A tribute to my Nana, I suppose.
1929-2008
Coming Home
‘Sophie, I’m going to get a coffee. D’you want anything?’
I shake my head; I can’t drink. And then she’s out the door, the rubber soles of her sandals squeaking on the floor. My hands reach for something to fiddle, some object that will keep my mind occupied as I meander down that same route. I knew the whole façade by now.
‘Where’s Helen? Where’s she gone?’
Nana is looking at me – her eyes wide and alarmed, and her mouth twitching with both fear and impatience. I reach out, press my hand over hers, and feel the waxy skin of age. Her hand trembles under mine, like I am a monster. Everyone is a monster to her, now.
‘It’s all right. She’s gone to get a coffee.’
‘Oh, has she? I’d like a coffee, actually.’
‘No,’ I say with authority, and that authority over my grandmother is a horrible thing. ‘Remember what the nurse said? You can’t have coffee anymore.’
‘Why?’ she asks, her voice argumentative. It makes me feel miserable because I recognise that tone from years ago, when she and Mum would have one of their quarrels on politics. Mum the celery soup-making left-winger, and Nana the right-winger with a penchant for capital punishment.
I have to refrain from asking, ‘Don’t you remember?’ because it hurts her and frustrates her. Instead, I give her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘You spilled it all on yourself and you got burnt. Look, you have some squash here.’
Her orange squash is in a beaker with a lid on it. The lid has a nib coming out of it, like those beakers toddlers use when they’ve retired from the bottle or breast. It is appalling to see her sucking from it, like an oversized two-year old. She wears nappies now, too – big, extra-absorbent ones for her incontinence. I can’t imagine how it hurts her notorious pride.
‘Nonsense. If I’m burnt, where are my scars?’
They are there, imprinted on her wrinkles, but when I point to them, she looks away with an upturned face; tight-jawed and pretending I am not there. Reservedly, I remove my hand and place in my lap.
‘It’s a lovely day out there,’ I say, clumsily. The light is streaming in through the blinds like a parade, and I know she wishes to be at there, to be climbing the mountains like when she was young, and travelling the world, and hoarding exotic finds. Now she’s sat in a threadbare armchair, with bare legs and wearing a grotty lilac cardigan. I want to make amends, but it is too late – she is staring at the window as though it contains all her desires. It reminds me of this tiger at the zoo that kept walking back and forth all day long, so depressed that that was all it could do. After seeing that tiger, I had declared I would never go to the zoo again, and had kicked and screamed when my younger brother had wanted to go there for his birthday.
‘I just want to go home, Sophie.’
She always says she wants to go home. But she doesn’t remember where home is – she’s forgotten. Home – to her – means freedom, and no more toddler-beakers, and family always around. I want it, too, but Mum cannot cope. I know I can’t judge when Mum had to wash her, dress her and change her nappies.
‘I know you do.’
Her eyes meet mine. Mine are young but hers are ancient and deep-set. ‘Why can’t I come home? I’ll clean for your mother and I won’t cause trouble. Please.’
‘I want you to come home, and so do Mum and Dad and Farris, but you know what the doctor says. Come on now; let’s not sadden ourselves. How about a game of cards?’ Cards she can still remember – years of casinos in Monte Carlo have done that to her.
She is disappointed in me; I can see that. She lowers her gaze to her lap and does not reply.
It is not long before Mum comes in, with her coffee and a Mars bar for Nana. ‘So, what have you two been up to?’ she asks, cheerily. Her attempt at conversation shrivels up in this toxic atmosphere, and the realism of the moment is all too apparent.
Nana won’t eat her chocolate bar. She says she’s not hungry.
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Farris and I are watching television when we hear it. A low sob. Animal-like, howl-like. Farris stands up and so do I. A sense of dread fills me, drowns me; I don’t know what is going on but I know it will be bad. I tell Farris to stay, that he can cuddle my teddy bear, and he silently agrees, sitting back down and curling into himself.
I walk to the kitchen and see where the whimpers and sobs are coming down, and then a piercing howl like the wildest wolf for a climax. I stand in the doorway, as Mum sits at the table with her face pressed her into Dad’s chest. Dad is standing beside her and his face is troubled, anxious, like a man knows trying to overcome tears. I am still standing in the corner and they have not noticed me. I see the phone slipping from Mum’s limp, lifeless hand. I was quiet but then I know it all. I understand. In chorus with my mother, I let out that same savage howl, and half-collapse at the fridge; my legs are buckling and the tears are falling already. Farris runs to me – he does not understand but he cries, too. I cannot look at anyone or anything, but shout, raw, too loudly, ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? She’s dead!’
‘I’m afraid she is, Sophie,’ Dad says, his voice squeaky as he tries to contain his masculinity.
‘No!’ I scream and then I run to the living room and collapse on the sofa. Farris is hot on my heels.
Dad comes to me, holds me tight. I cry, and I cry, till I’ve no tears left.
We have to go and see her, to see her body. Even Farris. I know then that she’ll never be coming home.
