic. They have agreed to take her.’ He looked back through the door to where she sat. ‘I think it’s the best place for her. The only issue would be the cost.’

‘That won’t be a problem. Get the best treatment for her. There’s plenty of money.’ I said it with such authority, he let out a sigh of relief. There was no point in my enlightening him. I had no idea how our finances stood and doubted if my mother did either. We’d always had enough for whatever we needed – and Mother needed this.

‘Good, I think the sooner she’s seen, the better.’

I left him to make more phone calls, and returned to sit beside Mother and hold her hand. The police officers could have told the doctor, had he asked, that I was too young to give consent for my mother to be admitted to a private clinic. At sixteen, I couldn’t enter into a legally binding contract, but I didn’t expect there to be a problem.

I squeezed my mother’s hand and told her what was going to happen. ‘You’re going into a private clinic for a little while. Just to help you get better. But don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ I’d have liked to have had a reaction, some sign of regret for leaving me to cope with the horror of my father’s death all alone. But there was nothing.