The Sister

No, no, Vivien, I really can’t face meeting two strangers in one day. My spine curls in apprehension, shrinking me, as I wait these seconds for Vivien’s decision. Cynthia pushes: “Just so that next time, if you don’t happen to be around, she’ll feel she can answer the door herself.”

“I understand your concern, but I’m afraid not. My sister doesn’t want to meet you.”

Good for you, Vivien, I think. Relief softens the muscles across my shoulders.

“Forgive me, but how do you know if you haven’t asked her?” replies Cynthia.

I’m on tenterhooks. I know it’s absurd but it feels as if my little sister and the bobble-hat woman are playing a game of words at the front door, and whether or not I have to confront the woman rests on the outcome of their wit and resilience. It’s a miniature version of the card game of my life in which my hand is always played by others, some of whom are my opponents and all of whom play with the knowledge of their own hand as well as mine.

“I don’t need to ask her,” Vivien says. “She doesn’t like meeting people, especially strangers. Don’t take it personally,” she adds. “If you like I’ll tell her you called and that you seem quite friendly, albeit a little persistent.”

Well said, Vivien! I could throw flowers into the ring. Game over.

It’s clearly not over for Bobble-hat Woman. I hear her clear her throat.

“Mrs. Morris, we’re only concerned for the welfare of your sister. We don’t wish to interfere. We’ve had reports that she might not be capable of looking after herself anymore. I came to check her health. Now, if you’re not going to cooperate I’m afraid I’m going to have to write a report—”

“Her health is good. Thank you,” Vivien chips in.

“I mean her condition.”

“I’ve told you her condition is good. She’s very healthy, despite the cold winter. Look, I’m not sure who’s been reporting to you but I’m her sister and I’m looking after her now. Please don’t call again.”

“Mrs. Morris, it’s not an easy job caring for—”

Goodness gracious me! Vivien slammed the door on her. I come out of hiding hesitantly, sticking my head round the library door, brimming with gratitude and quite forgetting to pretend that I haven’t been listening. Vivien looks at me without seeing me, her back pressed firmly against the front door, as if Cynthia’s next game plan might be to batter it down. As I move closer, it’s difficult to tell if she’s barricading the door or supporting herself on it. I’m surprised to see her so shaken, but she recovers quickly enough and moves away from the door, leaving our defenses down. I wish I hadn’t shown myself. If Cynthia were to ram the door now she might get through.

“Social Services,” Vivien says with a haughty snort, as she passes me on her way to the kitchen. “Swines. Don’t ever answer the door to them, will you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer.

I follow her. I’m after the leaflets. Vivien is busy pulling pots and pans out of the kitchen cupboard.

“Did she drop off some leaflets?” I ask her.

“Yes. Do you really want them, darling?” The small wad is still gripped tightly in Vivien’s hand.

Actually, yes, I do, but something holds me back from telling her. I think she might laugh, or tease me or use it against me in a way that only she can. But I can tell she’s on the verge of screwing them up, that she thinks she deserves the gratification of ripping them to shreds. A strip of panic curls into my stomach and flutters there, slowly, like a leaf drying in autumn. For a moment I have the peculiar feeling that we are at a deadlock and a quick decision is needed—to stay calm or to take a surprise leap at her and make a grab for them. I want them that badly. They’re part of my routine.

“I thought I might take a look,” I say as casually as I can.

“Here you are,” she says, surprisingly, handing them to me, “but would you be a sweetie and help me catch some of that waterfall in the hall?”

I help her take as many vessels as we can find and place them under the curtain of water to catch the bulk of it. As soon as we’ve finished arranging them, the first few need emptying, and it’s a good half hour before the torrent has subsided enough to allow me to squirrel myself away in the library with my leaflets.

The first two I’ve seen many times:

Senior Solutions, Ltd.

Professional help with Medical Insurance, Life Insurance, long-term care insurance, Will advice, age discrimination, conservatorship and guardianship, or elderly abuse.

Aged 50 and Over?

Why not explore the chance of returning to work or training.

Then there’s a whole lot of new ones: “Senior Safety: Safety Prevention and Tips for Common Problems Facing Older Adults” “Canine Partners” “Senior Travel” “Home Alone? Home Modifications” “The Needs of the Dying” “Singles Senior, It’s Never Too Late,” www.seniorsinlove.com; “Choosing Your Nursing Home” “Activities for the Elderly” “Alzheimer’s Disease—Unraveling the Mystery.”

I stop at this. I always like to read the medical ones. Besides, I’ve often wondered how I’d know, living on my own, if I’d developed Alzheimer’s, or dementia like Clive. Without someone to tell you, how would you recognize a slow mental degeneration compared to a little bit of natural memory loss? That’s what everyone forgets these days: there’s a fine line between sanity and insanity. Lots of people are on the edge. We can’t be in perfect balance all the time. Most of us will have a little too much or too little of this or that chemical in our brains at some point. It’s part of being individual. There are no absolute norms; being too sane is most probably a type of madness in itself. Besides, who’s to be the judge of sanity? I know the villagers here have always thought the Moth Woman, and this house, slightly doo-lally, and they’ll latch on to any rumor that whirls their way. But, then, that’s how small villages have always reacted to anyone different or detached from them, and they don’t know me at all.

I study the elderly people on the front of the leaflet, sitting in a row of plastic chairs as if they’re waiting for a bus to take them away. They look fine to me, a bit bored. If you ask me, these leaflets are too quick to label people. I once read one that told me that onychophagia was a common stress-relieving BFRB. The terms alone make you want to rush off to Accident and Emergency. Then I read that onychophagia means biting your nails and BFRB stands for body-focused repetitive behavior. Surely it’s a habit, not an ailment.

I open up the leaflet and read the first paragraph: “Today the only definitive way to diagnose Alzheimer’s disease is to find plaques and tangles in brain tissue, but to look at brain tissue doctors must wait until they do an autopsy, which is an examination of the body after a person dies.”

That’s not much use, is it? So, I might have Alzheimer’s and not know it. Would I feel any different if I did? Then I go on to read that doctors can diagnose only “probable Alzheimer’s” and that one set of symptoms may have many different causes, and that an easily curable thyroid complaint may manifest similar symptoms…. I stop reading. It’s obvious no one ever really knows and that they should leave people alone to become old, not tag them with all sorts of mental illnesses.

Vivien comes into the library with a tea tray, Belinda’s pot, two cups and saucers, and some ginger biscuits she’s arranged in a circular motif round the edge of a plate. Simon trots in after her. “Anything interesting?” she asks, putting the tray down on an occasional table by the fireplace.

I read her the leaflet. “I remember the days when people just got old, or eccentric,” I comment afterwards. “They weren’t mental. Like Mr. Bernado—remember? He was often caught fishing in his underpants. Someone would just take him home again and point to the wardrobe—”

“Virginia!” Vivien reprimands me sternly. “You don’t say mental these days. It’s offensive.”

“Well, all I’m saying is that most of them went barmy but we called them eccentric. Or old. They didn’t need a medical certificate.”

“I think people have a right to know as much as they can about what’s”—Vivien pauses—“different about them.”

“Ah, but does it help them?”

“Yes. Yes, I think it does, actually,” Vivien says ardently. “I think it would. If you knew there was something wrong with you, medically, if you were actually diagnosed as intellectually challenged in some way—”

“Intellectually challenged?” I butt in, and laugh—but Vivien isn’t laughing.