The Storyteller's Daughter (7 page)

I looked up at her inquisitively and wriggled on her lap. She leant down a little closer to my face, staring into my big brown eyes.

‘Please grow,' she whispered. ‘I might not be the best mother in the world, but I love you.'

I sucked on my tiny fingers and then wiped drool all over her sweater. She let out a heavy sigh full of exhaustion and worry.

‘Well, I suppose I could tell you a story,' she said, ‘that would at least give me something to say to you.'

She cleared her throat theatrically.

‘In a land far away, there lived a creature that didn't know quite what it was… '

For the first time ever I gave my mother a gummy smile, and by the end of the story she swears I had grown an entire inch.

Today Dr Bloomberg looks at me in the same way he must have looked at my mother all those years ago: with eyes full of pity and condescension, as if I am little more than a child who has failed to understand the rules of the game.

Meeting him is like finally meeting Santa Claus. He has been a fairytale presence in my life for as long as I can recall, and yet I was never wholly convinced that he existed. As we sit in his office, the large mahogany desk between us is the only thing that stops me from reaching out and stroking his soft white hair or tweaking his bulbous nose just to test that he is real. I try to imagine him twenty-one years younger, those large, safe hands squeezing and prodding me like I am an under-ripe melon, but I can't imagine him being any different to how he is right now. He seems like someone who has always been old, someone who has been on this earth since time began. It is strangely comforting to think that he was witness to a time I can't remember. His very existence seems to validate mine.

“I'm sorry if this has come as a shock to you,” he says gently, monitoring my face with concern.

I shake my head defiantly, but when I open my mouth to speak no words come out.

“N… no,” I manage to stutter, “it's not a shock. I knew she had very little time left. Of course I knew that.”

Through a pain that feels like I have been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer, I remain adamant that Dr Bloomberg, this fellow worshipper of science and reason, shall not think that I have in any way deluded myself. I will not humiliate myself in front of someone of such intellect, and I will not make myself vulnerable to being patronised. Dr Bloomberg is clearly a sensible man of great knowledge, and the very notion that he might see how misinformed I have been, how foolish I have been for hoping that my mother might live for more than a year is too much to bear. He may have once regarded my mother as a naïve young girl, but I will be damned before allowing him to tar me with the same brush.

“Some people find counselling very useful,” he suggests cautiously, sliding a leaflet across the desk toward me. There is a photo of a pair of glasses on the front and a slogan that reads, ‘Helping you find a new perspective.'

“I don't need counselling,” I say bluntly, rummaging in my bag for a notepad and pen. “If you could just let me know what to expect… ”

I take down notes as if I'm at a lecture, interrupting several times and demanding specific details. Eventually Dr Bloomberg gives up trying to wrap his words in cotton wool and tells it to me straight. There is no doubt that he is taken aback by my frankness, but I like order, rules, knowledge and facts, no matter how clinical and unpleasant. I'm not an escapist like my mother, I don't live in a world of make believe.

“My mother doesn't seem to understand how sick she is. It's like she's in complete denial,” I tell Dr Bloomberg, ready for his mutual indignation. Instead he nods sagely, as if what I have described is completely acceptable.

“Denial's a great defence mechanism,” he says, “a coping strategy. People find all kinds of ways to deal with the things life throws at them.”

He glances at my notebook where I have drawn a chart dividing my mother's illness into categories: symptoms, medication, hospital dates…

“So what do we do about it?” I ask.

He peers at me over the top of his spectacles, raising his bushy white eyebrows as if they risk hindering his vision.

“My dear girl, we mustn't
do
anything about it. It's probably the only thing keeping her sane.”

I stare incredulously at him, watching the halo of light I have projected around him fade away. He can't be serious, can he? How can someone of such intelligence and reason possibly think that it is okay for my mother to go on deluding herself? He's wrong. He has to be wrong. But I don't intend to sit here and waste my time arguing with him.

“Thank you for your time, Doctor,” I say brusquely, standing up. My head feels light and my knees are trembling, but I put it down to a lack of air in the room. I hold out my hand to Dr Bloomberg in a business-like fashion.

He stands slowly and reaches across his desk, taking my hand gently between both of his. His eyes are full of sympathy and I want to scream at him ‘Stop it! Stop feeling sorry for me!' I feel naked and exposed before him, as if he can see what a fool I have been, as if he can tell, in spite of all my protestations, that I have been thinking of my mother's remaining time in terms of years. His hands are warm and heavy around mine, and as I gaze at the white hair on the back of his knuckles I remember that those same hands once held me, turned me over, examined me, and then passed me back into the safety of my mother's arms. Hot tears spring to my eyes and my throat starts to burn.

“Goodbye,” I say curtly, fumbling to shake his hand as best I can.

“Goodbye Meg.”

I gather my bag and walk hastily from his office. But before I close the door I glance back at him. He is already sitting down at his desk, flicking through the notes of his next patient.

“It didn't help me grow, you know,” I tell him, “putting me in the airing cupboard.”

Dr Bloomberg frowns at me.

“I'm sorry?”

I freeze, wondering what came over me. What on earth prompted me to say such a thing? Did I seriously hope he would remember, as if his remembering would confirm something for me, make the past real? I open my mouth to speak, but find myself caught between an explanation and an apology, between wanting to jog his memory and wanting to take back my ridiculous comment. I shake my head, suddenly feeling very confused.

“Nothing,” I say, closing the door behind me and hurrying out onto the street. Walking home from Dr Bloomberg's office I still feel sick and shaky and can only think that I must be coming down with something.

“Maybe you should find her another doctor,” Mark is telling me down the phone as I stride along the hot pavement, “a psychiatrist maybe, someone who can get her to face up to things. After all, there's all the practical stuff to deal with, Meg. Has she even written a will? What about the house, her finances – ”

“Actually Mark,” I interrupt, “do you mind if we talk about something else?”

My first instinct upon leaving Dr Bloomberg's office had been to call Mark, knowing that he would share fully in my indignation at being told that my mother's state of denial must be preserved. In fact, he is even more outraged than me, immediately pointing out the practical consequences of allowing this situation to continue. I love that he understands where I am coming from, and his frustration on my behalf is touching, but suddenly I wish I had never brought this up. I want him to support me in this battle against madness and delusion, but I also want him to understand what a difficult battle it is to fight, and that's something he can't seem to comprehend. In his eyes it's simple: separate fiction from reality. But in my world things have never been that easy.

“I'm not going to be coming back for the start of term, Mark,” I say. “In fact, I don't think I'll be coming back this year.”

I haven't told him that my mother doesn't have as long as I thought. I don't want him knowing that I have been labouring under a misapprehension all this time. He would have checked out the facts earlier, done his research, dug beneath the surface of pretence and armed himself with the truth. Right now he would be calling psychiatrists, funeral directors, clergymen, financial advisors, solicitors, all the things he has just told me I need to do. But I just don't have the heart to do any of these things, and suddenly I feel useless and overwhelmed. I have never displayed incompetence in front of Mark though, and I don't intend to start now.

“I think you're right to stay there,” says Mark, “it sounds like your mother needs help facing up to this. I'll bring all your belongings down tomorrow.”

“Would you? Oh, that would be great,” I breathe a sigh of relief that at least one thing has been taken out of my hands. My heart swells with gratitude and affection. Mark is a rock, always there for me when I need him, always capable and strong, thinking ahead, planning, making sure everything is in order. With him I feel safe and protected, and although I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, occasionally – and it pains me to say this – it feels nice to have someone to rely on.

“Have you spoken to Dr Coldman?” asks Mark.

Over the Summer I am meant to be working as Dr Larry Coldman's research assistant, but I've barely had a chance to start. I feel terrible at the thought of letting him down, but what else can I do?

“No, I'll call him tomorrow and explain,” I say.

“And have you spoken to your tutor about taking a year out?”

“No, not yet.”

“And you'll need to cancel your rent. What was your rental agreement?”

“I don't know.”

“What about your house key? Do you have any library books that need returning? Any outstanding assignments?”

“I… Mark, can we sort all this out later?”

“It's best to get things in order, Meg. A few late library books can quickly spiral out of control and before you know it you've got chaos on your hands.”

“Right. Of course. I'll make a list.”

“Good idea. Lists are good. So, I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be there by four o'clock. Or maybe quarter past if the traffic's bad. But if the traffic's good I might be there a little before, it depends. If the traffic on the ring-road is flowing steadily – ”

“Bye Mark.”

“Oh, bye Babe.”

I always wondered how I would react if I came face to face with an intruder. Would I scream blue murder? Would I attempt the ‘stun and run' technique learned during a single self-defence class in the university sports hall last year? Would I grab the nearest weapon – a kitchen knife, a heavy vase, a poker? Would I freeze?

It turns out I would do all four, in exactly that order.

I am so startled when a scruffy young man bursts through the back door into my mother's kitchen that I scream, throw my hands up into what I think is the basic self-defence position but probably looks like I'm about to start dancing to YMCA, grab the nearest item which happens to be a dishrag, and then just stand there wide eyed and terrified.

“Wh… what do you want?!” I shriek, warding him off with the soggy dishrag as if it's a crucifix and he's a vampire.

He freezes, one hand still on the back door handle, a startled expression on his unshaven face. My eyes dart up and down his body, scanning for a knife or even a gun. I take in the worn jeans and frayed tshirt, the dirt on his hands. His hair is messy, long wisps falling in his eyes, and he has a streak of grime on his chin. He can't be any older than me, maybe even a few months younger, and within five seconds I have concluded that he is living rough, certainly a drug addict, and that he is no doubt here to steal my mother's belongings and flog them for cocaine. I take in his strong, sinewy arms and quickly conclude that although he is not much taller than me he is clearly much stronger and therefore I don't stand a chance.

“If you came any closer I'll scream this house down!”

He takes a step forward.

I shake my dishrag frantically at him.

“I swear, if you come any closer I'll… I'll… ”

“Wash me?”

His face relaxes and he looks vaguely amused, eyeing me up and down with interest. I pull the collar of my blouse tight around my neck. My knees, still weak from this morning, start trembling again.

“Wh… what do you want?”

“Just a glass of water,” he says, calmly.

My mind flits back through episodes of
Crimewatch
, scanning for information on con artists who ask lone women for a glass of water and then murder them. I know the moment I turn my back he'll be upon me, his dirty hands grabbing at me as he pushes me down on the floor. Or maybe he'll just pull a knife from his pocket and slit my throat before running off with my mother's DVD player.

“Get out of my house!” I scream, flinging the dishcloth at him with gusto, suddenly furious. It hits him straight in the face with a wet smack.

“Hey! I surrender.”

He holds his hands in the air, the dishcloth dangling from one of them.

“I'm just the gardener.”

I shake my head angrily.

“No you're not! My mother doesn't have a gardener!”

I pull a knife from the drying rack. The smirk on the man's face is quickly replaced by panic.

“Are you crazy? She hired me this morning!”

“My mother would never hire a gardener!”

“Then I guess I must have been dreaming!”

Just then I hear the front door slam.

“Hello?” calls my mother.

Suddenly my mind goes into overdrive. Shall I scream at her to run? Tell her to call the police? Make a bid for freedom grabbing my mother on the way and bundling her out of the front door? I monitor the young man anxiously, watching to see if he'll turn and run or make a move to attack. Then again, I think, taking in his mud-encrusted work boots, what if…

“Ah, you two have met then,” chirps my mother, plonking a bag of shopping on the kitchen table. Her breathing is heavy and laboured. She rests her hands on her hips and waits to catch her breath.