Mad Caps, Nuts & Crackers

Waiting outside a psychiatric unit at half seven in the evening isn’t an ideal way to end Christmas day, but it’s worse for my three teenagers. They’ve waded through floodplains of grief since our family fell apart ten months ago and their washed-out faces are beyond more tears. It’s stressful living with a mother who’s either roaring toward the stratosphere or drowning in oceans of despair. 

*  *  *

Our marital relationship was like living in New York City; it was full-on twenty-four hours a day. That sounds like fun for a long weekend, but after twenty years, I’d had enough. I’d tried to help Cathy, however, her toxic behaviour patterns never disappeared for long. My parents suggested I wasn’t helping the situation by making excuses for her and some distance might expedite matters. It was no secret to them we disagreed on most issues. We never came to blows, but we often released a phalanx of emotions, resulting in a nervous household and a home that creaked from one disaster to another. 

   “Your marriage is a rudderless ship,” my father had said, peering over his newspaper. “You’re like two sea captains arguing at the wheel in a storm.”

   I had an acute case of donor fatigue and walked away, hoping she’d change her ways. After my departure, there was no doubt Cathy’s life altered its direction. 

*  *  *

My three guys have visited the Tolworth Hospital many times and know what to do. There’s a routine checklist of essentials sellotaped to the back of the kitchen door, next to the overnight bag. They gather Cathy’s toiletries and toothbrush, pack her nightwear and underwear, and choose a couple of books, before heading off on their mission of mercy. The best strategy on a visit is to employ empathy, which roughly translates as sit and listen. They’re caring and intelligent young people, but accept it’s best to be stoic. The medical world is at a loss; they’ve run out of ideas for treating Cathy. They can’t decide whether she has a mental health issue or a hormonal problem. It’s not the only hospital Cathy’s attended and her latest admission is a voluntary section. She’s developed complex scenarios involving consultants, nurses and doctors; they’re all trying to undermine her and won’t listen to her complaints and protestations. My guys listen to their mother and their patience is commendable, however the experience is corrosive. It’s a protracted form of attrition that’s wearing them out like dripping water hollowing out a stone, not through force but through bloody-minded persistence.

*  *  *

Their little faces are impassive as my tyres crunch the gravel in hospital’s driveway and pull up in the visitors’ car park. In the silence that came after they slammed the car door, I felt a stab in my chest that took my breath away. I want to support them, but I know if I join them on the ward, all hell will break loose. 

   They’ve witnessed their parents disagree and heard us argue enough to know there’ll be tears before the end of their visit if I attend. We always had a competitive relationship, however nobody imagined it would end so acrimoniously; we don’t talk because we can’t communicate. Period. It takes very little to spark off a blazing row. I don’t have any choice tonight. And so, this evening of all evenings, I remain in the car. They won’t be too long. The visiting hours are strict at Tolworth Hospital.

*  *  *

It was my daughter, Hanna, who called me early on the twenty-third of December. 

   “Mum’s been sectioned,” she whispered. “Can you do Christmas this year, Dad?”

   “Of course,” I said, catching my breath. “What’s she organised so far?”

   “Well…” There’s a sniff. “Not much.”

   “Blimey, love.”

I was familiar with what was required. I’d done most of the shopping in previous years. The Christmas dinner didn’t intimidate me either. I’d got used to organising the meal when Cathy was otherwise engaged or recovering from our annual Christmas Eve party. It was always a fun-filled evening, which was an excuse to invite over our neighbours and local friends for drinks. There were always plenty of drinks. Cathy told everybody we’d host the event if they brought a wrapped present for their offspring and a bottle. 

   Cathy always had a way of organising and delegating people. In another life, she might have been a politician, a CEO, or a diminutive dictator. At five-feet-zero, she was a formidable presence and a bundle of irrepressible energy. I recall our first house was a doer-upper and needed a few years of TLC to restore its former dignity. We used to enjoy choosing colour schemes and décor, like a couple in love. Anyhow, there was one occasion when she’d got fed up with the mess in the rear garden and decided we’d spend a Saturday sorting it. 

   “I’ll get on the phone and invite a few friends to help and you skip off and get some beers,” she said. “We’ll get it done in no time.”

   It sounded like a splendid plan. When I returned from the off-licence, she was still on the phone and suggested I made a start out back. I assumed our friends would get round soon enough and made a start. Time passed by and having filled half a dozen bags of leaves and autumnal detritus, I paused, wondering where everybody had got to. I heard a tap on the kitchen window and turned to see our friends raising the last of the beer bottles and toasting my hard work. It wasn’t the last time I’d fall for one of Cathy’s routines.

*  *  *

Over the years, we’d assumed traditions that became regular Christmas Eve fixtures. When our guys were young, we initiated a special visit from Santa Claus. Of course, it was yours truly with a false beard, dressed in a red suit padded with pillows and chunky black motor-bike boots. The tinkle of sleigh bells announced my arrival and I uttered a throaty, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” 

   Taking a seat amongst excited toddlers, I handed out presents to our little guests, provided in secret by their accompanying parents. The wide-eyed look of wonder on the toddlers’ faces was heart-warming; they couldn’t believe their luck. I recall one anxious girl approached me. “Does this mean you won’t be coming on Christmas Day, Santa?” she whispered, clutching my sleeve and fearing the worst.

   “Don’t worry.” I said, disguising my voice. “I’ll bring presents for everyone later.”

   My guys are a bit too old for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. This year I’d be in our kitchen without a costume, peeling potatoes in Cathy’s absence.

*  *  *

It wasn’t the first occasion Cathy had gone A.W.O.L. There was one year when she thought it would be a great idea to invite my parents for Christmas. They’d always had a tense relationship, and it was an opportunity to offer an olive branch. My parents arrived in good faith on Christmas eve to witness Cathy holding court and swilling back Prosecco as if it was mineral water. They entered the spirit of the occasion and enjoyed seeing their grandchildren besiege Santa. However, it wasn’t until the next day they discovered their daughter-in-law had succumbed to “a touch of flu.” In good part, we prepared the Christmas feast and delivered restorative fluids to the ailing hostess upstairs. We believed she’d miss the meal because of her mystery illness, but just as we were about to carve the bird, Cathy graced us with her presence, having made a remarkable recovery. 

   “I feel so much better,” she said, “knowing you’ve saved the day and rustled up the turkey without me.”

*  *  *

The turkey wasn’t a problem to find, even at short notice. I’d never bought a bird this late in December, however the butcher assured me his frozen bird would defrost in time for Christmas. They were correct and at half price, it was a bargain. The various vegetables and trimmings were easy to locate too, along with pigs-in-blankets, bread sauce mix and meat stock for homemade gravy. I loaded up my car with all the goods, borrowed a collapsible six-feet tall plastic tree and three sets of lights and dashed round the local department store to buy a few stocking fillers; cosy tartan pyjamas, pocket puzzles and a few assorted smellies and trinkets to hand out during the meal. It was going to be a memorable day despite my children’s absent mother. By the morning of the twenty-fourth, I’d wrapped the gifts, repacked my car and got ready to deliver Christmas.

*  *  *

It was my daughter who acknowledged the effort. “This is nice, Dad,” she said.    

   “Actually, I’m impressed.”

   “Thanks,” I say, fixing a cheesy grin.

   “Mum always said you’d make someone a good wife.”

I blink and shake my head as if she’d thrown a glass of iced water over me.

The lads both smirk and Hanna’s phone chimes, punctuating the moment like a digital drum roll. We’ve all been expecting the call. It had to occur at some point. Across the table, I can hear the stifled sobs, and the choked words emanating from the iPhone’s mini speaker. My daughter’s rosy face drains of colour like sun-bleached painting and she avoids eye contact, lowering her voice and mutters into her iPhone. 

   “Yeah, yeah, we’re fine, Mum.” Hanna hunches forward, supporting her chin with her fist. “Yeah, of course, Dad can drive us over to see you,” she says, rolling her eyes towards me. I furrow my brow and she shrugs her shoulders. I nod. The lads leave the table and head off for their boots and jackets. It’s cold outside this evening. We set off for Tolworth in silence, passing through the deserted streets. 

It’s drizzling by the time we arrive at the hospital’s mental health unit.

They pile out and leave me in the car. 

*  *  *

I tried my best to make it a pleasant day for everyone, but I guess nobody’s perfect. It disappointed Hanna that I’d forgotten to buy table decorations and sparkling headwear. The lads complained there were no appetising nibbles before the meal and, of course, what Christmas meal is complete without crackers to pull?

So, imagine my surprise when the kids return to the car with a bulging carrier bag.

   “They had a party on mum’s ward.”

   “You’re kidding me, right?” I chuckle.

   “We told Mum you did all right.” 

   “Ah,” I say, setting my jaw. “And?”

   “She said no doubt you’d forget the important stuff.”

   “Did she now?”

   “Then she handed us this bag.”

   “What have you got there?”

   “Mad caps, nuts and crackers.”

   “Thanks.” I smile, sifting through their haul of treasures. “That’s made my day.”

The End