‘What kind of things?’
‘It’s quite ridiculous. Sometimes she says she is trying to kill her.’
‘But Rose hasn’t seen Mum for more than ten years.’
Teresa laughs. ‘It sounds stupid, but in the moment, she believes it. The best thing is to not make a fuss and just try to keep her calm.’
‘What else does she say?’
‘Lately she’s been talking about a little boy called Billy.’
I feel myself stiffen. ‘What did she say about him?’
‘She’s brought it up a number of times. She says that Billy drowned. Or apparently drowned. But it was actually murder.’ She laughs sadly before I have the chance to react. I glance back through the door at Mum.
‘She was getting herself quite upset,’ Teresa says, needlessly.
‘What should I do?’
‘The best way to handle it, in my experience, is to act as though what she is saying is true and you are taking it seriously. Most likely, she will then forget about it and move on.’
‘Okay.’
Teresa smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Fern. I know it sounds strange, but honestly, confabulation is very common. In a few minutes, she’ll have forgotten the lot.’
I look back at Mum, still dabbing her eyes. But what if it’s not confabulation? I wonder. What do we do then?
*
That night, Rose and I make spaghetti bolognaise. I wear the goggles Wally gave me while I chop the onion, and I don’t cry a single tear. Rose rolls her eyes at me, but I don’t care. I like wearing them.
‘I saw Mum today,’ I say to Rose as I dice.
‘Hmm?’ Rose pauses from grating a carrot and fiddles with her rose bracelet. ‘Ugh. This clasp is driving me crazy.’
‘You need to fix it,’ I say. ‘We’re not supposed to ever take them off.’ The only time we’d ever taken them off, in fact, was when I’d got them adjusted to fit our adult wrists, as an eighteenth birthday present to us both.
‘What did you say about Mum?’ Rose asks.
‘Oh. She was talking in sentences,’ I say. ‘Actual sentences. She’s been having electromagnetic therapy. It’s the new speech therapist she’s been seeing.’
Rose stops fiddling with the bracelet. ‘What is she saying?’
‘She can repeat things that Teresa says–’
‘Who?’
‘Her speech therapist.’ I feel a whisper of irritation. ‘You would know if you’d visited her.’
Rose blinks. For a moment I think she’s going to argue with me but instead she says, ‘So she’s repeating things?’
‘Yes and she can ask for a drink, say she’s hot, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh.’ Rose turns her back to me, slicing the top of a zucchini.
‘Teresa also said she mentioned Billy, Rose. And murder.’
Rose keeps her back to me, but she becomes still.
‘I’m worried, Rose. What if someone suspects something?’
Now Rose turns. ‘Well, what did Teresa say? Did she seem concerned?’
I shrug. ‘She says confabulation is common among patients with acquired brain injuries.’
‘Confabulation?’ Rose’s bracelet falls off her wrist and clatters against the floor. She swears under her breath.
‘She thinks Mum’s brain created a story. She says it’s common for people with acquired brain injuries.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
Rose exhales. ‘Of all the things Mum could talk about with her new-found speech. She really does have a gift for ruining our lives.’ Rose bends over and picks up the bracelet.
I hesitate. ‘Rose?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Was she really a bad mum?’
Rose looks at me. ‘You know she was.’
When I don’t respond, she looks aghast.
‘Fern, she neglected us terribly. She dragged awful boyfriends in and out of our lives. For god’s sake, she overdosed on pills leaving us without even one parent who could care for us!’
‘You’re right.’
‘Hallelujah.’
‘But . . .’
‘But nothing.’ Rose groans.
‘I get the sense that she’s sorry for what she did. I think she loves us, Rose.’
Rose throws up her hands. ‘Agree to disagree, then. I know that you want to have a relationship with her, Fern, but trust me, she’s not a good person. There are things you don’t understand.’
Rose waits for a response from me, so after a few seconds, I nod. After all, there must be things I don’t understand. Because as I look back over my memories of Mum, at least ninety per cent of them are good.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
As I’ve been reliving my childhood in excruciating detail for this damn journal, walking down Memory Lane – or Nightmare Avenue – has brought back all kinds of details, in vivid technicolour. But my therapist doesn’t want me to skip over anything – not a single thing – including the night that everything changed, and the hours leading up to it. So . . .
Fern didn’t talk to me the day after she saw Billy and me kissing . . . She made basic conversation (‘Pass the tomato sauce’, ‘No thanks, I don’t want to go to the river’), but things were frosty enough that even Mum and Daniel noticed something was up.
‘What’s going on with you kids?’ Daniel asked over lunch.
‘Nothing,’ the three of us said in unison.
‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked.
‘Yep.’
That was our line and we were sticking to it, at least where Mum was concerned. But even in private, Fern wasn’t talking. It was strange. I was starting to get the feeling that I was right when I suspected Fern liked Billy. And now she was mad at us.
‘Come on, kids, snap out of it,’ Daniel said, finally. ‘It’s your last night. Go swim. Go on. Off with you.’
We tried to protest, saying we were tired, but Mum and Daniel were adamant. I think they wanted some privacy.
We walked to the river in single file. Billy got straight into the water, keen to get away from the obvious tension. I sat on the riverbank beside Fern and waited. One thing I knew about Fern was that she wouldn’t talk until she was ready.
After an hour had passed and she still hadn’t talked, I felt nature call. Billy was showing no signs of getting out of the water – splashing and swimming and swinging from the rope – so I headed deep into the trees. After everything
