remember my name?’
‘Yes!’ I say. Two more roads and we will be home. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Esther won’t remember me, will she?’ Mum says so suddenly that I have to stop myself slamming down hard on the brake. It’s like my body thinks we’re heading for a collision.
‘She will. Of course she will,’ I say.
Mum shakes her head. ‘I don’t remember being three,’ she says. ‘Do you?’
I think about it for a moment. I remember sunshine, sitting up in my buggy that I was really far too big for, and eating abread roll. I might have been three, or two or five. I have no idea. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I remember everything. I remember you.’
‘She won’t,’ Mum says. ‘She might just catch glimpses of me now and then, but she won’t remember me, or how much I loved her. You’ll have to tell her for me, Caitlin. Don’t let Gran be in charge of telling her about me. That won’t do at all. Gran thinks I’m an idiot, she always has done. You have to tell Esther that I was funny, and clever and beautiful, and that I loved her and you more than … Just tell her, OK?’
‘She will remember you,’ I say. ‘No one can forget you, even if they tried. And anyway, you’re not going anywhere – you’re not dying any time soon. You’ll be in her life for years and years.’ I say it, although we both know for sure now that it is not likely.
At first, just after diagnosis, Mr Rajapaske told us that there are basically three stages to Alzheimer’s, but that it was impossible to know which stage Mum was at yet, because she has a high IQ, and may have been hiding the deterioration from everyone, including herself. Mum might have been deteriorating for a year, or years he said, sitting in his neat little office lined with family photos and certificates. She might be at the end of the time when any part of the world makes sense to her. There was no way of telling, and I for one thought that was better than knowing for sure: it was the next best thing to hope. But the night she ran away in the rain, the night Greg gave her the memory book, Gran filled us in on the latest test results. It was the worst possible news – a complication thatno one had expected, and that was virtually unprecedented. The disease was progressing more quickly than anyone had anticipated. Gran had taken notes, determined to deliver all of the information to us, as best she could. But I didn’t hear any of the details, the rationale, the results of the brain scans, the schedule for several more. All I could do was picture Mum walking blindly towards a cliff, knowing that at any moment she might just plummet into the darkness. None of us knows when that will happen, least of all her. I glance over at her. I have to talk now.
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘I want to tell you something.’
‘You can have my shoes,’ she says. ‘All of them, but especially those red heels you’ve always liked. And I want you to go and see your father.’
This time I do stop. We’re just moments away from our house, but I pull over on to a double yellow line, and turn off the engine. I wait for a second, for my heart to still, for my breathing to even out.
‘What are you talking about?’ I turn and look at her, unexpected anger surging through my veins like adrenaline. ‘Why the hell would you want me to do that?’
Mum does not react to my anger, although she sees it. She sits calmly, her hands folded passively in her lap. ‘Because I won’t be here soon and you need—’
‘I don’t,’ I say, cutting across her, ‘I don’t need a replacement parent for you, Mum, and besides, that’s not how it works. He never wanted me, did he? I was a mistake, an error that hewasn’t ready to face, that he wanted rubbed out in an instant. Wasn’t I? Wasn’t I?’
‘They used to be your gran’s, you know, those red shoes, before she gave up a life of dropping LSD to become a miserable old bat—’
‘Mum!’ I find myself slamming the heels of my
‘Yes!’ I say. Two more roads and we will be home. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Esther won’t remember me, will she?’ Mum says so suddenly that I have to stop myself slamming down hard on the brake. It’s like my body thinks we’re heading for a collision.
‘She will. Of course she will,’ I say.
Mum shakes her head. ‘I don’t remember being three,’ she says. ‘Do you?’
I think about it for a moment. I remember sunshine, sitting up in my buggy that I was really far too big for, and eating abread roll. I might have been three, or two or five. I have no idea. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I remember everything. I remember you.’
‘She won’t,’ Mum says. ‘She might just catch glimpses of me now and then, but she won’t remember me, or how much I loved her. You’ll have to tell her for me, Caitlin. Don’t let Gran be in charge of telling her about me. That won’t do at all. Gran thinks I’m an idiot, she always has done. You have to tell Esther that I was funny, and clever and beautiful, and that I loved her and you more than … Just tell her, OK?’
‘She will remember you,’ I say. ‘No one can forget you, even if they tried. And anyway, you’re not going anywhere – you’re not dying any time soon. You’ll be in her life for years and years.’ I say it, although we both know for sure now that it is not likely.
At first, just after diagnosis, Mr Rajapaske told us that there are basically three stages to Alzheimer’s, but that it was impossible to know which stage Mum was at yet, because she has a high IQ, and may have been hiding the deterioration from everyone, including herself. Mum might have been deteriorating for a year, or years he said, sitting in his neat little office lined with family photos and certificates. She might be at the end of the time when any part of the world makes sense to her. There was no way of telling, and I for one thought that was better than knowing for sure: it was the next best thing to hope. But the night she ran away in the rain, the night Greg gave her the memory book, Gran filled us in on the latest test results. It was the worst possible news – a complication thatno one had expected, and that was virtually unprecedented. The disease was progressing more quickly than anyone had anticipated. Gran had taken notes, determined to deliver all of the information to us, as best she could. But I didn’t hear any of the details, the rationale, the results of the brain scans, the schedule for several more. All I could do was picture Mum walking blindly towards a cliff, knowing that at any moment she might just plummet into the darkness. None of us knows when that will happen, least of all her. I glance over at her. I have to talk now.
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘I want to tell you something.’
‘You can have my shoes,’ she says. ‘All of them, but especially those red heels you’ve always liked. And I want you to go and see your father.’
This time I do stop. We’re just moments away from our house, but I pull over on to a double yellow line, and turn off the engine. I wait for a second, for my heart to still, for my breathing to even out.
‘What are you talking about?’ I turn and look at her, unexpected anger surging through my veins like adrenaline. ‘Why the hell would you want me to do that?’
Mum does not react to my anger, although she sees it. She sits calmly, her hands folded passively in her lap. ‘Because I won’t be here soon and you need—’
‘I don’t,’ I say, cutting across her, ‘I don’t need a replacement parent for you, Mum, and besides, that’s not how it works. He never wanted me, did he? I was a mistake, an error that hewasn’t ready to face, that he wanted rubbed out in an instant. Wasn’t I? Wasn’t I?’
‘They used to be your gran’s, you know, those red shoes, before she gave up a life of dropping LSD to become a miserable old bat—’
‘Mum!’ I find myself slamming the heels of my
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