Crooked Sunlight Through A Crooked Window

Rose

Voices, noises drag me out of a dreamless sleep. I turn my head towards the light sensed through my closed eyelids, luxuriate in the warmth on my face. My eyes squint at the sunlight slanting through the high window, its angle strange, sharp and thin like a blade.

Where am I?

Aches and sharp pain shoot down my back as I struggle upright in a bed I don’t recognise. My hands slip over both edges of the mattress. What happened to the rest of the bed? To Edward’s side? Where is he?

Panic thumps in my chest, then I hear the flush of a toilet and smile, happiness vanquishing the anxiety. On the floor beside the bed are my slippers waiting neatly on the floor, the same pale blue ones I’ve worn for years. That’s right, isn’t it? Pale blue, the colour my daughter Lucy picked out for me last Christmas?

But the floor is all wrong — a wood patterned linoleum instead of the plush duck egg carpet at home.

My home.

So where am I?

Clutching the duvet—that’s wrong too— to my chin, I scan the room. This bed isn’t mine, neither is that ugly pine wardrobe nor that wall-mounted TV and certainly not that vase of plastic flowers. The painted walls are a soft cream, not the silvery-green and blue patterned wallpaper of my bedroom but pinned to them are photographs I recognise. There’s Edward and me on our wedding day. I look so radiant clutching Edward’s hand. There’s the picture of our three children in their school uniforms, grinning and gap-toothed, and several more of familiar faces and others of people I don’t recognise. And there’s my old clock, not on a mantle where it belongs but atop a chest. Despite the familiar objects, this room feels sterile and alien.

Why are those photos in this strange room? Why’s the clock here? I’ll ask Edward.

The door opens and a woman in a dark green uniform smiles, her teeth bright white on her brown face.

‘Good morning, Rose! How are we feeling today?’

I frown. Do I know this woman? She called me Rose, not Mrs Evans, so we must know each other well, but I don’t remember her.

I smile back, pretend to recognise her.

‘It's Wednesday,’ she says cheerily, as if that explains everything. She strides to my side, grips my shoulder, leans me forward and pops a pillow behind my back. Her movements smooth and swift like a nurse.

A nurse. I must be in hospital. But this doesn’t feel or smell overpoweringly of bleach like a hospital . If not a hospital, then what? A hotel room? Are we on holiday somewhere? How could I have forgotten that?

The word ‘where—’ shapes my mouth as I turn to the woman wheeling an overbed table with a breakfast tray. But I don’t ask the question. Nor do I ask her the more urgent one pounding inside my head — where’s Edward?

Don’t ask, Rose, I tell myself.

‘Here’s your breakfast,’ still that bright smile and cheery voice. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ She pushes the curtain all the way back. ‘A bit chilly, but at least the sun’s out.’

I nibble at the pre-buttered toast and remember Mrs Robinson from no.9 wailing as they bundled her into the waiting ambulance while her family and neighbours assured her it was for the best…

***

Lucy

Lucy’s hand hovered over the doorknob of room 14 bearing the nameplate: ROSE EVANS.

More and more often she had to steel herself — to prepare for whether her mother would know her, or not.

‘How’s she?’ she asked stepping into the path of Sara, one of the regular carers.

‘She’s good; calm today. She had a good night and ate half her breakfast. A toast and scrambled eggs. Shall I get her a coffee or hot chocolate?’

‘No, that’s fine, Sara. I’ll make it.’ She headed to the kitchenette at one end of the dining room and made tea, in a teacup with a saucer just as Rose always took it and a mug of instant coffee for herself.

Straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the door. Rose dozed in her armchair by the window bathed in the warm sunshine, her hands folded in her lap. Lucy set the beverages down and leaned to kiss her mother's cheek, inhaling the faint scent of lavender lotion.

‘Hi, Mum.’

Rose blinked awake, confusion clouding her eyes before her face lit up.

‘Lucy!’

Tension whooshed away in a sigh of relief as Lucy smiled pulled up a chair closer to her mum.

‘How you been, Mum? I’ve brought you a tea.’

‘Thank you, love.’ Rose reached out and stroked Lucy's hair. ‘You grew your hair out, just like when you were a little girl.’

Lucy laughed, blinking away the sudden prickle of tears. ‘Yes, I did.’

For a few precious minutes, they talked — about the garden Rose no longer tended, about Sunday roasts she no longer cooked. Talked about a home that no longer existed. The 3-bed semi with the long back garden of Lucy’s childhood which she called ‘home’ right until the day it became a house – an asset sold to pay for her mum’s care.

Lucy did her best to follow as her mother's memory leapt across time like stepping stones across a river: some firm, some slippery, some missing altogether.

Then the light in her eyes dimmed. She looked at Lucy blankly.

‘Have you seen my daughter?’ Rose asked, her voice quivering with anxiety. ‘She should be home by now. I’m worried.’

Lucy’s chest tightened, but she kept her smile steady. ‘I'm sure she's just fine, Mum,’ she said, taking Rose’s hand in hers. ‘She loves you very much.’

And Rose, already drifting again squeezed her hand absently.

***

Rose

‘Did you enjoy your daughter’s visit?’

I blink at the green-uniformed woman. What on earth is she talking about? Lucy’s in school.

‘My daughter?’

‘Yes, she was here just a few minutes ago. Remember?’

I shake my head, vaguely recalling a woman who looked a lot like my sister Violet and who, for some reason kept calling me ‘mum’. Was it Vi? Maybe she was talking about mum, I thought. Whoever she was, she was nice.

‘No, Lucy’s in school.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course, she is. Silly me,’ the woman smiled and drew a wheeled walker closer to Rose. ‘Shall we go to the dining room? It’s lunchtime.’

‘No, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s gammon today and you always enjoy that. Come on, stand up.’

Without further ado, she grabs my arms and pulls me to my feet, places my hands on the rubber grips of the walker and guides me out of the room. That’s when I realise something is wrong. Was I in an accident? Have a fall? My legs tremble with the weight of me and I hurt everywhere.

‘Hello, Rose. Sit here,’ said a man turning a chair around. Tall and young, he too was in a dark green uniform and spoke with an East European accent. When I do as he asked, he expertly swings the chair around to the table already occupied by an elderly man who seemed to be asleep and a woman intent on folding a white napkin. I don’t recognise them and they in turn, ignore me.

A wave of heat flashes through me and I feel my cheeks flush with annoyance. We shouldn’t have to share our table with strangers, I think. Where’s Edward? I’ll tell him to ask the waiter for a table of our own. But looking around I realise that all tables were set for four. There were no two-seaters or six or eight for that matter.

Not good enough, I fume searching for Edward – where is he? Oh, he’s probably gone to the bathroom.

I lay a hand on the empty chair beside me. ‘This is for Edward when he returns.’

***

William

‘Shall we?’ asked William, gesturing at the yawning lift as its door slid open.

Shiela drew her coat tighter around her as if to make sure it didn’t touch anything, stepped in and stood to one side. William followed and pressed the button marked 1. As the lift glided upwards, he glanced at his wife, still trim and elegant in her mid-fifties. No, more than that. She was a very attractive and sexy woman, her successful career as a marketing executive with a well-known retailer endowing her with polish and self-confidence – something which he was fast losing, especially after the chat he’d had with his director earlier that afternoon.

William had only himself to blame, he knew that. He’d seen the signs clearly enough – the drop in sales and clients, dwindling profits and cost cuts over the past two years. He should have jumped ship then but reluctance to abandon a 20-year job and inertia was his undoing. The redundancy package was good, but what then? Not many prospects out there for a 58-year-old engineer in an arena of bright young contenders.

He dreaded the conversation they must have when they returned home tonight, but first, he had to face what waited for him upstairs.

The couple wrinkled their nose at the smell of disinfectant underlaid with the odour of urine and faeces. Breathing through their mouth they trekked the long hotel-like corridor with its mint-green walls studded with large, framed prints of still-life and happy landscapes and console tables displaying colourful biscuit tins and a variety of cheerful but unbreakable objet d’art.

William knocked and pushed open the door to his mother's world, shrunk down to four walls, a few photographs and knick-knacks.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands worrying at the hem of her sweater. She looked up and her face broke into a smile so wide and brilliant it knocked his breath.

‘Edward!’ she cried.

William froze, his father's name punching him in the guts. He sat beside her and took her hand.

‘No, Mum. It's me. It's Will.’

She laughed — a bright, musical laugh that took him back to his childhood.

‘You’re silly, Edward,’ she said, her bony fingers tightening the grip on his hand. ‘Will’s at school. Where have you been?’

‘I just got off work, mum.’

Her eyes slid to Sheila who’d come to stand beside William.

‘Who’s this?’ Rose’s features tightened and her eyes narrowed.

William slipped an arm around his wife’s waist and drew her closer. ‘You remember, Sheila, mum. My wife.’

‘Your what? What d’you mean, your wife? I’m your wife! Wha—what are you doing with her?’

Rose’s voice rose to a crescendo, her arms flailing at Sheila who backed away.

‘Oh mum, stop, please. Please listen. I’m not Dad. I’m Will, your son. Sheila’s my wife, your daughter-in-law and we have two children, your grandchildren, Emma and Joe.’

But Rose was beyond reasoning, her mind selecting the barbs that hurt the most.

‘Oh Edward, how could you? How could you? You left me to marry her? What about Lucy and Will? What will I tell them?’

Rose’s hysteria brought two carers rushing in, while William, with a muttered, ‘oh God, I can’t do this—,’ pushed past them dashing away his tears.

‘What happened?’ asked Sara.

Shiela’s explained while Rose continued to profane and scream ‘get out, get out!’

***

Rose

Something happened but I can’t remember what. I’m alone in a strange bed propped with pillows on both sides. Where? Despite the familiar pictures on the wall, I know this isn’t my bedroom. And that clock that should be on my black marble mantle above the gas fireplace is in the wrong place. This isn’t home.

My gaze locks on the clock’s seconds hand jerking to its next point, shuddering to a stop before lurching uphill, labouring it way to 12 and back down again. In the silence, its ticks are comfortingly loud, marking my time as it has always done.

My memory flickers with images of an Aga in an oak kitchen on dark slate floors and a bright yellow feature wall overlooking a long garden crammed with colour, clothes on a rotary line fluttering in the breeze. Seated at the matching oak table are Edward, Lucy and Will, laughing at Will’s childish joke.

They disappear and I’m once again surrounded by blandness. People outside calling and chatting to each other. I hope they don’t come in, but I know they will.

Something changed today. I lost something – no, someone. Edward has gone, left me. I’ll never see him again. The ache in my heart tells me I’ve lost Will too. Did he too die? I’m not sure, but the certainty that I won’t see my son again is undeniable.

Lucy – she’ll be here for as long as I need her. She’s a good girl and it’s time to let her go. The decision settles me. But until then, I’ll return home to a place that doesn’t exist anymore. But that’s OK. It won’t be for long.

I twist my head to gaze at the last of the day’s crooked sunlight streaming in through the crooked window.

***