I look away and she hesitates while choosing her next words, as though regretting sharing the last ones.
“What happened?” I ask, still not quite able to look her in the eye.
“Oh, they were very nice about it. But they did insist on calling the police. I had Jack’s number written inside my bracelet. They called him and he told them that he was the police, as well as my son, so they let him come and pick me up.”
I stare down at the silver SOS Talisman bracelet on her wrist. A gift from me last year to ease my own guilt—she was involved in a minor car accident and nobody at the hospital knew who to call—but for some reason she now has his name, and his number written inside instead of mine.
“You do know that Jack isn’t your son, don’t you? He used to be your son-in-law, but we got divorced, so he isn’t that either anymore. Do you remember?”
“I know. I might be a bit forgetful, but I’m not senile! I still think it’s a shame; you were good for each other and he’s been good to me. He made me go and see a doctor.”
“And?”
“I don’t want you to worry, love. There are lots of things that can slow down dementia now; sadly they seem to slow me down too. I’m so tired. That’s why the place is a little disorganized. Jack thinks it might be time for me to move on, get a bit more help, and I think he might be right. Most days I feel fine, but then sometimes … I don’t really know how to describe it. I just seem to disappear. There’s a residential care village not too far from here; it really is quite something. I’ll still have my own place, just with a few gadgets and gizmos to call for help if I need it. People to keep an eye on me when I lose myself.”
Part of me knows I should feel gratitude, but all I feel is a growing anger inside me.
“Jack should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I could have helped.”
“He was here, my darling. That’s all.” She doesn’t need to add that I wasn’t. “Anyway, while you’re here, why don’t you pop up to your old bedroom and see if there is anything you’d like to keep. I was hoping you might pay a visit before I needed to start on it. Go on, you go up and I’ll finish making the tea. I’ll add a splash of fresh honey the way you used to like it.”
“There’s no need, Mum.”
“Let me do that for you. I can’t do much else.”
I reluctantly head up to my old room. Even the narrow staircase is littered with clutter; mostly dusty books and old shoes. She was never good at throwing anything she had once loved away. I also spot a few Christmas presents I have given her over the years, things that she’s never used that are still in the boxes they came in, including a mobile phone I suspect she never even opened, an electric blanket, and an electric kettle. I should have known. The landing is the same: a cardboard obstacle course obstructing my path to the bedroom at the back of the house. The one that was always mine.
I don’t know what to expect, and reach for the door with a certain amount of dread, but when I open it, I see that my room is exactly the same as it was when I moved out. I was sixteen when I left and it’s as though time has stood still in here. I take in the sight of the dark wooden furniture, the homemade floral curtains and matching cushions, the shelves of books, and the desk in the corner where I used to do my homework. There is a folded-up piece of cardboard still wedged under one leg to keep it steady.
Unlike the rest of the house, which appears to be covered in a thick layer of dust, everything in here is perfectly clean. The bed linen smells recently washed—even though I haven’t been to visit in such a long time—and the furniture isn’t just spotless, it’s been recently polished. A faint whiff of Mr. Sheen still in the air. On the dressing table I see a familiar perfume that I was fond of as a teenager—Coty L’Aimant—and spray a little on my wrist. The scent brings it all back, and I almost drop the bottle, before wiping away the residue of a memory I’d rather forget.
I notice movement outside again, and peer out of the little back window that overlooks my mother’s beloved garden. For as long as I can remember, it has been divided into four sections: the reading lawn （as she always called it, despite being a rectangle of grass no bigger than a bed）， the orchard （which consisted of just one apple tree）， the vegetable patch （which is a little unsightly）， and the potting shed. The front yard may be pretty, but the one at the back of the house has always been practical.