She Walks in Shadows(5)

“She needs a rest and good care,” she reassured him. “Now let me go, dear. I am packing to come over and look after you.”

He could never argue with Aunt Lillian. He carefully put down the receiver.



They walked in the grounds of Butler Hospital on that May morning, 1921, along meandering paths through green lawns. It was too cold, but, as always, he refused to go in. He had to shorten his long stride and stoop over her, and she had to hurry to keep up with him. They looked as if they were locked in an awkward dance.

His eyes were dark hollows. The night terrors never dimmed.

She had been in Butler Hospital two years.

“I am very concerned about this operation,” she said to her son.

“You will be free from all pain once your gall bladder is removed. You will receive the best care,” he replied.

“What about the lights?” she asked.

“The surgeon requires bright lights,” he reassured her.

“But afterwards, when I am still under the influence of the anaesthetic. I won’t be able to wake up. What if the nurses leave me alone in the dark? They will get in. I do wish you would sit with me afterwards,” she appealed.

“You know I cannot,” he said.

“Only for a little while,” she coaxed.

“Mother, you know I cannot go inside,” he snapped. “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I do apologize for my abruptness. I do not mean to be unkind. But there is no need for you to be concerned.”

“But I am concerned,” she persisted. “The nurses say the lights are left on always when I am sure they turn them off as soon as I am asleep.”

She watched as embarrassment, tinged with disgust, flooded his stiff face. She had seen this look so often of late. It had been an insidious creep, almost unnoticeable at first, this flight from people’s confidence, as loved faces became strangers. She had decided that they were wearing wax masks of familiar features, even though the person behind the mask had changed.

“Have you ever woken in the dark?” he asked.

“The nurses watch me through the spy hole in my door,” she explained. “As soon as they see me stir, they whisk in and turn the lights on, then out again quicker than I can see.”

“Mother! The nurses are wonderful here.”

“Only you can understand,” she pleaded.

She was lost in the dark. The only guide she had was the straight line drawn between the boy and his grandfather, the secret understanding between them that she had never fathomed, that they had celebrated in stories and games and such ungentlemanly nicknames. From all that, she had been excluded. If only she had been a man ….

They arrived back at the entrance to the hospital, the stone stairs to the wide, glass doors.

“Goodbye, Mother,” he said, stiff and embarrassed.

She climbed the steps, then stopped at the door. Her reflection in the glass showed an ugly old woman, ashamed and outraged at her own mortality. She reached out her hand and touched the cool, unyielding surface.

Hot anger, as sharp as ever, pierced through her. She hurried down the steps to face her son. She held out the crumpled paper she had hoarded so long. It was brown with age, and had been folded and refolded so often that the creases were torn.

“If I should die, please mark the symbols on the front steps here as you did for your grandfather — and the cat. I know it is nonsense. Just do this for me, please. I would like to think that I could follow the straight line between the stars and come back.”

He took the paper, smoothed it between careful fingers.

“Mother, don’t tell me you brooded over this all these years? It is a bagatelle of infant fancy.” He laughed ruefully. “I have got the calculations all wrong, anyway. I was an impenitent yahoo, wasn’t I?”

He raised his eyes from the paper at last, awkwardly.

“Mother, you know I will always be here for you,” he said, gently.

“You say that but you aren’t,” she said, bitterly.

She could not repress the anger. She could not hide her weakness. Hot angry tears spurted down her cheeks.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

He retreated.

“I will see you tomorrow morning. After the operation.” He turned away.

“Howard!” she shrieked.

He flinched, but he did not turn.

She watched his straight back and his long stride as he left her alone.

She looked up to see two nurses had responded to her scream. One stood at the top of the steps. The other came several steps down to meet her and held out a gloved hand, as if to help.

She raised her hands to wipe away the tears. To her horror, they were not the hands of a lady. They were clawed and knotted and red. She glanced with sick shock at the nurse’s faces. They had waited only for her son to leave. They had swapped themselves. The shapes behind their white wax masks were all wrong.

She knew that as soon as she was unconscious and alone, they would turn out the light.





BRING THE MOON TO ME


Amelia Gorman

THEY HAD NAMES like Herringbone and Honeycomb, or Tyrolean Fern. My mother turned yarn into thick forests and spiraling galaxies with luscious titles. I watched her fingers busy themselves for hours to produce squares of cloth. Sometimes, her hands faded away and the string had a life of its own. Like a snake or an eel, it raised its head then dipped it back down. It looped around itself, only to slip away and tie up its own tail. Eventually, a familiar pattern emerged.