A good day, I have learned, can mean a vast range of things. It can mean Mum is happy to see me and will attempt conversation, or it could mean she is quiet and doesn’t say a word. She is rarely aggressive or combative and I’m grateful because apparently that isn’t always the case with people in this ward.
Mum’s door is ajar, and I knock lightly then push it open. Mum is in a wheelchair in the corner, dressed in a pair of grey trousers and a white blouse that is turning a little yellow. Her hair has been brushed and is pinned back, which makes it look very grey around the temples. She’s even wearing shoes, the black Velcro ones with white socks underneath. It does indeed appear to be a good day.
‘Hello, Fern,’ Teresa says.
Teresa is Mum’s new speech pathologist. She was twenty-seven years old when I’d asked last time I saw her. She has a thick brown ponytail, a singsongy voice and lots of ideas for ways to improve Mum’s speech. Today, for example, there is a machine beside Mum’s chair, which is attached to a long cord. At the end of the cord is a flat circular object that hovers over Mum’s head.
‘What’s all this?’
‘Transcranial magnetic stimulation,’ Teresa says. ‘We did it last week too. Your mother is responding very well to it. Watch.’
She holds up a flashcard showing a picture of an apple.
‘A-pple,’ Mum says.
‘Now this one.’ Teresa holds up a flashcard of a lion.
‘Lion,’ Mum says.
I am impressed. Because of Mum’s brain damage, speaking is hard for her now. Usually she pauses before each word as if gathering strength, and then her mouth stretches wide around each syllable. Even with all the effort, her pronunciation is hollow sounding and requires extreme concentration to understand. But these words come out remarkably clearly.
Mum looks at me. ‘Pop . . . pet!’ she says, with painful slowness.
Mum started calling me ‘Poppet’ after the overdose. I think it’s because she sometimes doesn’t remember my name; Mum had never used affectionate nicknames for us before. But a lot of things have changed about Mum. She smiles more now. She is easily delighted, reminding me of a much older lady, or a younger child. She’s actually very good company, most days.
Mum’s overdose happened sixteen years ago. She took the pills in the evening, and Rose and I didn’t even think about it when she didn’t get up in the morning. Mum had never been a morning person. At midday, we helped ourselves to lunch. In the afternoon, we toyed with the idea of waking her, but Rose was nervous about upsetting her. She had a point – Mum was always cranky when we woke her up.
It was 9 pm that night when we finally knocked on Mum’s door. By then she’d been in a coma for hours. Too many hours, they told us later. I called the ambulance, because Rose was mute with shock. It was perhaps the only time in our lives when I was the one to step up in a moment of emergency.
We found out later that Mum had overdosed on valium and alcohol and her brain had been irreparably damaged. A few weeks later, Mum was moved to a permanent care facility and Rose and I were bounced around foster homes until we were eighteen.
‘Well,’ Teresa says in her singsongy voice. ‘I think that’s enough for one day, Nina. You should be very proud of yourself.’
‘You should, Mum,’ I agree. ‘I haven’t heard you sound so clear in . . . years.’
Teresa beams. ‘If she continues to improve at this rate, she’ll be speaking in full sentences by the end of the year. I can’t wait to have a good old chitchat with her, hear all her stories.’
Teresa removes the round thing from Mum’s head and starts fiddling with the machine. Mum looks at me. ‘Where . . . you . . . sis . . . ter?’
Mum asks this every time. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t remember that Rose never visits, or if she just hasn’t given up hope. In the early days after her accident, it had been a requirement that our various foster parents bring us for weekly visitation, but the day Rose turned eighteen, she stopped coming. (‘Mum unsettles me,’ she said when I asked her why. It must be one of those things I don’t understand, because I never feel unsettled by Mum. To the contrary, our hour of unthreatening, halted conversation is one of the most settled parts of my week.)
‘Rose is in Europe,’ I say.
Mum’s eyes widen, which means she is interested.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘She’s gone to visit Owen. He’s taken a job there this year and Rose is visiting him for four weeks.’
I’m grateful that today I don’t have to lie about Rose’s whereabouts. Often, when I tell Mum that Rose isn’t coming, her eyes fill with tears. Her emotions are unpredictable since her overdose, happiness to tears in an instant. I wish Rose would just come in and visit.
‘Owen?’ Mum frowns. ‘Eur-ope?’
‘Yes, he’s taken a job there,’ I repeat. ‘Anyway, Rose is just visiting him. She will be back at the end of the month.’
Mum doesn’t reply.
Sometimes I am sad that Mum doesn’t say much. Sometimes, like Teresa, I’d like to have a full conversation with her and see what she has to say. Sometimes she seems so frustrated by the fact that she can’t talk, she clenches her fists and grinds her jaw. Other times, she seems like she’s made her peace with her disability, and just sits there and let’s my chatter wash over her. During those times, I have to admit, I like the fact that I can talk and talk and never have
