Page 2 of Forgive Me Not
‘You’ll wake Mum,’ said Andrea between gritted teeth. ‘She’s having a nap. Just go away. You’re not welcome here.’
‘Andrea. It’s so good to see you. Please. Just hear me out.’
Dash took matters into his own hands, gave a small bark and lolloped inside. Slowly Andrea exhaled. ‘Fifteen minutes. That’s all you’ve got. Then I’ve got to make Mum’s tea.’
As Emma entered the house, a chill descended upon her, like a cloak designed to cool not heat. Why was Mum asleep at teatime, and couldn’t she cook for herself? She gazed at the cream sofa and chairs. The white walls. The oak floor and coffee table. The vibrant watercolour of forget-me-nots Andrea had painted. Home. Her shoulders dropped with relief. At least indoors hadn’t changed that much.
Or had it? At the end of the room, paperwork swamped the dining room table, next to a computer and printer, along with scattered jiffy bags and biros. Andrea sat down on the sofa and picked up a half-drunk mug of tea from the low table. Since her teenage years, she had always had a brew on the go.
‘So?’ she said abruptly, raising an eyebrow like a samurai lifting a sword.
Emma dropped her rucksack and sat down on an armchair opposite. Dash snuggled up to her feet. She ran a hand over the smooth upholstery. Mum had insisted on ordering the pale leather three-piece suite. ‘Yes, it’s completely impractical for a cluttered farmhouse and small children,’ she’d said, ‘but this is a slice of simplicity I need at the end of the day.’ Her two daughters, aged four and nine, had made crowns out of cereal boxes, Andrea in charge of the scissors and glue, and used the luxurious chairs as thrones. Emma insisted on being Princess Diana. Budding gardener Andrea was happy to be Charles, as Aunt Thelma said he spoke to plants.
Now Emma met her sister’s gaze. She’d practised this speech so often in her head, yet the crucial moment had deleted her thoughts.
Andrea consulted her watch.
‘Firstly… I’m sorry,’ said Emma.
‘I’ve heard that before.’
Heat flooded her face. ‘But I’m a different person now and—’
‘What do you want me to say? Congratulations?’
Emma shifted uncomfortably.
Andrea looked up as the staircase creaked. ‘Well done. You’ve woken her,’ she said stiffly.
Emma stood up as Gail slowly descended the stairs. Her knees felt unsteady as she took in her mother’s appearance. The short hair stuck up on top, grey strands now outnumbering the red. A crumpled blouse was half tucked into linen trousers, at the bottom of which, just visible, were odd socks. In her hand was a purple chocolate wrapper, her fingers folding it like a magician practising some trick.
Now and again during the last couple of years, Emma had dreamed of Gail holding her in that tight embrace that belonged solely to mothers and could salve the deepest upset. Like when Emma used to fall over and graze her knees, or worry about making friends, or when she lost her favourite teddy bear. Her mum would reassure her that her scrapes would heal, that friendships would grow and that Ted was just on holiday. Sure enough, he turned up a week later with a new jumper and longer legs. Mum said he must have had a growth spurt.
‘Mum.’ Emma stepped forward and held out her arms. At points during the last couple of years she’d found it hard to recall every detail of her mother’s face. She’d forgotten the sparse eyelashes, and the age spot on the chin. Yet she’d never forgotten the bright eyes and the efficient manner that were now both missing.
Gail stood at the foot of the stairs and stared. She tilted her head to the side, then walked past Emma and sat down next to Andrea on the sofa. She picked up her daughter’s drink, took a sip and put it back.
Emma looked at her sister, who gazed belligerently back. Mouth dry, she went over to Gail and crouched by her side.
‘How are things?’ she asked, and held her breath.
Gail’s brow knotted. ‘Who are you?’
Emma felt dizzy. No. This wasn’t happening.
‘It’s me, Emma. Your younger daughter.’
‘You can’t be. You aren’t shouting or swearing.’
Emma enveloped her mum’s hands in hers. The frail fingers warned her off, squeezing too tight. ‘I’ve… I’ve come back to help,’ she said. She willed her mum to offer a flash of recognition, but there was nothing – the moment of semi-lucidity had passed.
Gail took back her hands and stared out of the front window, once again fiddling with the chocolate wrapper.
The leather armchair groaned as Emma fell back into it. ‘What’s happened?’ she whispered. ‘The diagnosis… This is much quicker than the doctors…’
‘You can say the words. Early-onset Alzheimer’s.’
That label had only been decided a matter of weeks before Emma left, and she’d never accepted it back then. Her vibrant, laughing, crusading mother going dotty? At only fifty-three? They’d made a mistake. Or if not, the inevitable wouldn’t happen for years.
