Hair that was once brown and beautiful has been cut short and faded into the greys and whites of age

Laura Marinello4

Remember Me

There were changes I expected. There were the signs of aging I was ready to deal with; but not this. I was prepared to remind her to take her pills, to speak a bit louder, and to buy her the large print novels at Christmas. I was ready for all that; but not this. Each time I see her, it’s the same story. To Mama, each of my daily visits is a first.

Today was no different. I unlocked the front door and entered her flat. I immediately opened the window, letting the cool morning breeze flow in and take away the musty smell. I could hear Mama shuffling about in the living room and braced myself for what was to come. The routine never changed.

“What’s going on? What are you doing here? Get out of my house!”

I walked into the living room as she spat the familiar abuse at me. It was just as stuffy and warm as in the hallway. There was a plate of half-eaten biscuits on the table by her chair and two cups of cold, milky tea. Mama stood there in her dressing gown, glaring at me as I opened another window. Her hair, once brown and long, is now short and faded into the greys of age. Wrinkles have spread from the corners of her eyes to cover the rest of her face and neck. She pointed a thin, veined hand at the doorway and repeated her command to leave.

“I don’t know who you are, but I want you to leave! I won’t have people walking in here in unannounced and opening my windows!”

“I’m just opening them to get some fresh air,” I explained gently.

This time, the choice of argument was the windows. Last time it had been making too much noise in the hallway when I came in. I sounded like I was trying to knock the place down, she had said.

“I don’t want fresh air!” Mama waved her arms about frantically. “Do you know how many germs are in that air? Close them!”

“Fresh air is good for you. We’ll just leave them open for a few minutes.”

“My husband made those windows, he did! He’s not going to be happy when if he comes home and finds out you’ve broken them!”

The end of her rant was nearing. Mama was floundering for reasons to close the window.

“It’s okay. If anything’s wrong with the windows, I’ll be the one to fix it.”

I reached over and partially closed it in attempt to appease her. Mama nodded slowly and sat down on the sofa.

“Harold will fix it,” she said confidently.

I nodded, not knowing what else to do. There would be no explaining the broken windows to Harold - Dad had been dead for two years. Mama gave me a bewildered look as I stepped next to her and gathered up dishes from the table. Wordlessly, I took them into the kitchen and put the uneaten remains in the bin. I washed the plate and cups and left them to drain on the side. When I turned around, she was hovering in the doorway.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

Mama hurried over to the nearest cupboard and opened it, checking to see if anything was gone. She had gone through four of the five kitchen cupboards when I reached out and touched her arm.

“I’m just tidying up, Mama. I’m not here to steal from you.”

She raised one eyebrow at me and quickly checked the last cupboard, making as much noise as possible by rattling the different boxes of cutlery individually. Satisfied, she suddenly turned to me.

“Wait…what did you call me?”

“Mama.”

For a moment, Mama’s eyes flickered with recognition. This is when things often began to click. She would have her irrational rant and accuse me of theft, sometimes worse, and then she would calm to where I could explain things to her. Today, it had taken less time than usual for the cycle to end.

I placed my hand on her shoulder and led her back into the living room. She let me guide her into her armchair and didn’t say anything when I took a dark green photo album off the shelf. I opened it up to the first page and showed her a picture of me as a baby. Dad and Mama were in the picture too, proudly showing off their new daughter.

Mama reached out and touched the photo. She ran her fingers along the edge of the album and began turning the pages. I pointed out different things in the pictures, telling her the stories when she had forgotten. There were photos of birthday parties and holidays on the coast. Sometimes Mama would be able to recall certain details, but it was never until the later photos that she realised the baby was me. By the end of the album, Mama was in tears. I closed the album and hugged her. She hugged me back, then sat up straight and attempted to dry her tears.

“Do you want some tea, Abby?” She smiled feebly.

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat at the sound of my name. I knew she was going to go into the kitchen and refill the cups and plate that lay drying at the side of the sink. This was the good part of the visit; but I could never ignore the voice in my head that knew what I was going to have to go through the next day to get to this point again.

“I’d love some,” I told her.

Mama nodded and turned to leave the room.

“And Abby, would you close the windows please? There’s an awful draft in here.”

I smiled, despite myself.

“Yes, Mama.”