Sometimes, I suppose, I fell into the same trap I had criticised Carol for – doing things for my sake rather than Mother’s. It was such a lovely day; I’d prefer to spend some of it in the home’s pretty grounds rather than being stuck inside. My dear mother never showed the slightest interest in going into the grounds, nor gave any sign of being happy or sad while we were outside. I stopped pressing down on her shoulder. ‘Would you prefer to stay here?’
That I even bothered to ask the question both amused and saddened me. How many years would have to pass before the faint glow of hope finally flickered and died? How many more times would I ask, and stupidly wait for her to answer? When she sat, with a suddenness that startled me, it would have been nice to have seen it as a positive action, her version of yes, let’s go. Nice, but foolish. She’d simply grown weary of being on her feet. Nothing more.
With a sigh, I settled her feet onto the footplates, readjusted the hat that had become a little askew, then headed from the room and down the long corridor towards the front door. It ran past the nurses’ station. By this stage, I knew the regular staff by name and expected to have to stop and have a word with whichever nurse was on duty that day. Polite meaningless words laced, on their side, with sympathy.
As we approached, I saw that I was in luck. The nurse was in conversation with the relative of another resident and I could slip past with just a wave. I would have done, would have smiled inanely, and pointed towards the exit. I might even have mouthed I’m taking her out for a walk. It was recognition that prevented any acknowledgement at all. The home rarely used agency staff, but it seemed they had needed to that day, and it was someone I recognised despite the smarter uniform. The lovely Jolene.
Jolene. Looking after my mother.
I wanted to storm over, grab hold of her and shake her till her bones rattled and her teeth fell out. I wanted to shriek until the manager arrived. Then I’d point a finger, tell of her neglect of Mr Wallace, and have her thrown out. But I could do nothing. I hadn’t reported her then, I couldn’t do now.
I kept walking, pressed the code on the security pad to open the front door and pushed my mother’s chair through.
The grounds of the home were criss-crossed with wheelchair-friendly pathways dipping in and out of the shade offered by some lovely old trees. Usually, I’d give a running commentary, where we were going and what we were seeing, as if Mother couldn’t see for herself. But meeting Jolene had thrown me. If only I could go to the manager and tell him my concerns, but what could I say? That I’d seen her neglect a patient in her care? His first question would be where? And his second, had I reported it? It would be awkward to explain why I’d been in the Lansdown house; it might open a huge can of lying worms. And his second question? I had sincerely felt sorry for poor Mr Wallace being left in Jolene’s care, but not enough to report her for it. Not until I saw her that morning, and realised my mother could be in danger from her neglect.
Mother was getting older, her immobility had repercussions that medication could slow but not prevent. If she became unwell, I’d stay with her of course. But I couldn’t look after her twenty-four hours a day. When I shut my eyes, I needed to know she was being cared for, that she was safe, and I’d seen what constituted care in Jolene’s eyes.
That the home rarely used agency staff wouldn’t prevent the need being there at any time. And there was no guarantee it wouldn’t be her.
I needed to ensure that could never happen.
35
It was a particularly nice afternoon with a blue cloudless sky, and it was warm enough without being sticky-hot. I pushed the chair around until we reached a bench overlooking the rose bed. It would be a nice spot to sit for a while, the heady scent from the roses a pleasant alternative to the chemically clean air of the home. A good place to linger and allow the irritation that had been simmering since I saw Jolene to fade. Only then could I come up with a plan.
The sun was breaking through the branches of the tree that had been giving us shade. I moved Mother’s chair a little, readjusted her hat, and shifted her arm away from a sneaky beam. ‘What do you think, Mum? What’ll I do with Jolene?’
If she had any opinion on the woman, she was keeping it to herself. I used to wonder, when she’d first disappeared into herself, if she’d wake up one day and tell me all the things she’d been storing in her head. All the opinions and the comments she’d wanted to make over the years.
All the words of love she’d saved up for me.
I pictured us, wrapped in each other’s arms, and weeping from a surfeit of emotion. All the love she’d saved up, it would envelop us, and I’d once more be loved as I had in those long-ago days of indulgence.
Such foolish thoughts. I stood abruptly. It was time to get going, supper, as they designated the evening meal, came on the dot of five thirty. When I visited, I helped her with her food and preferred to do so in the privacy of her room. It was more relaxing than sitting in the dining room among the other women, some of whom were not slow to criticise everything and everyone they saw. Especially someone new, which I, despite my frequent visits, still appeared to be. I had heard comments on my clothes, my hair, the way I sat, even the way I held the spoon I used to give Mother her food. I survived a few visits before requesting she had her meals in her room when I visited.
On our return, I saw the medication trolley in the corridor and heard Jolene’s voice drifting from one of the resident’s bedrooms. I smirked. Mrs Downs was notoriously difficult especially when it came to her medication. She took several tablets, and liked to be told what each was for. Every time. And then she’d make a huge palaver of taking them, coughing and spluttering over each one. She’d been a resident for several years and had become more entrenched in her ways with every year. Jolene would be with her for a while.
Officially, nurses were supposed to bring the medication trolley with them. Not leave it sitting unattended. Officially, but mostly we did exactly what Jolene was doing, lock the trolley, leave it in the corridor and go into the resident’s room. Lock the trolley. She wouldn’t have left it open, would she? She couldn’t be that careless. I stopped the wheelchair beside it. I could see Jolene’s back. Her posture was slightly stooped as she bent over the tiny frame in her blanket-strewn armchair and she was speaking loudly, as if Mrs Downs was deaf rather than pedantic and stubborn.
I rested my hand flat on the lid of the trolley, then slid my fingers to the edge and curled them under. With my eyes fixed on Jolene, I pulled upward, unable to believe my luck when the lid lifted. A plan came to me then, fully formed, and foolproof.
I’d seen the open trolley often enough over the years and knew exactly how it was laid out. Most of the residents’ medication came in cards and these were hung on specially designed hangers in the medication room. There was a different hanger for each medication round, the nurse would take the correct one and put it into the trolley at the start. Some medication wasn’t suitable to be packed in this way and came in individual packets. It was these I wanted to reach. I didn’t need to open the lid all the way. Holding it open with one hand, my other slipped in, felt around and picked up a packet. It was easy to press one pill into my hand, return the packet and search for another. When I had three different tablets, I was happy and dropped the lid shut.