Down to Earth. Melanie Rose
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of the woman I had gone to with my problems, the chair-person of the Woman’s Institute, charming hostess to my father’s colleagues and the woman behind the powerful, dynamic man my father had been.
‘Mum?’
‘It’s not you,’ she said, her voice coming out in a thin wail of distress. ‘It can’t be. They say my daughter is dead.’
She began to rock to and fro on the bed, her eyes darting about the room as if looking for a means of escape from something she didn’t understand. ‘You’re not real. They tell me you’re never real – just an illusion I’ve conjured up.’
I went to her and rested my hand on her shoulder but she shrugged me off. ‘Mum, it is me. It’s Michaela.’ I tried to take her hand but she wrapped both arms protectively round her body, her hands wedged firmly under her armpits as she continued to rock, her red-rimmed eyes avoiding my face.
‘I hurt,’ she whimpered. ‘I ache all over and you’re making it worse. Go away and leave me alone … I know you’re not really here.’
My mother, it seemed, spent most of her time in the nursing home trying to kill herself and was apparently on constant suicide watch.
I sat shakily in the office as Zenelle made a cup of tea and handed it to me. I don’t think she realised I was the cause of my mother’s grief.
‘Susan is not allowed laces on her trainers or a belt on her trousers. Where you or I would see an ancient beam or a harmless tree, she thinks only of hanging herself. We might see a simple glass of water or a mirror, but to your mother they are a means of cutting her wrists.’
‘Surely she could be given anti-depressants or something to help her?’
‘Susan has been on a variety of different medications, but she suffers from side-effects. Look,’ Zenelle said kindly. ‘If you want to know more about your mother’s treatment you should come back tomorrow and see the doctor.’
‘I can’t leave her here like this,’ I told the nurse, resting the tea down on the corner of the desk. I felt tears of helplessness welling up. ‘There must be something I can do.’
‘She’s getting the best possible care,’ Zenelle assured me. ‘And you couldn’t take her home even if you wanted to. Susan is here under the mental health act.’
‘Could I see her once more before I go?’
Zenelle pursed her lips and I was sure she was going to say no, but she nodded briefly. ‘You can go in to say goodnight and tell her you’ll be back tomorrow, if you like. But I warn you, you may not get a positive response.’
I stood in the doorway to my mother’s room for several minutes, watching as she rocked back and forth and plucked at her short hair. I wanted to take those few steps across the carpet towards her, fling my arms round her and inhale the comforting smell of the mother of my childhood, but I felt sure she would flinch away from me. ‘I’ll come back and see you again tomorrow, Mum,’ I promised, my voice breaking with emotion.
‘You won’t come back,’ my mother whispered. ‘I’ve seen you before and they just give me more pills to make you go away again. You always go away and then they tell me you’re dead.’
‘Don’t upset yourself, Susan. Michaela is here to visit you,’ Zenelle told her. ‘Why don’t you sit together for a while and I’ll go and see to Ethel in the next room.’
Mum looked up at the nurse, a glimmer of hope crossing her face. ‘You won’t give me more pills?’
‘Your next tablets are due in an hour,’ Zenelle told her, glancing at her watch. ‘Just enjoy your daughter while she’s here.’
I crossed the room slowly, afraid to make Mum shy away from me, but when I drew close enough she reached out and clasped my fingers so tightly that it actually hurt. Leaving my hand in hers, I put my other arm round her shoulders and sank down on the bed next to her.
‘Is it really you?’ she asked tremulously.
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