Death of the Matriarch

3 June 2006

I am having lunch in the sunny garden of a friend's sister's house when I get the phone call. It's my husband.

"You need to call your mother as soon as possible. It's your gran." He can't tell me any more, hangs up. The sunlight in the garden, brilliantly hot a moment before, dims and cools. I ring Mum, my heartbeat heavy, weighted.

"Grandma's in intensive care. She's had a heart attack. I'll let you know more when we know more."

"Do you want me to come home?" I ask her.

"Hold off for awhile. I'll ring you after I speak to the doctor and know what's going on."

The afternoon seems too long; home, the place where Gran is, is too far away. I take leave of my friends, take the train home. It crawls over the fields; the heat of the day is suffocating. I still have a dinner party to attend. I walk from the station to the restaurant, stinking and sweaty; I don't have enough time to go home and change. Surrounded by in-laws, I force myself to remain cheerful; I drink a mojito. The mixture of mint, lime and rum relaxes me but doesn't take away the fear; it holds it off. This family, the one I married into, is sympathetic, kind. They treat me gently. I'm grateful.

Hours later and home again, I wait for a call from my mother. At a quarter to midnight, just dropping off into sleep, the ringing phone assaults the darkness. It's my stepfather.

"I don't know if your mother made this clear, but if you want to see your grandmother alive you need to come now. She may not make it another two days."

"Okay, I'll buy tickets tonight."

He gives me his credit card number; there's no way I'd be able to pay for myself and the kids to come, not such a long distance. I buy the cheapest tickets I can find, which make up a horrid, interrupted journey, but it's the best I can do. It's 1:30 am now. I try to go to sleep. In the end, I suppose I do.