Jenna? Surely he must. Does he
know
? Perhaps Jenna bled for days, prompting concern, which led to a confession? Perhaps she is still in pain? I hope not. And yet I feel hardened, somehow. Something has changed between Jenna and me.
I shouldn’t have helped her. It was a mistake. It was all too raw, too close to my own experience. I could have told her it was something I had been through too; I could have told her in the car as I drove her to the clinic, or even on the way home. I understand, I could have said. It will be all right in the end. She would have nodded, maybe smiled. Instead, she smoked a cigarette, holding it outside the car window, and we spoke barely at all.
I can see that Jenna now wishes she had confided in anybody else but me. She’s done her best to avoid me since the very day after the clinic. I try to be kind; I make her tea, take it to her wherever she is in the shop; I once went to hug her, because she looked so very sad. But there was no hug. Now, we speak only when we have to, in clipped, purposeful sentences. Neither of us alludes to that day. She doesn’t look at me. I want to help, but I’m not sure how to, I’m not sure what to say. It is so much simpler to do these things alone.
Babunia’s care home is serene and hushed. There are pretty gardens behind the building, and the house itself is reassuringly small. It smells nice. The nurses and carers are uniformly professional and kind. Dad and I, and Babunia, chose the home together, and I know we chose the right one. It’s a pity it’s not a little closer, but a thirty-minute drive is not such a big deal.
I have telephoned ahead, and I am met in the entrance hall by a woman who introduces herself as Suzanne. I don’t remember meeting her on my previous visits.
‘I’m the new Entertainments Manager,’ she explains, ‘but I do all sorts, really. I wanted to meet you. Your grandmother and I have formed something of a rapport.’ Suzanne tells me what I already know – Babunia is the ‘darling’ of the home. She is no trouble, and not even incontinent yet. Probably she never will be. Dignity, that’s what she has kept hold of, Suzanne tells me, glowing with pride, as though she is talking about a high-achieving niece.
‘Can I see her?’
‘Yes, come on, I’ll take you down to her room.’
I follow Suzanne, who is slim and wears a purple dress with purple high-heeled shoes. She has masses of thick red hair, walks with a feminine wiggle, and it’s impossible to guess her age. We reach my grandmother’s room and Suzanne knocks. When there is no reply, she slowly opens the door.
‘Dorothea?’ she calls.
Babunia is sitting in her armchair, her back to the door, facing the large bay window. The garden is filled with flower beds, which look pretty in the height of summer, but are fading a little now that it’s August. There are small fruit trees, a bird table, wooden seats. I look at her. She does not turn round. She is so still, she may be asleep. She may be dead.
Suzanne stands back to let me pass into the room.
But I hesitate.
‘Go ahead,’ Suzanne says, smiling at me kindly.
‘I don’t want to upset her,’ I whisper. ‘She’s so … vulnerable.’
‘Why would you upset her? She’ll be delighted to see you.’
I slowly walk towards my grandmother and stop beside her chair, looking down at her grey hair, which is in her habitual neat chignon. She slowly inclines her head towards me and I smile at her. She opens her mouth and struggles to speak, tears pooling in her green eyes as she searches my face. She looks utterly dismayed.
I had not expected this. I’ve stayed away too long, a month is too long. I should come every week, as I used to do.
‘Who are you?’ she says.
Despite our reassurances that I am her granddaughter, Babunia continues to ask me who I am. She wants to know what I am doing here. It feels like an accusation. I can see real fear in her eyes, which is horrible.
Suzanne and I sit
know
? Perhaps Jenna bled for days, prompting concern, which led to a confession? Perhaps she is still in pain? I hope not. And yet I feel hardened, somehow. Something has changed between Jenna and me.
I shouldn’t have helped her. It was a mistake. It was all too raw, too close to my own experience. I could have told her it was something I had been through too; I could have told her in the car as I drove her to the clinic, or even on the way home. I understand, I could have said. It will be all right in the end. She would have nodded, maybe smiled. Instead, she smoked a cigarette, holding it outside the car window, and we spoke barely at all.
I can see that Jenna now wishes she had confided in anybody else but me. She’s done her best to avoid me since the very day after the clinic. I try to be kind; I make her tea, take it to her wherever she is in the shop; I once went to hug her, because she looked so very sad. But there was no hug. Now, we speak only when we have to, in clipped, purposeful sentences. Neither of us alludes to that day. She doesn’t look at me. I want to help, but I’m not sure how to, I’m not sure what to say. It is so much simpler to do these things alone.
Babunia’s care home is serene and hushed. There are pretty gardens behind the building, and the house itself is reassuringly small. It smells nice. The nurses and carers are uniformly professional and kind. Dad and I, and Babunia, chose the home together, and I know we chose the right one. It’s a pity it’s not a little closer, but a thirty-minute drive is not such a big deal.
I have telephoned ahead, and I am met in the entrance hall by a woman who introduces herself as Suzanne. I don’t remember meeting her on my previous visits.
‘I’m the new Entertainments Manager,’ she explains, ‘but I do all sorts, really. I wanted to meet you. Your grandmother and I have formed something of a rapport.’ Suzanne tells me what I already know – Babunia is the ‘darling’ of the home. She is no trouble, and not even incontinent yet. Probably she never will be. Dignity, that’s what she has kept hold of, Suzanne tells me, glowing with pride, as though she is talking about a high-achieving niece.
‘Can I see her?’
‘Yes, come on, I’ll take you down to her room.’
I follow Suzanne, who is slim and wears a purple dress with purple high-heeled shoes. She has masses of thick red hair, walks with a feminine wiggle, and it’s impossible to guess her age. We reach my grandmother’s room and Suzanne knocks. When there is no reply, she slowly opens the door.
‘Dorothea?’ she calls.
Babunia is sitting in her armchair, her back to the door, facing the large bay window. The garden is filled with flower beds, which look pretty in the height of summer, but are fading a little now that it’s August. There are small fruit trees, a bird table, wooden seats. I look at her. She does not turn round. She is so still, she may be asleep. She may be dead.
Suzanne stands back to let me pass into the room.
But I hesitate.
‘Go ahead,’ Suzanne says, smiling at me kindly.
‘I don’t want to upset her,’ I whisper. ‘She’s so … vulnerable.’
‘Why would you upset her? She’ll be delighted to see you.’
I slowly walk towards my grandmother and stop beside her chair, looking down at her grey hair, which is in her habitual neat chignon. She slowly inclines her head towards me and I smile at her. She opens her mouth and struggles to speak, tears pooling in her green eyes as she searches my face. She looks utterly dismayed.
I had not expected this. I’ve stayed away too long, a month is too long. I should come every week, as I used to do.
‘Who are you?’ she says.
Despite our reassurances that I am her granddaughter, Babunia continues to ask me who I am. She wants to know what I am doing here. It feels like an accusation. I can see real fear in her eyes, which is horrible.
Suzanne and I sit
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