Page 22 of Things We Never Said
‘Not a good day for it?’ Sean asks.
The nurse shrugs. ‘You know how it is,’ she says. ‘It be coming and going. There’s no harm you sitting with her. She’ll probably like that. But I wouldn’t be hoping for much more this morning.’
Sean nods. ‘Fair enough,’ he says.
‘Can I get you a tea, maybe? Or a coffee?’
‘Tea would be nice,’ Sean says.
‘Yes, tea would be great,’ April agrees.
‘OK. I’ll, um, just fetch those for you. I’ll be getting you a chair too,’ she tells April.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ April replies. ‘I’ll just sit on the bed if that’s OK?’
‘So, how are you, Mum?’ Sean asks as he pulls the chair from the desk and sets it opposite his mother.
Cynthia grinds her teeth noisily and continues to frown at him as if, from wherever she currently thinks she is, Sean’s presence presents her with some unsolvable riddle.
‘I’m Sean. Your son.’
Cynthia frowns more deeply. ‘Sean?’ she repeats.
Sean reaches out for her bony hand and places it between his own. ‘Yes. Sean. Your youngest son.’
‘Sean?’ Cynthia says again.
‘Yes, Mum. Sean. That’s right.’
‘Hello Sean,’ his mother says, flatly.
‘Hello Mum,’ he replies, patting her hand gently with his own and then casting a discreet grimace at his daughter.
‘Do you know who I am?’ April asks, her own brow beginning to furrow.
Cynthia wrinkles her nose and nods vaguely in April’s direction.
‘April’s asking if you remember her,’ Sean says. ‘You remember April, don’t you?’
Cynthia shakes her head. ‘I don’t like her,’ she mumbles. ‘I never liked her. I don’t know why you brought her here.’
‘Mum!’ Sean says. ‘That’s April. It’s not—’
But April, whose mouth has dropped, is already standing, already heading for the door. ‘I’ll see you outside,’ she croaks. ‘Take your time.’
Sean catches up with April at the security door, where she is trapped waiting for the receptionist to notice her presence and buzz her out. ‘Hey,’ he says, catching her by the elbow. ‘Honey ...’
‘Oh ... no ...’ April protests. ‘No, go back. I didn’t mean ... Go back and take your time.’ Her eyes, Sean notices, are glistening.
‘She doesn’t mean that, you know,’ Sean says. ‘She thinks you’re Catherine, that’s all.’
‘Really?’
The door buzzes to signal that they can push it open, but April raises her hand and makes a ‘gimme five minutes’ gesture to the receptionist, so she locks it again.
‘Yes,’ Sean says, reaching out to stroke his daughter’s back. ‘She never liked your mother much. And the only memories she has these days are from way back. She thinks you’re Catherine. And she thinks this is nineteen-eighty-something.’
April sighs and nods. She swipes at one eye with the back of her index finger. ‘That’s still ... I don’t know ...’
