The Younger Wife(21)

He held up his hand like a stop sign and Rachel fell silent. Such was the effect a father had on you, even though she was in her thirties. ‘Keep it, Rachel. Tully has plenty of money. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.’ He drained the last of his tea and then stood up. ‘Now, I have to run. You’ll arrange the lunch with Heather?’

‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

He smiled, and made his way to the door.

‘Oh, Dad, one more thing?’ she said, as he stepped over the threshold. ‘There was a note with the money that had Tully’s name on it, and also the name Fiona Arthur. I thought you might know who that was.’

He frowned for a minute, then shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, I don’t.’

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘It was a long shot.’ She shook her head and waved him off. It was only after he was gone that she allowed herself to think about the fact that, when he said he didn’t know Fiona Arthur, Dad’s eyes had flickered.





9


TULLY


Tully stood in the doorway of her mother’s room at the nursing home. She was already exhausted, and she hadn’t even gone inside yet. In the weeks since their barbecue with Rob and Michelle, Tully could recognise she’d been spiralling. Commitments not to steal had been broken almost as soon as they’d been made – first at the supermarket, then the petrol station, then the department store. The self-loathing had been quick to set in each time and she’d ended up stopping at the charity shop on the way home and leaving the items in a pile on the doorstep. At least that way she didn’t have to worry about Sonny finding them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t leave the guilt and shame on the doorstep with the stolen goods, along with her habit, which was slowly taking over her life.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Tully said.

Mum was sitting in the corner chair with a bowl of soup pushed up to her, staring out of the window while the television played quietly. Upon hearing Tully’s voice, she looked over, suspicious. ‘Are you talking to me?’

‘Yes,’ Tully said, walking into the room. ‘It’s me, Tully.’

Tully had introduced herself on arrival the last few times she’d visited. She reasoned that even if Mum did recognise her that day, saving her from searching her mind for her daughter’s name would free up brain space for other things. She’d deteriorated even since Christmas, when Tully and Rachel and Dad had come into the nursing home to have lunch with her. That day, Mum seemed to know who they were, but today, even after Tully called her ‘Mum’, there was no recognition in her mother’s eyes.

If she doesn’t know who you are, don’t push it, Rachel always said. Just pretend you’re a stranger, there for a visit. It upsets her if she thinks she’s supposed to know who you are and she doesn’t. Tully suspected Rachel was right, but she had never been able to do it. This was her mother. She couldn’t pretend she was a random visitor. She wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shout, ‘Look, Mum, it’s me. Tully. Your daughter. You gave birth to me!’

‘Are you here to clean the room?’ Mum said after a moment. She pointed to a feather duster lying on a side table. ‘Someone left this thingy here. Is it yours?’

Mum had a fresh bruise on her temple, Tully noticed, which wasn’t a huge surprise. Mum always had one bruise or another, even before the dementia. She was terribly clumsy, always tripping or stumbling on something, and as her dementia got worse, so too did the falls. Still, Tully made a mental note to ask the nurses about it. She’d watched a documentary about elder abuse and it was worth letting them know that she had noticed.

‘Is it yours?’ Mum repeated.

‘Oh . . . yes. Yes it is.’

Tully picked up the feather duster and Mum turned to her soup. She looked interested in it, even leaning down to smell it, but she didn’t reach for her spoon.

‘What’s for lunch?’ Tully asked.

‘Red watery stuff,’ Mum said. ‘Smells all right.’

Tully nodded doubtfully. ‘What does it taste like?’

A pause. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Why don’t you try it and see?’

‘All right,’ Mum said.

Tully only realised what she was doing a second before it happened. Mum leaned down as if to smell the soup, but instead of sniffing, her mother – the woman who used to sit at the end of the table even when she wasn’t eating, simply to ensure that she and Rachel were using their table manners – lowered her face into the bowl.

‘Oh, Mum, no,’ Tully said, dropping the feather duster.

Mum looked up, startled. She had soup on her chin and her nose. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Tully said. ‘It’s just . . . may I help you?’

Tully pulled up a chair opposite her mother. She filled the spoon and lifted it to her mum’s mouth, which her mother dutifully opened wide. As strange as it was, there was something lovely about caring for her like this. For so long Tully had felt useless when it came to helping her mother. Now, finally, there was something she could do.

Tully was concentrating so hard on feeding her that she almost missed the fact that Mum was looking at her intently. When Tully finally met her gaze, Mum’s face softened. ‘I know you . . . don’t I?’