Homemade Marmelade

When somebody knocks on my bedroom door, I wake up but I don't open my eyes. Not yet. I can sense that it is day, there are flashes of light in front of my closed eyelids, and I can hear the birds chirping outside. I always leave my window ajar during the night and I never close the curtains. I want to know what is going on outside. Someone told me just recently that I should better close it because it's cold in November and my lungs wouldn't welcome the icy breeze coming in while I'm asleep. Who was that again? I can't remember. Maybe it was James, my older son. He is not here now. He is at university, studying to become a doctor. But he would say something like that, he is always so concerned.

The knocking on the door repeats, then I hear the door open. Who would come in while I am asleep? James is not here, I know that, and neither is Martha, is she? I try to remember what she told me the last time we talked but I can't. She's with friends, probably, she doesn't spend a lot of time at home now. Teenagers, you know how they are. I hear steps coming into the room, moving closer and closer to my bed, and open my eyes to see who it is.

The lights are blinding and I am tempted to close my eyes again. I blink and wait for my surroundings to become clear. I realise that I am not at home. The walls are white and empty where the floral tapestry should be and there are none of my children's drawings on them. Everything is a little bit familiar, but it isn't what I expected, it isn't home. My gaze wanders to the windows and I am relieved that I can remember the view. There's a small, very neatly maintained garden out there, a little fountain surrounded by a perfectly symmetrical circle of trees. Cedars, I think. Or was it cypresses? When I woke up I had a faint notion in my brain that it was winter, but that is evidently wrong. The trees look lush and green and warm, bright sunshine is reflected in the water of the happily sprinkling fountain. I wonder for a moment why James would have warned me about the cold if it isn't cold outside, but then a voice interrupts my thoughts. There was someone in my room, I remember suddenly, that's the reason I woke up! "Mrs Woods?", the voice is saying, "Good morning, Mrs Woods, would you like to have your breakfast now? You have visitors at ten, so you could eat before, if you'd like. Mrs Woods? Is everything alright?" The talking continues but I don't listen. Who is that? A woman, young, but older than Martha. Short brown hair, wearing jeans and a white shirt. She is smiling at me but it seems forced. I stare at her and she drops the smile completely, a look of worry in her hazel eyes. I have always liked to look at people's eyes. They tell you so much about a person - and no two pairs are the same. I am pretty sure that I have seen this woman's eyes before but I couldn't say where. Or when. "Hello", I say, "Who are you?" She smiles again but it looks more like a sigh. I smile back, a little wobbly. I am confused. "Mrs Woods, don't you remember me?", she says, "I'm Louisa. I've been looking after you for three months now." I tilt my head slightly and stare at her again. "No", I say finally, "I don't know you. And I don't need you to look after me. I can look after myself. And my children." She blinks a few times, then smiles again. "Of course. That's what I was telling you just a minute ago. Your children are coming around later today. They have a little surprise for you." She places a plastic tray on my nightstand. It holds a plate, a napkin, a knife, a teaspoon, a little basket with bread and a few of those preportioned containers with jam and butter. I try to connect a word with every item on the tray. It helps me focus. "Knife", I mumble to myself, "Knife, spoon, butter, apricot jam." I know them all. I smile. Louisa smiles back. "Have a nice breakfast", she says and leaves me alone with my meal.

I eat all my breakfast. It tastes alright but a bit boring. Then I slowly stand up and go to the window. I wonder about the woman I just talked to. She was nice, I think. What was her name again? I don't remember. She probably didn't say. But she said that James and Martha are coming later. I remember that, very clearly. James and Martha, I tell my self again and again, James and Martha are coming. I find a pen on the bedside table and I write the names down. Just so I don't forget. I don't know when the last time I saw either of them has been. James is studying to be a doctor. Or did he graduate already? I am not sure. I think he might have. I remember the pride I felt when he got his final diploma. Yes, now I am quite certain he did graduate. But if James graduated, then Martha would be, what, twenty-three? Isn't she still in school? I am confused again. I think and think but everything just doesn't seem to fit. I will ask them later.

I don't know how much time has passed when there is another knock on the door. I had closed my eyes but I hadn't fallen asleep. I open them and see that someone has written two words on the bedside table. James and Martha. I know who they are - they are my children. But why are their names on the table? And who would write onto furniture, anyways? Don't they know how hard that is to clean? At least it's not wood. The door opens and a woman walks in. She is young and has short brown hair and hazel eyes. "Hello again", she says, " They are here now." She smiles and takes a tray from my bedside table. I think it carried food - there is a used napkin on it and a plate full of breadcrumbs. "Who are you?", I ask and follow her with narrowed eyes as she places the tray on a little trolley. "I'm Louisa", she says, "but look who came here to see you." And she opens the door widely, rolls the trolley out into the corridor and disappears behind it with yet another smile.

As soon as she has left, someone else comes into the room. Three people, to be exact. A man, tall and of middle age, who looks a lot like Michael, my husband, but before he died in the war, and a blonde woman in a red jacket with a toddler on her hand. A little boy, I think. The man and the woman smile at me and the child hides behind his mother's legs and looks at me shyly from in between. "Hello", the man says, comes over to my bed and leans down to kiss my cheek. "How are you?" I stare at him for a moment. "Michael?", I whisper, and he looks back at me with a sad expression in his eyes. Then I remember the names on my bedside table and correct myself. "James!", I say, and a wide smile appears on my lips. "You are so old!" "Thanks, Mum", he says and grins, then steps aside to let the woman come forward. She hugs me and I know it is Martha now. I wonder how I could ever have forgotten. Her arms are warm and familiar and I vividly remember holding her in mine when she was just a little girl. "Hi, Mum", she says then turns to the little boy whose black curls I can just make out at the foot of the bed. "Do you remember Robbie, Mum?", Martha asks and stretches her hand out to him. "Say hi to Grandma Maggie, will you?" I stare at the boy. No, I don't remember him but I don't want to admit it. Martha's eyes are full of hope, she wants me to know her son and I don't want to disappoint her. "I think I do", I say and an expression of relief mixed with pride flashes over her face, "How old is he now?"

For a few minutes they just sit next to my bed and we talk. It is great to be with them but at the same time I wonder if they know how confused I am. I don't want them to know. I am their mother, after all, and all the time it feels like they are worried about me, treating me with kid gloves. It seems wrong. I should be there for them, I should know what is happening in their lives. I don't want to say "I don't remember" every time they tell me anything about themselves. James talks about his work. He is a doctor now, has been practising for almost eleven years, he says. I could have sworn he had just graduated. Martha tells me about Robbie. He is three, she says, and has just started kindergarten. Surely I remember coming to his birthday party last year? I don't but I not my head and smile. Robbie is nice. He talks to me as well, but I don't understand a lot of what he says so I just laugh and hold his hand. Then, James says, "Look, Mum, I'm sorry I didn't make it yesterday, it's terrible manners, but we still have a little surprise for you." Yesterday? I am even more confused. What was yesterday? I stare at James and he grins again and reaches for his bag on the floor. I look at Martha. "What does he mean?", I ask, trying to look more reassured than I am, "Why yesterday? Martha smiles at me. "It was your birthday yesterday, Mum", she says, "but we both had to work, so we couldn't come and well, we are here now, aren't we?" My birthday? I think hard but I have no memory of celebrating my birthday the day before this one. "Oh", I say, because I don't know what else to do. James now takes a small present out of his bag and hands it over to Robbie. "Do you want to give it to Grandma?", he asks and the boy grabs the package and holds it out to me. "Happy birthday!", he mumbles, his eyes going from my eyes to the floor and back again. "Thank you, dear!", I say and take it from him. The wrapping paper is pastel blue and has sparkly dots on it. I like how they reflect the light. I turn it around in my hands and find the line, where the paper is held together with tape. My fingers are a bit shaky but I manage to pull the tape off and open the package. It is a jar filled with orange marmalade. "Homemade with love", is handwritten on a small, heart-shaped label. "It's marmalade", Martha says, "Robbie helped making it, didn't you, honey?" "We used your old recipe", James adds, "You remember when you used to make it for literally every one of our neighbours for Christmas?" I stare at the jar in my hands. "Can I eat this?", I ask and they laugh. James nods and opens the jar for me, because I struggle with the lid. "Should we ask Louisa for some bread and a knife?", Martha proposes and stands up. "Who?", I ask and reach for the jar again. Martha sighs. "You must know Louisa", she says and sits down again. "The woman who let us in?" I stare at the jar and think hard. I don't remember them coming in at all. It is as if they had been here, next to me, all the time. 

The jar in my hands is open. It contains orange marmalade, I think. Suddenly I feel very hungry. Did I have breakfast today? I'm not sure. I lift the jar to my face and hold it under my nose. It smells heavenly. Sweet and bitter at the same time, a perfect blend that makes me close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. The scent takes me back, back in time, and suddenly I am sitting at the kitchen table in my grandmother’s house, a white apron around my body and a knife as long as my forearm in hands. I am nine years old again and Grandma is standing behind me, a hand on my shoulder, as I carefully peel the skin off one of the oranges she has placed in front of me. “Always move the knife away from your body", she says and I roll my eyes. “I know", I say, “You’ve said that so many times I don’t even know how many.” Even though I cannot see her face, I know that she is smiling. “You listen to your old Grandma, my girl”, she says, gently squeezing my shoulder, “And one day you will be the one teaching your children how to make marmalade!” 

“Mum?” A voice pulls me out of my memories. I open my eyes. “Martha?”, I ask, “James?” They are there, both of them, looking at me with a mixture of anticipation and concern. “Do you like it?”, James says, his hand indicating a jar of marmalade I am currently holding. Where did it come from? I stare at him for a moment, he looks different somehow, more mature than when I last saw him. “Like what?”, I reply, confused. Martha sighs and takes the jar out of my hands. “The smell", she says, “Do you like it?” I nod and they smile with relief. The little boy sitting next to Martha suddenly looks at me and says, “I made it!” “After your old recipe", James adds. I stare at them. I made that marmalade, I am sure of it. Back at Grandma's place. I would recognise the smell anywhere, the rich contrast between bitter and sweet. I look around the room, trying to find something to talk about, something to take away the uneasy feeling hanging in the air. My eyes fall on pastel blue wrapping paper on the table in front of me and I carefully take it into my hands. “Is it someone's birthday?”, I ask.