Forgetful Borders of the Mind

I reached the cooler stacked with plastic bottles of milk and took two pints of red top from the rear of the file. I couldn’t help recalling the days when milkmen delivered to the house every morning – Herman’s Hermits “No Milk Today” came to mind. It all comes back to the same thing – what are we really other than the sum of our memories, and what are we without them?

The supermarket was busy. I negotiated my way through the crowds of shoppers: impatient men who knew exactly what they wanted and sighed loudly every time somebody arrested their progress; old ladies who took every opportunity to chat with each other, blocking the lanes and causing the men’s sighs.

After a short delay at the ‘baskets only counter’, waiting for the infuriating credit card wielders who refuse to carry cash, I got back to the car park. It was quite mild for a January evening, just a little chilly and damp. The gloomy dark-blue sky matched my mood perfectly. Back in the Beetle, I was full of trepidation and cried a little, feeling like a silly woman. But I wasn’t crying for myself, well, maybe just a little.

I started the engine and let it run while I turned on the light and wiped away the tears and smudged mascara. During the short drive I tried to occupy my mind with positive thoughts, thinking about the advice given at my creative writing class: how stories are all around us waiting to be plucked from the air, contained in everyday situations, photographs, memories… it always comes back to memories. I’d been given a black and white photograph of two flat-capped old gents sitting on a park bench, and thought about how I would interpret their lives, holding the power to make their experiences happy or tragic, or more probably a bit of both.

Then I was brought down to Earth as I parked in Mother’s driveway. Entering, or returning to her house, always filled me with the same sense of despondency I experience when the postman knocks with a parcel and doesn’t wait for me to answer the door.

I entered the house expecting the usual interrogation.

‘Who are you?’ She looked wild-eyed and suspicious.

‘Lisa… your daughter… remember?’

‘Oh, Lisa, that’s right.’ Her face lit up in recognition. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I went to get you some milk, remember?’

‘Is Sarah coming?’

‘No, Mum. She’s in Canada, remember?’

‘Did you get me some cheese?’

‘No, Mum, I forgot.’ She already had at least a couple of pounds of cheese in the fridge.’

‘Oh, Lisa, you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’

That’s how it goes, day after day. I know what you’re thinking – but she looks so fit and healthy for her age, even her hair looks more like platinum-blonde than grey. And yet, she is sixty-eight. It was the other way with Dad; his body gave out long before his mind.

The way we end our days, it’s something of a lottery. I’m not sure which one I would choose, Alzheimer’s or the big C. But then, luckily, I won’t have to make the choice when my numbers are drawn. Wouldn’t you think that God, or nature, or for that matter both, would be a little less careless about how our lives come to an end? Uncle Paul said that, in a biological and evolutionary sense, we have served our purpose by the time we reach thirty, and anything past that point is a bonus. I don’t want to believe that, otherwise, I’d end up jumping off a bridge like him. I’d like to write a story about Uncle Paul, but it would be too personal.

Mother was frantically searching through the compartments in her handbag and purse. Then she looked at me. ‘Are you Lisa?’

‘Yes Mum, What’s wrong?’

‘Where the hell is my cash card? I can’t find it anywhere.’

‘You lost it, remember? You have to do without until you get the new one I ordered. I make sure you have enough money.’

She got up to search through the drawers of the sideboard, muttering manically. ‘I have to be able to get my money when I need it. I’m sure I didn’t lose that card. And those people at the bank are so rude and ignorant.’

‘Well, you do ring them every day, Mum.’

That made me feel guilty. I had taken her card out of fear she would lose it, but now I realised that doling out her own money to her just wouldn’t work.

‘Oh, look!’ she said. ‘I’ve found twenty pounds.’

‘That must be Helen’s money, Mum.’

She turned to stare at me, looking cross. ‘Who the hell is Helen?’

‘You know Helen, the cleaning lady.’

‘It’s not Helen’s! It’s mine. Why are you always giving my money to other people?’

I went to the kitchen and looked through the opened mail on top of the fridge, selected an envelope from the bank and removed the letter. Then I took her card from my bag, grabbed a Pritt Stick from the pen and pencil beaker, and stuck the card to the letter before returning it to the envelope.

As I returned to the living room, I made a big show of pretending to rip the envelope open, and then pulled the card free. ‘Here it is, Mum, you must have missed it. It’s your new card.’ I handed it over.

She stared at it. ‘Oh, Sarah, you did order me a new card, how considerate of you.’ Then she looked at me with a dreamy fondness in her eyes – she smiled. It warmed my heart. But then she turned the card over and frowned. ‘Who’s fooling who, Lisa?’

‘Whatever do you mean, Mum?’

‘This isn’t a new card. This is exactly the same card I had before. If it’s a new card, how come it’s already been signed on the back?’

It was time to change the subject. ‘So, Mum, are we going to the cinema, or what?’

‘Who said anything about going to the cinema? You know I don’t like sitting in those places.’

‘Don’t you remember, you wanted to see the new adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Tempest… you know, with Dame Helen Mirren as Prospera.’

‘Oh, yes… The Tempest, Miranda and Ferdinand falling in love despite all the odds. I once played Miranda in an amateur drama group, you know… ’ She wrung her hands in childish glee. ‘… and Dame Helen, what a great actress. But, why would she be playing Prospero?’

‘I don’t know, Mum, but we could go find out, if you like.’

‘All right, Sarah, I’ll get ready.’ The warmth had returned. ‘Thanks for thinking of me, darling.’

By the time she was ready, she’d forgotten where we were going, and I had to remind her. But then we had to find her false teeth. She had no idea where she had seen them last. Accordingly, I checked all the obvious places, to no avail. The beaker filled with Sterident in the bathroom was empty.

‘I’m not going out without my teeth!’ she declared.

‘All right, Mum,’ I said, resigning myself to a night in with her. ‘I could go get a video from the shop, if you like? They might have Terms of Endearment, though they don’t have many old films these days.’

‘Get me a glass of orange juice, please,’ she said, and sat back in her armchair.

I went back to the kitchen and searched the draining board for a glass. There was a glass already filled with orange juice, but God knows how long it had been there. I emptied the contents into the sink to hear a clatter and see the teeth covering the plughole.

‘Here they are, Mum!’ I carried the sticky teeth to her, triumphantly. ‘You put them in some orange juice.’

She snatched the teeth from my hand and glared as though I were part of some conspiracy to have her committed. ‘Anyway!’ she snapped, when the teeth were inserted, ‘they taste better than when they’ve been in Sterident.’

As we got into the Beetle, Mother started. ‘And don’t be driving like a maniac with me in the car, Rebecca.’

‘I’m not Rebecca, Mum. And I’ve never been done for careless driving.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘The cinema, Mum, to see The Tempest.’

‘Are we meeting Sarah there?’

‘No, Mum, she’s in Canada. They said they’ll try to get over in the spring.’

I tried telling her about the story I was writing, an alternative romantic comedy, but she suddenly became clear-eyed, sneered and snorted, preventing me from finishing the synopsis.

‘Stop dreaming, Lisa, that’s always been your problem.’

I knew that she was right, but what’s the point in getting up in the morning if you don’t have a dream?

‘You need to get a proper job, like Sarah. You can’t live off your divorce settlement forever, expecting to get my money when I’m dead. I might not leave you anything.’

It was still a bit early for the film, so I suggested going for a drink in the pub across the road. I got Mother settled in a corner and went to get the drinks in: an orange juice for her and half a lager for me.

'You shouldn’t be drinking and driving, Lisa. Why can’t you just have a normal drink?”

I almost said I could have done with a triple vodka, but held my tongue.

‘You were always such a naughty child and teenager: getting in trouble, the headmaster writing letters about you, the police bringing you home…’

‘That was only once, Mother! And that was a long time ago, I’ve changed a lot since then, but you only remember the distant past.’

I wished it could be reversed, her remembering the recent past instead, how I’d looked after her when she needed someone the most.

‘Sarah was such a pleasant girl, always so considerate.’

‘Come on, then Mum.’ I downed my drink in one.

‘But I haven’t finished my drink.’

‘The film will be starting, we need to rush.’

We paused outside the cinema to look at the advertising boards. Mother was looking at the poster for Black Swan.

‘What’s this one about, ballet?’

‘Yes, Mum, it’s something to do with Swan Lake.’

‘Oh, Lisa, Swan Lake. I love that ballet; I always wished I could dance and play Odette.’

‘I really don’t think it would be your cup of tea, Mum. Best stick to The Tempest, eh? Miranda and Ferdinand.’

‘No! I want to see Swan Lake. Stop telling me what to do.’

She looked like she was about to throw a full-on tantrum, so what could I do?

‘All right, Mum, if that’s what you want.’

The film was wonderful, beautifully filmed and, I thought, very artistic, a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare or Sophocles. But I knew that the grittiness and sex scenes would prove a problem. Mother kept saying ‘What’s this? It’s awful.’

I hoped she would forget it as soon as we left, but she went on about it all the way home.

‘What’s wrong with you, Lisa, taking your mother to see pornography? You should be ashamed of yourself. Sarah would never have subjected me to something like that.’

She was still berating me as I tucked her into bed. Then I went to get her hot water bottle. When I returned she seemed to have calmed down.

‘Who are you?’ she said.

‘I’m Sarah, Mum, remember? And I’m so sorry about the film.’

‘What film? What did we see?’

‘The Tempest, remember? Miranda and Ferdinand falling in love, despite all the odds.’

‘Oh, yes, Sarah. It was wonderful. Thank you for taking me, darling. I love you so much.’

She sat up and gestured for a hug. I held her tight, weeping a little.

‘I love you too, Mum, no matter what.’