That Girl From Nowhere (25 page)

‘You are welcome, Clemency. Please, sit. Sit.’

I hesitate, of course I do. If I go into her room I am allowing myself to become a part of this, I am saying: ‘Yes, I might do this thing.’ Eventually, though, I sit as I have been asked to do.

‘My apologies for not being able to greet you properly at the door.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Are you keeping well?’

I nod. It depends what she means by well. I was well before I met her and the rest of my family, I am well now that I have met them. I was also troubled before I met them and I am troubled now. I am not unwell though. That is what she means and that is what I nod at.

‘How are you?’ I ask.

Her face finds a smile that is rueful and amused, it seems she is laughing at me. I suppose it is a stupid question to ask of someone who has brought me here to talk about how to end her life. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act, though.

‘We do not have much time,’ she tells me. ‘I must ask you again what I cannot ask anyone else to do. You must help me to die.’

I stare at my grandmother by blood and wait for her to say something else. What she has said is nowhere near enough to get me to agree to do this thing. She stares at me in return, her expression makes it obvious that she won’t be saying anything else. She has uttered ‘You must help me to die’ and that is enough as far as she is concerned.

Does she think that I am so grateful, so happy to be in reunion with my birth family, that I’ll do whatever she tells me to do?

‘Why must I?’ I ask. ‘I hardly know you. Why would I?’

‘That is the reason I asked you. That is why it has to be you. When Kibibi told me she had found you, I knew that God had answered my prayers. When I met you, I knew it was true. Only you can do this. No one else would do it.’

It seems this woman is saying that all that time she spent watching me the other day told her one thing: I am a killer. ‘What are you saying? I try to avoid hurting anyone and anything – I’ve been vegetarian so many times over the years because I can’t stand the thought of what meat really is. Why would you say that to me when you don’t know me?’

‘I am sorry, Clemency, I forget myself. I am only thinking of myself. I would like so much to get to know you but I do not have much time.’

‘Why do you want to … Why?’ She doesn’t look
that
ill, despite the trembling and the pallor of her skin. She doesn’t look like Dad did near the end.

‘I am sick, I am old, I am tired.’ She says it simply, concisely, and then stops talking.

‘What are you sick with?’ I ask.

‘Talking is difficult,’ she says. ‘To talk without slurring is very difficult.’ She pauses. ‘I have a heart condition. It was managed. It
is
managed. Then the diabetes is out of control. It was managed. For many years it was controlled.’ She stops again. ‘But my heart, the angina. I had an attack and they tell me the diabetes has caused it.’ Pause. ‘Then my heart, my diabetes. And then I am told the way my arm does not swing when I walk, the seizures, the facial …’ another pause ‘… the facial movements. I have Parkinson’s.’ Pause. ‘I am not going to get better. I will be on drugs for the rest of my life.’ Pause. I notice, now she has mentioned it, the tic on the right side of her face. It is only occasional, but it is pronounced. ‘I have so many drugs. So many needs. Over time it will be worse.’

I try to remember what Dad said about it. When he had to tell me that it had spread, that the chemo was no longer working. Did he tell me how he felt, or did I guess? I did not want to press him if he did not want to articulate it so I don’t think he did tell me. I simply assumed he would feel how I would feel. Although I obviously didn’t know how I would feel since it was happening to him and not to me.

‘I am no longer in control of my body, of my face, of my life.’ She pauses. ‘My husband is gone. My children are scattered. My grandchildren who are near have their own lives.’ Pause. ‘I am not needed. I am a burden.’ Pause.

‘You are not a burden,’ I say. ‘No human being is a burden. Never say that.’

‘You are the right person to do this.’ Pause. ‘You value people.’

‘Most decent humans value people. And if you know I value people, then how could you ask this thing of me?’

‘How I am today is the best I will feel for the rest of my life.’

‘That doesn’t mean you should end your life.’

‘If I am not a burden now, I will soon become one.’

‘Please …’

‘At some point, very soon, I will not be able to do anything for myself.’ Pause. ‘I will need help with everything. I do not want to burden others with that.’

This was what it was like with Dad, of course. But I did not mind. Mum did not mind. He seemed to mind, he did not like not being able to help himself, take care of himself. That he needed help to do the most basic things from washing his face to going to the toilet. From the little I know of people, and the even smaller amount of info I have about this woman, that level of dependency would be awful. Loss of dignity, people call it.

I stare at the woman facing this loss of dignity, and sadness overcomes me. Her pride, her need to not lose face in front of other people, even the people who cared for her, made her want to give up on life. She would rather be away from other people than be ‘weak’ in front of them.

‘You do not understand,’ she states.

‘To be honest, no, I don’t, not completely. Part of me understands, of course, and I’m sort of impressed that you seem so determined to do this. On the other hand, no, I don’t understand. Your family would be heartbroken without you.’

She laughs quietly, the tic on her face suddenly moving rapidly before settling again. ‘You are my family, too, Clemency.’ A pause. More laughter. ‘Did you forget that?’

‘But not like the others,’ I say.

‘My dear, you do not want to be like the others.’

The look that had passed between my other mother and my grandmother comes to mind, the mutual dislike, the overt signs of a power struggle. What would that be like? How would I feel being looked after, having my intimate needs taken care of, by someone I didn’t like. A coldness slips through me and settles in my stomach at the thought of having to ask my cousin Nancy to fetch me a bedpan or even remember when to bring me my medication. Seeing that look on her face, experiencing the weight of her disgust and dislike, making myself vulnerable to her so I can simply survive. I wasn’t sure what the source of the animosity was between my birth grandmother and birth mother but it would not be a sustainable situation: looking after someone you hated, being cared for by someone who resented you.

‘My biggest worry.’ Pause. ‘Is another attack.’ Pause. ‘That renders me.’ Pause. ‘Helpless.’ Pause. ‘Locked in. No way out.’

That sounds a bit like my terror of being buried alive, trying and failing to claw my way out of a coffin, knowing I’m trapped under a ton of dirt. I know my terror, which borders on a phobia, is mostly irrational, hers isn’t. Because, not only is the confined space her own body, it is also a perfectly rational worry with what is slowly and insidiously happening to her health. Involuntarily, I shudder at the idea of mentally trying to claw my way out of my own body, knowing I’d never be able to. Knowing the only way out is …

‘Thing is, how am I supposed to do it?’ I say to her. I can understand a bit better where she is coming from, but that doesn’t mean I can do what she wants. There are a million trillion miles of road between understanding why she might want this and actually doing it. ‘I mean, do you expect me to put a pillow over your face or something?’ I freeze for a moment at the thought of it. ‘I wouldn’t be able to do that. Or anything like that. It’s simply not in me.’

‘When you tell me you will help.’ Pause. ‘I will tell you what to do.’

‘So you will do it? I only have to help you?’ That may not be so bad if I don’t have to actually do it.

She raises her hands from her lap and the tremors, which do not seem so pronounced in her body, are shockingly violent in her hands. She lowers them again. ‘I cannot.’

I would have to do it. I would have to kill her. I know I’m supposed to call it ‘helping her to die’, aiding her in ‘fulfilling her final wish’, ‘being merciful’. In truth, though, I would be killing her. Ending her life. It would be what she wanted, but it would not alter the facts of what I had done. And I would still be arrested if the police found out what I had done. I would still be ostracised by the family I have only just found if they discovered what I had done.

My birth grandmother, a woman I have met for a total of about three hours, would like to make a killer of me with herself as my first victim.

She moves suddenly forwards, a violent jerk that causes my heart to lurch. I move towards her, immediately desperate to help. I could look after her, I think. I could look after her and then she might not want to do this. ‘No,’ she says firmly.

She struggles and pushes against the arms of the chair until she is upright. I stand too, ready to catch her if she should fall. Ready if she needs me. This sort of thing I can do, this sort of help I have no problem with.

She moves forward, reaching her hands out towards the high dresser with five drawers beside her bed, even though it is at least three strides’ distance from where she is. I do not attempt to help her again, I simply wait for her to move, poised to help. She stumbles, but manages to shuffle and jerk forwards, aiming for her bed, I guess. It would be easier if I helped, but I can see the lines of defiance and pride that are set in her face.

As she reaches the dresser she stumbles again, more severely this time and her fingers, groping blindly for the bevelled edge of the dresser, slip away and she falls forwards, her body hitting the dresser, dislodging most of the neatly lined up medication. I catch her before she stumbles backwards and falls to the ground. She is unexpectedly heavy, a veritable dead weight in my arms, and I stumble, too, but manage to keep my balance.

‘Let me go!’ she orders.

I resist the urge to do as I’m told and instead, with my arms hooked under her arms, I move her to the bed and allow her to place her hands on it then lower herself into a seated position.

‘I did not need your help,’ she barks at me.

I bet you’re a treat to look after
, I think.

‘You must leave,’ she says. ‘I will call you.’

Lucky me
, I think. I hide my face by dropping to my knees, gathering up the containers littering the floor by her bed like I am gathering pebbles on the beach to use as inspiration for my jewellery. ‘Right, fine,’ I say. The names of the drugs run idly through my head as I line them up as neatly as I can. There is no way I can begin to know if they were in order of consumption, and if they were, which is the right order to stack them, so I don’t even try.

Besides, I have been dismissed. It’s probably best to leave as soon as possible. ‘You think.’ Pause. ‘Promise me.’ Pause. ‘You will think.’

‘I will,’ I say. ‘But I don’t know you. This is something you can’t ask a virtual stranger to do.’

‘We do not have much time … my illnesses make it difficult … but would you like to get to know me?’

More than anything
, I think. I didn’t realise how needy I could be until this moment. ‘Even if I did, that doesn’t mean I’d be able to do this thing.’

‘I know, Clemency, I know … But come back to see me … for a short time, we can talk … And you can tell me about yourself … about your life.’

‘You want to know about me?’

‘Of course.’

I shrug. ‘OK.’

‘And you must promise to at least think about my request.’

‘I … I … I promise. To think about it. Nothing more.’

‘I do not need any more than for you to think.’

‘OK, I will think.’

The woman in front of me eases herself backwards, seemingly stronger than she was a second ago. A fleeting thought dances across my mind:
Was she putting on that show to get me to do what she wants?

Of course she wasn’t. Who would do that sort of thing?

‘Goodbye then,’ I say. I am standing at the door.

‘Goodbye,’ she says. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

I leave the house with the memory of her smile, something that seemed painful for her to do, and a deep sense of unease that not only am I keeping things from Mum, I’m going to be keeping my meetings with my grandmother secret, and she is expecting me to do it. Whatever I say, whatever I promise to think about, whatever I know deep down inside that I can’t do, she is expecting me to become her killer.

‘Can I see your jewellery?’ I ask her.

We don’t have much time together, only the thirty or so minutes between the district nurse leaving and my other mother returning with Lily-Rose from school. My grandmother told me that my other mother often took Lily to the library on the way home or sometimes to run around in the park, but the thought of her catching us together was a risk I didn’t want to take. My other mother still hadn’t called me to arrange another meeting and I didn’t want to impose myself upon her. It was nice to be with someone, like my grandmother, who made it clear she
wanted
to be with me. I wasn’t stupid, though – I knew what motivated her interest in me, but that didn’t matter because even if it was for snatches of time, it would be nice to get to know a little bit about her.

‘Of course, of course.’ She moves to indicate the chest of drawers where her medication is stored, but the shaking in her hand is so pronounced and severe she stares at it as though it is not connected to her body, like she has never seen it before. The horror seems to dawn on her anew that this is her body, her arm she has lost control of, and then grief unfolds carefully and precisely on her features as she seems to mourn what this means for her body and her life. I avert my eyes – I do not want her to know that I have noticed her distress at what is happening to her. It is private, not something I should be a part of, no matter what she has asked me to do.

‘The bottom drawer,’ she says quietly, her upset like a thin paint wash that covers her words – there but not immediately obvious. Still there though, still an indicator of what she is truly feeling.