Second Childhood
By burnett
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SECOND CHILDHOOD
'A whorehouse is what it is - they're keeping men in here! And forcing
me to sleep with them!'
The words punched me and pushed any indignant or defensive retorts down
my throat. I stared at her then moved my gaze to my mother.
'Mum,' she said firmly, 'now, you know the girls wouldn't do that. No,
they wouldn't. Now come on.' I watched her lead my grandmother away.
The accusations were, of course, outrageous, but it still hurt. There
was still pain where there should merely be understanding. It was hard,
much more so than I had thought.
'You okay?' I asked - her mouth opened but the lips wobbled and she
closed it again. 'She doesn't mean it, Sarah, it's just the dementia
speaking. It's not Nan.' Sarah had memories of Nan that I didn't - of
going to visit her, of being her granddaughter. Although the words had
hurt me, that was more to do with the words themselves, while for my
sister they were because her Nan had said them.
'How can she even say that? I know it's not really what she means,
but&;#8230;' her voice trailed off. I watched the tears trickle down
her cheeks trailing mascara with them. Her green eyes gazed into mine,
looking for answers I didn't have.
Her heart was so much bigger than mine was, and it held so many more
tears. I held her.
***
'No, Nan - that's not the way home!'
'I'll just wait for a bus then.'
'You can't! The buses don't come along this road. In any case, you'd
need a boat to get to Wales, not a bus.'
'I'm going home.' She declared.
I sighed. 'Fine, let's wait for a bus then.'
'AMY!' Sarah was running up the hill after us. 'Where are you
going?'
'Home. Apparently. We're catching the next bus from Nairobi to Wales.'
I made a face at her.
'Nan, let's go this way.' Sarah wrapped her arm around the bent back,
simultaneously taking hold of the winter coat she held in her
liver-spotted hand.
'I want to go home!'
'Yes, I'm taking you home. Come on, Nan.' She led her the way we had
marched along ten minutes earlier. Her blond hair bounced as she
prattled about the weather and the little children playing by the side
of the road that always fascinated the eighty-three year old
lady.
***
'Where's Tom?' She was walking in circles round the coffee table.
'Who's Tom?' I asked.
'My husband! He should be back from work now.' I heard my mother's
voice behind me.
'He's dead, mum.' She said gently, reaching out to hold her hands. 'He
had a stroke ten years ago.'
'Why didn't anyone tell me?' I could see the tears rising in my
mother's eyes, and I wished I could do something.
'Mum, why don't you sit down? You'll wear yourself out walking.' She
pulled her over. 'Come on.'
'NO! I will not! Who are you?' She peered at my mother behind her thick
spectacles. My mother smiled shakily.
'I'm your daughter. Grace.'
The tears suddenly trickled down Nan's weathered face. The arms that
had lifted and bathed her husband for years, that had caressed and
comforted children and grandchildren, now shook as she tried to bring
them to her face. There were moments when she denied having a daughter,
and there were moments when she knew exactly what was happening to her.
When she saw my mother's tears, and knew she was ill. Those moments
broke her heart, and in turn my mother's.
'I'm sorry, Grace. I'm such a burden to you.'
'No, mum. We love you, we love having you here.'
I left the room.
***
She lay there, still and silent. For the last few weeks I had watched
my mother spoon-feed her, change her, change the sheets after she 'had
an accident', take her to the bathroom, and now I watched as my mother
said goodbye.
It was quick, and it was the first death I ever witnessed. She just
stopped breathing - no more drama. My mum wept a few tears, and began
arrangements. I had no tears. All I could remember was the pain. The
shame of explaining her to my friends, to my neighbours, and the more
understanding they were the more it hurt me. They didn't have to live
with it. For all the pain that she caused my mother, and for all the
pain that she caused my sisters and brothers, I resented her. They knew
a Nan that made them meals and took them to the park; they had other
memories to rely on. I had memories of chasing her along the road
trying desperately to convince her to return rather than to keep
walking. I had memories of waking up in the middle of the night with a
torch shining in my eyes, and of being pushed aside with sudden
strength in very weak arms.
I watch my mother now, she can remember the good times with the
wonderful mother she had had, and can laugh at the funny times. I can't
even laugh at the funny times anymore. Now when I think of her asking
me if my Rwandan friend was speaking Welsh, or telling me that I ran a
whorehouse, I just push the thoughts back into their pit. I now have
memories of my grandmother, where previously I just had a face.
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