The Good Sister(32)

‘Fern, will you please make alternative arrangements for the dog?’ she asks after a long silence.

I sigh. At least she has been clear, I suppose. I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. Wally will have finished his meeting by now. I thumb him a text. Satisfyingly, he writes back almost immediately.

On my way.

‘Someone is coming to get him now,’ I say to Carmel.

‘Good,’ she replies, looking happier now. ‘I trust I won’t see him in the library again.’

I wait until she finishes the sentence and, not hearing a question, hurry away before she can stop me.


Wally arrives at the library promptly, once again dressed in a suit and tie. The sight of him sends a bizarre, not unpleasant zing through me.

‘Hello,’ I call out from the back of the library (perhaps too loudly given the amount of people that turn to look at me). Alfie and I trot toward him.

‘Hello,’ Wally says when we are closer. We have a frightening moment of eye contact before Wally bends down to pat Alfie.

‘How was your meeting?’

‘It was a bigger meeting than I expected,’ he says. ‘There were a bunch of people there. I gave a presentation.’

‘Preeesentation,’ I repeat.

Wally laughs. ‘Sorry. Prehsentation.’

I’m enjoying the interaction so much I decide to experiment with casual touch. I step forward and punch Wally on the arm, the way I’ve seen people do when they’re having a laugh. But I think I do it too hard, because he stops laughing and looks alarmed.

‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘That’s okay,’ he says, rubbing his arm.

‘So it went well? Your preeesentation?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Very well. Maybe I can tell you about it after your shift? It’s going to be a nice afternoon . . . maybe we can take a walk.’

It is, I decide, the perfect suggestion. No noise, no smells, no unnatural light. Lots of fresh air. There would be small talk, I suppose, but I’m getting used to Wally’s small talk. Even becoming fond of it.

‘I can’t today,’ I say, handing over Alfie’s lead. ‘On Thursdays, after work, I visit my mother. Then I have dinner with Rose.’

‘Your mother?’ Wally looks bewildered. ‘But . . . I thought you said your mother died?’

‘I said she overdosed,’ I reply. ‘I never said she died.’





As soon as the automatic doors slide open at Sun Meadows, the smell of casserole and urine starts to seep out. It’s a malodorous, tacky smell that clings to me, even hours after I’ve returned home, showered and washed my clothes.

Tragically, it is also now my mother’s scent.

Once, my mother’s scent had been talcum powder and toothpaste and laundry detergent. ‘Cleanliness, godliness and all that,’ she used to say, as she hummed around the house. I remember having to hold my breath when I was in the room with her, particularly when she bent down to kiss me at night.

One day she asked me why I was holding my breath, and I told her. ‘Your smell makes me feel sick.’

Mum had looked sad then. ‘I’m so sorry, baby,’ she’d said. ‘I had no idea. If you’d prefer I didn’t hug you–’

‘It’s okay,’ I’d said, shaking my head. ‘It’s worth it.’

At the reception desk, a woman I don’t recognise smiles vaguely at me before returning to her paperwork. Security isn’t very tight at my mother’s establishment. I sign the visitor book, take a badge and walk past the elevator, which has been screened off and bears a handwritten sign saying, OUT OF ORDR (no ‘E’). Fine by me. Elevators make me claustrophobic anyway, and smells seem magnified in them, particularly if I’m sharing the space with other visitors. I take the stairs.

At the top, a man in a brown dressing gown pushes a walker down the corridor, scanning the floor as if looking for something.

‘Hi, Fern,’ one of the nurses says. It is Onnab, whom I have determined to be one of the best nurses when it comes to Mum’s state of personal hygiene and state of mind. ‘Your mother is in her room. She is having a good day.’

A good day, I have learned, can mean a vast range of things. It can mean Mum is happy to see me and will attempt conversation, or it could mean she is quiet and doesn’t say a word. She is rarely aggressive or combative and I’m grateful because apparently that isn’t always the case with people in this ward.

Mum’s door is ajar, and I knock lightly then push it open. Mum is in a wheelchair in the corner, dressed in a pair of grey trousers and a white blouse that is turning a little yellow. Her hair has been brushed and is pinned back, which makes it look very grey around the temples. She’s even wearing shoes, the black Velcro ones with white socks underneath. It does indeed appear to be a good day.

‘Hello, Fern,’ Teresa says.

Teresa is Mum’s new speech pathologist. She was twenty-seven years old when I’d asked last time I saw her. She has a thick brown ponytail, a singsongy voice and lots of ideas for ways to improve Mum’s speech. Today, for example, there is a machine beside Mum’s chair, which is attached to a long cord. At the end of the cord is a flat circular object that hovers over Mum’s head.

‘What’s all this?’