Gift: A Son's Story (short extract)

             I sat with Nicole (my step-niece)  in that tiny, cluttered room and looked at the two men – mum’s consultant and his junior.  I knew what was coming.  The consultant didn’t beat about the bush.

            “Mr Marman.  I need to tell you something about your mother.  She is, I'm afraid, very ill.  She has suffered an acute kidney injury as a result of the diarrhoea, and her kidneys are already in very bad shape.  Her kidney function is now down to 6%.  She basically has renal failure.  I’m sorry, but we don’t expect her to survive.  If she has a cardiac arrest or similar, I’m giving instructions not to resuscitate her.”

            I turned my attention away from him, to a work station just next to where he was sitting.  I saw the clutter of notes and other paraphernalia on it.  Meds pots.  Pens.  Note pads.  A desk diary with names scribbled on most of the dates on view.  An empty coffee mug with some kind of jokey design on it.  Ordinary stuff.  Worldly stuff.  Then I saw it all turn to crystals as the tears came.  Nicole placed her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze.  I took my glasses off and put my head in my hands.

            “Thank you.  I’m ready for this.”

            Nicole squeezed a little harder.  I wanted to pull away - I didn't like being touched like that - but I tried to ignore it.

            “We’re never ready for something like this,” she said.  I flinched then.  My head felt empty, but one very uncharitable thought came to the surface.  Who are you to tell me what I am and aren’t ready for?  You’ve never lost a parent, as I have.  As quickly as it was there, it was gone again.  She let go of my arm.  I looked at the two men.

            “I’m sorry, Mr Marman.  We can only hope for the best.”

            “Yes.  Thank you.”

            I got up and shook their hands as I left the room again, with Nicole following behind.  I left her to go back to mum whilst I went outside to phone my brother, Russell.  They were in the New Forest on a camping holiday.  He said they’d pack up straight away and head back.  It would probably take a couple of hours.  I hoped upon hope they would make it.  Then I rang mum's sister Phyllis and put her in the picture.  I told her to expect the worst, but I’d keep her informed.  She was in tears as I hung up.  Their older brother, Reg, had died less than a year before.  Mum was the next oldest.  After mum, Phyllis would be on her own.  Though they’d split up and gone their separate ways after marrying, mum and Phyllis had always been close.  We’d sometimes holidayed with them in Stevenage when Russell and I were growing up.  They'd spent holidays together in more recent years.  Suddenly, it felt like all of those years and experiences were being telescoped down to this moment.  All I could think about, though, was getting back to mum and being with her.  The present moment was all I had.  I couldn’t think about what happened next.

            When I got back, Nicole was sitting with her, holding her hand.  Mum was very agitated again, but she calmed a little when she saw me.

            “Where did you go?”

            I sat on the other side of the bed and squeezed her hand.

            “I went to have a chat with Russell and Lynn,” I said.  “They’re on their way.  They won’t be long.  Why don't you try to get some rest until they get here?”

            She gave me a sharp sideways glance.

            “But I can hear them.”

            I kept my voice as calm as I could.  “They’re in the New Forest on holiday, mum, but they’re driving back right now.  You can hear someone else who sounds like them.”

            She wasn’t having it.  “That’s what you're being told, and you believe it.  They’re lying to you.  I’m going to report it when I get out of here.”

            Nicole wiped mum’s forehead with a tissue.

            “Kev’s telling you the truth, nan.  They’re on their way.”  She stood up then.  “I’ve got to go off for a while to pick up the girls from dance class.  I’ll come back a bit later.”

            Mum started to get distressed again.

            “Why is everyone leaving me?”

            “I’ll be back very soon.  I’ll bring the girls with me, too.  They’d like to see you.  Would you like that?”

            She calmed a little.

            “Yes.  But don't be long.”

            At that moment, a ward orderly came in to ask mum if she would like a cup of tea.  Nicole used the opportunity to slip out and I went back to mum’s side.  An idea occurred to me.

            “I spoke to Phyllis on the phone while I was out.  Do you want me to give her a call so that you can talk to her?”

            “Yes,” she said.  “I want to talk to her.  I want to say goodbye.”

            The reception was bad, so I went and stood by the window.  I rang the number and switched to speakerphone.  Phyllis answered and mum rallied at the sound of her voice. 

            “I haven’t got much longer, Phyll.  It’s so lovely to hear your voice.  I love you very much and I want to say goodbye to you now.”

            They continued the exchange for a couple of minutes.  Phyllis, I could tell, was struggling, but was doing her best to sound upbeat.  She said she would come down to see mum as soon as she could – maybe the following week. 

            “It’ll be too late,” mum said.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll be joining mum and dad soon.  You just take care of yourself.”

            Phyllis began to reply, but it broke up as I lost the signal.  I tried ringing the number back, but nothing was happening.

            Mum seemed more settled after speaking to her, though.  The illness and the activity had tired her.  She dozed intermittently.  A nurse looked in and asked if I wanted anything.  I shook my head.  Then I rested it on the edge of the bed and shut my eyes.     I stayed like that for a long time.  Maybe I dozed off, too.  I can’t really remember.  All I know is that many things were slipping in and out of my mind, much as they do in dreams.  I couldn’t really concentrate on what was happening here – or might be happening.  It was like a film was playing in my head… a sequence of short scenes that shifted seamlessly from one to the next…

            …mum with me in the park by the river in Putney, when I was still in my pushchair.  Feeding the swans and ducks on the slipway.  Watching the traffic go over the bridge, and the ripples on the water, and the boats bobbing on the tide.  Mum dabbing her hankie on her tongue, then using it to wipe the corners of my mouth…

            …playing outside in the street and looking up to see mum walking towards me, home from work at the corner shop, wearing her thick coat with the fluffy collar, her headscarf tied over her treacle-brown curls – smiling down at me as she approached, holding out a lollipop she’d bought for me, the red of her lipstick, the white of her teeth…

            …sitting on her lap in the kitchen after dinner, doing the Picture Crossword in the Evening News that dad had brought in from work – looking at the pictures as she wrote in the answers, spelling each letter out while I copied her, learning their shapes…

            …mum kissing me goodnight and going back upstairs to dad, leaving the door far enough ajar for the light from the stairs to comfort me... seeing her outline briefly there like a dark figure cut from the light…

            …dabbing at the blood on my grazed knee as she left me at the school gate – my tears dripping from my chin and settling in her hair – not wanting to leave her side and go into that place, wanting her to take me home again with her, dreading this place, feeling deserted by her…

            Other things came into my head, too.  It was almost like my own life flashing in front of me.  Episodes down through the years.  Getting the bus to Trafalgar Square with her to feed the pigeons.  Going up the Monument.  Visiting the museums in South Kensington.  Taking the bus with her over to nan’s in the evenings after we moved to Battersea.  Going with her on her electricity bill delivery round when I was on school holiday.  Later still, when we moved to Devon – those few happy years – walking the dog with her around the lanes and across the fields on Sunday afternoons.  Sitting with her during school holiday afternoons, reading ghost and horror stories to her out of my books while she did the ironing by the fire. 

            It wasn’t all good, of course.  The arguments we’d had.  The times I’d reduced her to tears.  The horrible things I’d said to her when I was going through my teens, and even up into my twenties.  The contempt with which I’d treated her.  It pained me to think of it now.  It was like a knife in my heart.  The things I’d said and done – yet she had always stood by, always been there, always been ready to forgive and forget.  Because that’s what mums were supposed to do.  Give that unconditional love.  During my worst depressions a few years earlier, I’d seen a therapist - the one who'd first suggested autism as the possible root of my problems.  I told her it all.  I said how mum was the only person I ever argued with, though I didn’t know why I did it. 

            “Because you can,” she said.  “Because, no matter how strong or hurtful the words, she’s still your mother.  She’ll still forgive you.  She won’t turn her back.  You argue with her and fight with her because you know there’s no risk of losing the love she has for you.”

            Nevertheless, I hated myself for those episodes – those hurtful words.  She’d had enough to suffer in her life.  Her life, in many ways, had always been about carrying heavy burdens.  Worry, anxiety, difficulty.  She’d borne all of that and still got through it all, still remained strong, didn’t give in or give up.  And that was how I’d repaid her.

            It all came back to haunt me now.  And as if I’d transmitted that shame and regret and sorrow to her, she roused suddenly and looked down at me.  She squeezed my hand hard and I squeezed back.

            “You’re still there,” she said. 

            “Yes,” I replied – and thought and in spite of it all, so are you.

            “Good,” she said.  “I don’t want you to leave me now.”

            “I won’t,” I said.  “Don’t worry.  I won’t.”

            “Good.”

            Then she went back to sleep.