Walking the Line by Nicola Marsh Page A

wanted to talk before I visited Mum, it
wasn’t good.
    “Hey Pam. How are you?”
    “Good, thanks.” The fifty-something redhead
had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. Pale blue eyes that were
currently filled with concern. “But I wanted to have a quick word
with you today.”
    The inevitable tension built in my temples
and I quashed the urge to rub them. “Mum’s okay?”
    A pointless, dumb-arse question, considering
Mum hadn’t been okay in a long time. Not since I’d checked her into
this special accommodation home two years earlier because it had
become untenable to care for her at home.
    The official diagnosis? Early onset dementia
courtesy of a long-term alcohol abuse problem.
    My diagnosis? She’d partied too hard, done
too many drugs and drunk her life into oblivion to obscure whatever
demons dogged her as a washed-up B-grade actress.
    I resented her lifestyle. I resented every
shitty thing that resulted in her being here at the age of
sixty-three.
    “Judy had a rough night.” Pam hesitated,
before fixing me with a pitying stare. “She may not know you
today.”
    Fuck.
    We’d reached this stage already?
    I’d been warned there’d be more days like
this. That as the dementia progressed, Mum’s memory would
deteriorate to the point she’d consider me a stranger.
    I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon and no
way in hell I was prepared to handle it.
    “Okay, thanks,” I said, hoping Pam didn’t
hear the hitch in my voice.
    Not for the first time since Mum had been
diagnosed, I wanted to crumple in a heap on the floor and cry like
a baby. But considering I’d been the only man in this family for a
long time, losing my shit wasn’t an option.
    I had to stand tall and do what had to be
done. And that included ensuring I made enough money to pay for
Mum’s bills. Something that was becoming increasingly difficult to
do as my commissions dried up.
    I needed to keep painting. I needed to keep
tutoring at the university. And I needed to stop feeling like I was
an automaton, oblivious to everything but getting through each
day.
    It was affecting my art, this emptiness
inside me. But I needed to quash emotions and stay cold inside
because if I started to feel again, I’d break down for sure.
    Despite her lifestyle and her failings, Mum
had always done right by me. I had to do the same for her.
    “You’re a good son.” Pam squeezed my arm.
“Come find me later if you have any questions or just want to talk,
okay?”
    “Thanks.”
    I knew I wouldn’t take Pam up on her offer. I
could barely hold my shit together when I left here after my
bi-weekly visits. No way could I face Pam’s kindness, especially if
Mum was as bad as expected today.
    I took several deep breaths to clear the
buzzing in my head and waited until I could muster a halfway normal
expression, before knocking on Mum’s door and entering.
    “How’s the crossword coming along?”
    My heart twisted as her head lifted and our
gazes locked. Mine deliberately upbeat. Hers eerily blank.
    “Who the fuck are you?”
    And with those five words, I almost lost
it.
    My hands shook so I stuffed them into my
jacket pockets as I cautiously crossed the room to sit in an
armchair opposite hers.
    Keep it simple, the nurses had warned if this
happened. Don’t startle her or press her to remember. Be casual. As
for the swearing, aggression was a common reaction in progressive
dementia. But to hear the F bomb tumble from Mum’s lips was as
foreign to me as seeing her sitting in a pink toweling bathrobe at
five in the afternoon.
    She’d always been glamorous, dressed to the
nines with perfect make-up from the time she rose to the time she
came home from whatever party she’d attended. Even as a kid, I had
memories of Mum’s vivid red lipstick and strawberry-scented shampoo
as she kissed me goodbye before heading to an audition, her high
heels clacking on our wooden floorboards as she left me in the care
of the teenager next door.
    That glamorous