Getting Over It (14 page)

I am agog at these bold prying questions. I quake in anticipation of each answer and half expect my mother to break down and run out of the shoebox. But she doesn’t. The hot tears run down her face as she replies. I hold her hand and study my feet. And she tells Dr. Collins she’s been sleeping a lot and eating a little—
A little!
I think,
We’ve chomped through Martha Stewart’s entire repertoire, twice!
—and found it impossible to concentrate and she’s had no thoughts of joining her loved one but some thoughts about sleeping forever and she did it because Morrie died and she misses him so much she can hardly breathe and no one understands and everyone thinks she should have bounced back and she hasn’t and she can’t and it’s all too much and she thought it was getting better but it’s getting worse and she feels as if she’s going mad. No, she hasn’t done it before. Yes, it was spur of the moment, she just wanted everyone to “sit up and take notice.” No, she didn’t write a note. She doesn’t truly wish that she were dead—she wishes that Maurice was alive. Yes, she wanted to be found. To make people understand. No. No. No. Not really, although she makes a point of talking to Maurice each night before she goes to bed, just a chat really, like yesterday, the new Tom Clancy came out and she knew Morrie would have been irked to miss it and so she told him she was going to read it for him. She couldn’t see him, but she felt a presence. It was just chitchat, really. Occasionally she thinks she spots him in the street, but it always turns out to be some stranger.

(Incidently, that was an edited account as she burbles on and on like a babbling brook, each answer as long as the Bible, until Dr. Collins snaps, “I want a yes or no answer!”) He watches her closely, then says, “Mrs. Bradshaw. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. The pain of bereavement is always far worse than you can possibly imagine. And you’re right—people don’t understand. It’s hard for them to see you in pain. What they don’t understand is that pain is part of the grieving process, and you have to go through it in order to heal. And five months is nothing!

“It can take twenty years to come to terms with the death of a loved one. Your reaction is not mad in the least, it’s normal. It’s very common for the pain to hit around now. In the early stages, you’re in shock. And that’s your body’s way of taking care of you. You couldn’t deal with all that grief at once. And you still have the sense, the familiarity of your husband’s presence to buoy you up. But now the penny’s dropped because you know he isn’t coming back. And that, Mrs. Bradshaw, is the real bummer.”

My mother stares in awe at Dr. Collins as if he’s the Oracle, then wraps her skinny arms around my waist, and sobs piteously into my sweater. Dr. Collins nods at me as if to say, “She’ll pull through.” I’m stunned. I don’t know whether to hit him or hug him.

Chapter 19

I
’VE NEVER REACTED WELL
to being told off. Once, after a piggishly large dinner, I was reprimanded by Jasper for suggesting he “untighten” his belt. (Apparently I should have said “loosen”—there’s no such word as “untighten.”) I felt most aggrieved and sulked for the next hour. After five grouchy “What’s wrong?”/”Nothing” exchanges, I confessed my gripe. Jasper explained that he was only trying to save me “from sounding thick,” so I reluctantly forgave him. But inside, the resentment churned. As I see it, constructive criticism, however constructive, is still criticism. It’s being told off in thin disguise.

Which is why, when Dr. Collins took me aside and said that my mother had “been a bit neglected recently” and politely but firmly suggested that “it might be wise to keep an eye and ear on Mum until we can organize some support for her,” it was hard not to feel hurt. I did keep an eye and ear on my mother, I protested in my head. As far as it was feasible. Short of quitting my job and my home—I’ve already quit my social life—and tailing her like a stalker, how close an eye was I expected to keep?

But I tried to play down the sting of his remark. In my heart I knew I’d dismissed her recent attempts to communicate her desperation—no excuse could justify it—so promising to shadow her was the least I could do. As for the ear, I assume Dr. Collins meant I should listen to her talk. Eek. Hiding knives and Advil and spying on my mother like a pervert would be a joy and a pleasure, compared to listening. I didn’t say this to Dr. Collins, but I loathe listening to my mother talk.

It’s wretched to hear her spew out her emotions like she’s a friend or an American or someone my own age. When she rattles on about the sweet things my father did for her, like kiss her in the mornings or run her a hot bath in the evenings, I feel like a voyeur. A crap one, though, because I don’t know where to look. Call me a prude, but it feels inappropriate. It’s like—not that I ever did, thank god—overhearing my parents having sex. And, if you must know, I envy her. Listening to her talk is, as Dr. Collins said, hard. Yes, because I hate to witness her pain. But also because it makes me wonder what’s wrong with me, what kind of a daughter am I, that my pain is so fucking wishy-washy, sporadic, and inferior to hers?

Yes, I tell Dr. Collins, of course I will keep an eye and ear on my mother. For as long as she wants.

Vivienne drops us home. I thank her, tell her she’s been wonderful, and wave her off. She departs at 90 mph and I don’t blame her. My mother is subdued, so I keep talking. Dr. Collins has given her two anti-depressants, prescribed her more, arranged for another doctor to see her in a fortnight, and for a “CPN” to call her tomorrow. When Dr. Collins said the pills were Prozac, my mother visibly staggered backward. He then had to convince her that they wouldn’t make her suicidal. She also made a fuss when he mentioned seeing another doctor.

“What for?” she demanded. He replied, “You’ve been through a dreadful time, Mrs. Bradshaw. You need some support, and the doctor will manage and regulate your medication.” My mother was so mesmerized by her blue and white capsules in the little bottle she forgot to ask what a CPN was. So, when she trotted off to show Vivienne her spoils, I asked. “The community psychiatric nurse,” replied Dr. Collins. I stared at him in horror and shouted, “But she’s not mental!” Dr. Collins rubbed his bloodshot eyes and said in a scarily soft voice, “My priority is to avert disaster.” To avert being struck off, more like.

“Dr. Collins seems like a nice man,” I say brightly, as I fuss aimlessly around the kitchen. “So you’ll probably go back to the hospital in a few weeks. Do you want me to take you?” I add, still brightly, hoping against hope that she’ll say no.

“No,” says my mother, surprisingly.

“Are you sure?” I say suspiciously, wondering if she’s planning a no-show.

“If I wanted to say yes, I’d have said yes,” snaps my mother.

I glance at her tired face and change the subject. I am trembling suddenly and feel an urge to grip my mother with both hands and prise an untouchable promise out of her. I want a written guarantee that she is going to remain alive and chipper for another sixty years. That’s what I want, please. Because otherwise, otherwise… I don’t want to live like an ant, scurrying about my futile business until one day like any other, I’m crushed pointlessly, indiscriminately, under the black-booted foot of fate. I feel sick with disgust at life’s haphazard nature. It’s about as orderly as my underwear drawer.

“Mum,” I blurt, grasping her wrist.

“Yes?” she says.

I want to say,
I’m so afraid, so fucking afraid that it’s killing me,
but I can’t. So I say, “I wish you’d called.”

My mother replies shortly, “You were busy.”

I feel clueless. I want to scream. I want my dad back. He’d shake some sense into her. I want control and I hate not having it. Should I make a to-do list? I’ll make a to-do list. I make a to-do list.

T
O
D
O
L
IST

 1.  look after Mummy—indefinite—maybe Thursdays, too?

 2.  go home and get clothes and toothbrush

 3.  phone Laetitia

 4.  phone Mrs. Armstrong

 5.  ask Luke to feed Fatboy

 6.  phone Tom to apologize again

 7.  phone Lizzy for moral support

 8.  listen to Mum talk

I don’t dare leave my mother alone while I collect my stuff from the flat, so I ask her along. I am apprehensive about driving her silver Peugeot 206—never having driven a car I’m not ashamed of before—but I refuse to squander even one more penny on cabs. “It’ll be nice for you to see Luke, Mummy, won’t it?” I say enticingly. I don’t mention Fatboy as—both being loud, egotistical, attention-seekers—they can’t stand each other.

Before we go, I suggest my mother “freshen up”—which is code for “change into a long-sleeved jumper so the public doesn’t realize you’ve just tried to top yourself.” I select a mint-green sweater, she obligingly pulls it on, and we speed off. The first noise I hear as we troop through the door is not Fatboy demanding dinner or Luke playing The Verve—and, no doubt, air guitar—in his room. The first noise I hear comes from Marcus’s bedroom, and it is “Uuuh! Uuuh! Uuuh!” and “Oh! Oh! Oh! My! God!” Oh my god, indeed. I invite my mother to my flat for the first time in about a year—I thought it would depress her—and she discovers it’s a bordello.

Thus stabbing home the painful point that her darling is dead and everyone else is dancing and bonking on his grave (so to speak). I curse Marcus and Michelle for picking now to rut like rhinos. I bet they hardly ever have sex! Marcus hasn’t got the necessary equipment and Michelle hates friction. Why else did she date Sammy for five years?

I start speaking loudly and incessantly to drown out the shrieks of Michelle faking orgasm. “Mum, come and sit down in the living room and switch on the TV there might be something good on and would you like another cup of tea, I’ll put on the kettle anyway or would you prefer to listen to the radio in the kitchen, yes, come into the kitchen and let’s turn it on anyway, oh look, here’s Luke, Luke, you remember my mother don’t you, yes, Mum you remember Luke, he was so helpful at the hospital last time and he played the cheesecake-in-Lizzy’s-bag joke at the supper party, ah Luke, would you mind terribly feeding Fatboy tomorrow morning as I’m staying at my mother’s tonight and maybe for the rest of the week?”

I pause for breath. Luke and my mother look at me as if I’m a nutjob. “Are you okay?” says Luke.

“Fine, fine,” I say, jerking my thumb toward Marcus’s room and pulling an I’m-repulsed face.

“Oh yeah,” nods Luke, immediately. “Marcus and your friend shagging. They’ve been at it like rabbits for, I dunno, ten minutes. Can’t hear myself think.”

Oh, hooray. Luke the dufus goofs again. I glare at Luke, say, “Sorry, Mum, Luke’s just joking,” and wait for the cloudburst.

Instead, she starts giggling. “Helen! Don’t be such a priss! I do know what sex is! I have had it!” Said in a jovial patronizing lilt and with a coy glance at Luke to indicate that she and he are the real grown-ups and I am the silly little girl who can’t cope with words like “bottom.” I’d forgotten how she mutates into a coquettish Judas in the presence of any man over twelve.

“Well, I don’t care if you don’t,” I say sulkily, as Luke and my mother laugh at me. Traitors.

“So will you feed Fatboy?” I say to Luke, in an attempt to recover some dignity.

“Love to,” he replies. “Fatboy’s my mate.”

I smile and tease, “That figures, what with your similar hygiene habits!” Fatboy, unlike normal cats, isn’t overkeen on washing. He always smells—as Tina puts it—“a bit particular” behind the ears. As for Luke, he regards baths with the same affection as vampires regard garlic. I expect Luke to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Thanks,” he says coldly.

“That was a joke!” I stutter.

“Well, it wasn’t a very nice one,” pipes up my mother, who I will strangle if she offers one more unwanted opinion. I give up.

“Sorry, but I didn’t mean it,” I say crossly. “I’m going to make some calls,” I add as I stamp into the lounge. Luke and my mother are already gassing and ignore me. Unbloodybelievable!

The answer machine is blinking. Maybe Tom? I press play. “Helen, it’s Laetitia. Calling to see if all is okay and to remind you there’s a meeting about the Get Rich Quick supplement tomorrow at nine-thirty sharp. I need oodles of ideas and I’m counting on you!” This is Laetitia-speak for, “I don’t give a damn if every member of your family has stiffed it because I am paying you (just) to be my maidservant, so be there or be unemployed!” Needless to say, I have no ideas for the supplement—I’m the poorest person in the office! The work experience girl earns more than I do! What do I know about getting rich quick?

Actually, here’s a good one: Wait for Your Dad to Croak—Hey, It Worked for Me! Ooh, now Michelle would call that bitter. Calm down, Helen. I breathe deeply and refer to my list. Phone Tom. I leaf frantically through my diary to find his home number. I ring it and hold my breath.

“Hello?”

“Tom?” I squeak. “It’s Helen! I’m so sorry!”

There is a pause. “What’s the excuse this time?” he says icily. What? I am horrified.

“You mean, you mean”—I am practically speechless with indignation, that sly lipliner-abusing witch!—“you mean Celine didn’t pass on my message?”

Pause. “So you bothered to leave one.”

Am I paranoid or does everybody hate me? “Yes, I did, actually. To tell you that my mother slit her wrists earlier today and had to be rushed to hospital.” Take that, Ice Boy!

Pleasingly, my underhand strategy has the desired effect. “Shit! Christ, Helen, that’s terrible! God, I’m sorry! Is she, er, how is she? And how are you?”

I say, in a conciliatory I’ve-got-the-moral-upper-hand tone, “She’s all right.” I feel like adding “But it was touch and go.” (A, I’ve heard this said on
Casualty,
and B, I want to punish him for being unfriendly.)

However, I restrain myself. First, it’s a lie, and second, I’d be playing into Celine’s over-manicured hands. “And how are you?” says Tom again. I nod down the phone before whispering a strangled “fine.” I can’t tell him the truth—that I am rigid with fear and seriously considering keeping my mother in a padded box at the end of my bed to avoid further fatalities. Instead I tell Tom an abridged version of the gory story and an elongated version of my phone call to Megavet. “She’s such a liar!” I shriek, adding, before I can bite off my tongue, “She fancies you, you know!” The second I say it, I regret it. Why don’t I just shout, “I fancy you, you know!” It’s tantamount to the same thing.

“Oh, yes?” says Tom coyly. “Why do you say that?”

The bastard! “I say it,” I reply in a cute, flirty sing-song tone, “because she guards you like a hyena guards an antelope carcass.” Hmm. That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.

But Tom’s good humor is patently restored because he says drily, “You flatter me.”

I giggle. “I’m sorry about tonight,” I say. And I mean it. I am sorry. I’m also concerned that, this being the second time I’ve screwed up, a third offer won’t be forthcoming. Do I dare ask him? It’s not like I’m asking him to lend me money. Lizzy would ask a man out. Why am I the
Rules
girl?

“Would you… are you free sometime later this week, or maybe next week?” I blurt, cleverly making it sound as if my life is a friendless void.

“Definitely,” says Tom, “but maybe next week is better? Things might have calmed down a bit.” We fix on the Tuesday.

I put the phone down and straight away start analyzing the conversation like a bad psychotherapist. By suggesting next week as opposed to this week, was he hinting that I was selfish? Neglectful of my poorly mother? (Who, as I ponder this, I can hear cackling in the kitchen.) Does it mean he doesn’t like me anymore? Not that he said so, at least, not
consciously.
And Tuesday—that’s a worky, plodding, got to get up early tomorrow, good excuse to scarper at 10
P.M.
sort of day. Does that mean he… ?

Enough. Enough already, you dork.
The minute I start caring is the minute he’ll stop. I give a quick shake of my head to emphasise this cessation of caring, and phone Lizzy. She picks up and in the background I hear what sounds suspiciously like monks chanting. So before I inform my friend that my sole remaining parent is at no immediate risk of death, I address a more pressing issue: “What the fuck’s that you’re listening to?”

She ignores the question and demands, “How’s your Mum?” I tell her. Eventually, she confesses that her CD is titled
Gregorian Moods
and she’ll tape it for me if I like.

“No thanks,” I say.

“Well, maybe for your mother, then?”

I pause. It is a matter of principle that I automatically write off all Lizzy’s spooky, chanty, health-freaky, bean-munching, willow pod worthiness as twaddle. That said, I want to help my mother any way I can and I cannot see her yapping away with a shrink. I really can’t. She has chosen me as her shrink. She’ll see the nurse once to humor Dr. Collins, but I reckon that’ll be it. She doesn’t want to speak to a stranger. My mother doesn’t want people listening because they’re paid to. She wants people to listen because they care about her. It’s all highly inconvenient and I need all the help I can get.