The Broken Ones (4 page)

“Are you sure?” She wipes her wet cheeks and grasps for her handbag on the coffee table.

“Of course.”

The front door slams before we’re even halfway up the stairs. It’s not like I’m not used to being alone with my mother—that’s how it’s been for pretty much all of my life—but now it feels very lonely.

“Do you remember Dad?” The question pops out before I can retrieve it. I tense up as we shuffle through the bedroom door and Mum sits on the edge of the bed. Even before the Alzheimer’s, Mum hated talking about my father. I don’t remember much about him, only that he committed suicide when I was very young. Mum was furious about him leaving her with a child to take care of. She barely spoke about him ever again.

“Soft,” she says. “Soft eyes. Soft will.” She shakes her head. “I never told you.”

“Told me what?” I turn to face her so I can see the expression on her face. It’s such an odd thing to say. Ominous, even, suggesting there are secrets in our past.

“What are you talking about?” she asks.

I sigh. Whatever secrets my mother has will probably stay that way. I’m not sure she’ll ever be coherent enough to tell me. I peel off her cardigan and help her onto the bed.

“Mum, what’s…” I examine her arms. There are purple marks all over her skin. Bad ones. Her arms are more purple than the usual sallow pink of her skin. “What happened to you?”

“I already told you,” she says. “It was the shadow.”

In my late twenties and early thirties, I watched my friends have children. I don’t have many friends, at least not anymore, but there were people I’d kept in touch with after uni, as well as my colleagues at the school. I’d ask them how they did it, how they survived on no sleep when their little ones went through troubled nights. How did they get up for work the next day and act like a human being? Most people admitted it was hard and that they did it because they had no other choice. Others gave me soppy answers, that they ran on “love and cuddles”, which—broody as I was back then—brought up a little of my lunch.

Alisha put it best. When her little boy, Dan, was two years old, he had difficulty sleeping through the night. She told me one day when she was particularly exhausted that there is no magic way of dealing without sleep. Our bodies need it. Sure, we can run on fumes, caffeine, and sheer force of will for a while, but it changes us. We become snappy and argumentative to those we love. But it makes you prioritise everything in life. It gets rid of the bullshit.

I’m not there yet. I’m still able to sleep. I have to get up in the night to reassure Mum again that there’s no one in her room, checking every nook and cranny so she can relax, but I still manage a good few hours before the alarm goes off. I’m tired; my limbs feel heavier than usual, and it takes me a while to come round, but I have enough energy to face the day. What worries me is the niggle in the back of my mind. I can’t run on “love and cuddles”. Caring for a person suffering with this terrible disease is not full of joy and kisses. Where am I going to find that last bit of energy? How am I going to survive when it all gets to be too much?

Part of me didn’t expect Erin to come back. I braced myself for a new nurse to knock on the door this morning. But Erin enters the house with a little wave to me and a hesitant smile to Mum.

I hand her a cup of tea. “About yesterday—”

“It’s my fault,” she says. “I’ve been trained to handle patients when they’re being difficult. It all happened so suddenly that I got overwhelmed.”

“Erin.” I sigh, wrapping my hand around my mug for warmth. “Mum is more than difficult; I know that. And I know that not all of it is from the Alzheimer’s. Some of her nastiness is just her. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I wish there was more I could do.”

“It’s fine,” she says. I can see the effort she’s putting into trying to sound breezy. I can see how her smile is forced. I wouldn’t want her job either.

“I’m going to take her back to the doctor soon. Maybe there’s something he can prescribe to make her calmer.”

“Oh, no,” Erin replies. “I wouldn’t want her to suffer because of me. She’s still herself a lot of the time. I’d hate to take that away from her.”

I think of Mum as herself. I think of her sharp eyes and sharper tongue. Perhaps there’s a part of me that would enjoy taking that away, but I shake the thought away. It’s a nasty, bitter thought that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“And don’t worry about the bruises. They seem bad, but I checked, and her movement is fine. She has quite delicate skin, as older people tend to have. I know you had to restrain her, so don’t worry about it.” I stop talking and watch as Erin’s expression changes to utter shock. Her eyes widen and she tugs on an earring.

“What bruises? I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you must have bruised her arms when you stopped her getting out of the house. Like I said, it’s fine. I know you’d never intentionally hurt Mum, and you had to stop her leaving or she might have run out into the road or worse.”

“But I didn’t restrain her.” Erin’s voice is high-pitched and agitated. There’s a red flush working its way up her neck. “I would never hurt her. She hurt me by hitting me on my arm, but I didn’t even mention it because—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. I noticed a few bruises when I put her to bed yesterday, and I presumed… I’m sure it happened some other way. Did you see her bang herself? Walk into any furniture?”

“No,” she says, rubbing a hand across her neck. “I didn’t see anything like that, and I was watching her the entire time. I don’t know how she could have hurt herself like that. I’ll take a look at them today, if you like.”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

The silence that follows is tense and awkward. Erin sips her tea without meeting my gaze. I check my phone and realise I’m going to be late for work if I don’t hurry, so I slip up the stairs. As I shimmy out of my dressing gown and turn on the shower, I try to ignore the creeping sense of unease that washes over me. Firstly, I initiated a change in our relationship by accusing Erin of hurting Mum. I hadn’t meant it to be an accusation. I was so sure that she’d had to restrain Mum that I made a presumption and put my foot in it. Secondly, if it wasn’t Erin, and Mum didn’t bang into any furniture during the day, how did she get the bruises?

*

While I usually like to get my kids to interact in the classroom, there are times when it’s nice to let them read quietly while I finish marking. Today I decide that the afternoon lesson can be half reading their books quietly to themselves, and the other half reading passages aloud to the class with a little discussion afterwards. I know that every teacher tries to get the shy kids out of their shell a little, and pretty much every teacher fails to do so, but I have a few children that I’d like to read aloud today. It’s tough for them, I know, but I worry about how they’ll interact with the world when they’re older. I remember the first time I had to speak aloud in a professional capacity and how terrified I was. I don’t want them to feel that way.

“Okay, I need some volunteers. Who’s going to read the first paragraph? How about you, Chloe?”

I ignore the other hands that go up. I know Ben will read it in a funny voice and probably insert a few fart noises. Alice will sit up straight and put on her poshest voice, showing off for the rest of the class. It’s not Alice and Ben that I worry about. It’s Chloe. The girl the other ones ignore. The girl who stares out of the window with a woeful expression.

The girl who stares at me with a look of abject terror on her face. “Which bit, Miss?” She moves around in her seat and picks up the book, pretending to search for the paragraph in question.

“At the top of the page, Chloe. It starts with ‘The penguins…’.”

She stares intently at the page. Her fingers pull the book apart, stretching the spine. She finally lifts her head and says, “Can Jessie read it?”

The class breaks out into giggles.

“That’s enough,” I say in my sternest voice. “Would it help if Jessie read the paragraph?”

Chloe nods her head up and down. My heart sinks. She’s so behind the others in literacy and numeracy that I’m not sure how I’m going to help her.

“Then you can read it as Jessie if you like.” I use my kind but serious voice to try to stop any giggling or nonsense from the rest of the class. “Off you go.”

“The…. Pen… Gins,” she begins.

Unfortunately, as she speaks as her imaginary friend Jessie, she uses an odd, nasal voice that makes most of the class spasm with barely controlled silent laughter. I give Ben an icy stare as he begins to open his mouth to speak. I shush others who can’t keep their laughter quiet.

“That’s okay, Chloe. You’re doing well.” I nod at her, encouraging her to go on when she trips over words. Finally, she comes to the end of the paragraph. “Well done, Chloe. That was great. Okay, who’s next? How about you, Alice?” A safe bet. Alice is far too in need of approval from me to make fun of Chloe’s reading. She picks up where Chloe left off, pronouncing each word with aplomb.

I hardly hear her. I’m watching Chloe. She doesn’t even appear to be aware of the rest of the class. She’s scribbling notes on scrap paper and showing them to an invisible person sat next to her. Then she smiles.

“…and that is why penguins are the only bird…”

The bell goes, snapping me out of my reverie. “Okay, guys, off to break time you go. No running in the corridor.” I wait in my seat as the children rush out of the room, finally free to laugh as loud as they want. They’re fuelled by the held-in excitement. Friends turn to each other and whisper about Chloe. Others imitate her odd voice. I wait until Chloe is passing my desk and then I ask her to stop for a moment.

“How are you, Chloe? You’re a little withdrawn from the class today.”

“I’m okay,” she says.

“You read well today. I’d like you to keep practicing your reading, okay?”

She nods.

If there’s any trace of embarrassment or sadness from today’s class, I can’t see it. She’s impassive but clearly uncomfortable talking to me. She’d rather be hidden away with Jessie in some corner of the playground.

“What about your parents? Are they okay?” I ask.

“They’re fine.” She stares down at her hands.

“Have fun at break today. Are you going to play with the others?”

She shakes her head. “Just Jessie.”

I catch movement in the corner of my eye. Alisha stands in the doorway waving.

“Okay, well, see you in class after break,” I say, dismissing Chloe.

Alisha strides into the classroom and perches on one of the front desks. She watches Chloe leave the room, shutting the door behind her like I ask the children to do if they’re last out of the classroom. I like a few moments of peace.

“That kid gives me the creeps.” She unwraps a chocolate bar and tucks in.

“I’m trying to get her to interact with the other kids, but nothing I do works. In fact, I end up making it worse. Now they’re all teasing her.” I sigh and run my fingers through my hair.

“The parents have hired a child psychologist,” Alisha says. “She seems disturbed, if you ask me.”

“Well, at least the psychologist might be able to do something. They’ll be more help than I am, anyway.”

“Hey, you want to go for a coffee after work? I’ll get you a mocha and a bun.” Alisha waggles her eyebrows at me, trying to entice me out.

“I can’t. I need to be at home after Mum’s bad episode yesterday.”

“You need some time away from her
and
work,” Alisha says. “You look like you’re about to burn out.”

“I’ll be okay,” I reply, wondering whether that’s a lie.

“Be careful, Soph. You can’t fix everyone who makes you feel sorry for them.”

*

I’m playing Alisha’s words over and over in my mind as I make my way home from work. Is that what I’m trying to do? Fix everyone around me? Is that why I worry about Chloe, even though she isn’t my child? My mind is not on the road, and I cut off a driver when I pull out of a junction. There’s a loud beeping of the horn from behind me, so I put my foot down and hurry along.

With everything that’s going on, it’s only natural for my imagination to run wild. Perhaps I’m unintentionally seeking out problems where I don’t need to. Chloe has parents and a family. I should leave her in their safekeeping.

Her face is on my mind as I pull onto my street and search for a parking space. Only a few houses have driveways. The streets are cramped with cars.

Then it comes to me.

Chloe reminds me of myself when I was a child.

School was difficult for me. I didn’t have many friends; I was withdrawn. I even had an imaginary friend when I was little. What I want is to go back and help the younger version of me.

The thought is unsettling, but it’s true. I put it to the back of my mind as I park the car, unclip my seatbelt, and make my way into the house. There haven’t been any calls from Erin, so I assume everything has gone smoothly today. Still, my body is strung tight as I open the door and call out hello. I’m half expecting Erin and Mum to be going at it hammer and tongs, each trying to strangle the other, with their eyes wide and bloodshot. But all is quiet. Mum is on the sofa, zonked out in front of one of her soaps. Erin is wiping down the dining table with a cloth.

“She spilled her tea,” Erin says.

I can’t help but notice that she’s not meeting my eyes, and she’s wiping down the table rather vigorously. “Can I make you a cuppa?”

“Not today. I’ve got to get home. Josh is cooking dinner tonight.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Erin moves across the kitchen and squeezes out the cloth in the sink.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” I say. “I got the wrong end of the stick. Completely.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She puts the cloth back on the draining board and dries her hands with a towel. “Looks like your phone is ringing.” She gestures to where I left it on the kitchen side. “I’d best be off. I’ll see you in the morning.”

There’s not much more I can say, so I let her leave, hoping that she’ll forgive me after sleeping on it. Peter’s name is on my screen again. I take a deep breath. It’s time to put a stop to all this. I try to shake out the nerves, and then answer the phone.

“Hello,” I say.

“Sophie!” He sounds so excited to hear my voice that my heart almost skips a beat. “I was so worried.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t got back to you, Peter. It’s just… well, I’ve been busy with my mum.”