Ectopia by Martin Goodman Page B

It’s all the things she cares for, Karen flashes back – The sum of her twenty years living with you. That’s why it’s crap. Crap’s what you’ve been good for.
    Dad picks up the case. I think he’s going to fling it, but he just flaps the top shut and zips it tight.
    - I’ve given her memories, he says – Some to be proud of. What about you, my girl? What memories of you will make your mother happy?
    He says it as a challenge, then turns his head to include Paul and me.
    - She’s given you life. All three of you. What have you given her in return? You might start thinking of that now it’s too late. Start thinking whether you made your mother’s life lighter or heavier.
    Karen goes off to the kitchen. Paul taps away at his console. I leave the house. We’ve all learned life’s better when we don’t take Dad’s suggestions.
    I’ve got time to run to teensquad depot for my qual supply.
    I can send Mom out on a surf of memories if that’s what she’s looking for.
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    My qual and Malik’s look the same, transparent capsules with powder inside. Even so I decide to give Malik’s version of qual to Mom. I know it works.
    I’m just in time. 11.20. They’re due to collect her at 11.51. You don’t keep statesquad waiting. It’s time to get Mom to her feet and roll her down the front path.
    Karen’s crying. Not the loud sobbing stuff she also does well. This is just tears and a screwed up face.
    - Paul! Dad shouts - Leave that damn computer alone for a moment and come and say goodbye to your mother.
    - Bye Mom, Paul calls across. He’s on a roll. It takes sustained bursts of computer drive to reach the highest percentage points. He’s deep inside the system and on track.
    Dad wants him to do well. He doesn’t insist.
    - You, Steven, he says instead – You can spare ten minutes for your mother’s farewell, or is your streetscum waiting outside?
    - I ran to get back, I tell him – I’m sweaty. Just let me get a towel and dry myself off.
    I run up, wipe myself down with a few strokes, and grab a clean towel off the bathroom shelf for Mom. It’s the one idea I’ve had of slipping the qual into Mom under the beam of Dad’s eyes.
    - What you doing? Dad asks.
    - Mom was sweating too. I’m drying her.
    - You may as well mop up a tide. She’ll sweat buckets before we get her to the gate. Bring the towel with you.
    The qual’s still in my hand. I meant to press it between Mom’s lips while padding her mouth dry. I slip it into the back pocket of my shorts as Dad grabs hold of Mom’s left hand.
    - Take her other hand Steven, he says – Karen, you carry that case and fetch an umbrella. Keep her in shade as much as you can while we’re outside.
    We lean back to lever Mom out of her chair. Her stare’s still vacant, her mind’s not in it, but her body remembers the routine. She rides on the momentum of that first movement, her legs pumping away. It’s just a matter of steering her. We let go of her hands and group behind her. Dad reaches round me as we hold Mom beneath the armpits and head for the door.
    It’s sad seeing Mom’s arms when her drapes fall off. They’re like a map of the moon, craters of brown and yellow marked by bruises. Her arms scrape the doorframe as we leave the front room. The front door’s wider but it’s still a squeeze. It’s got to be this way. Mom’s lost the knack of walking sideways.
    Mom used to garden. Green just happened in those days, she said. Now stepping stones lead the way over baked earth. Some she lands on, some she doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. We keep her moving forward.
    - Rest here, Dad says, when we get to the gate – We’ll hear em. No point waiting out on the street.
    Mom stands still. She’s steady that way. It’s only movement that gets to her. Dad snatches the towel