The Good Sister(48)

I take the stairs up to Mum’s room. Teresa, Mum’s speech therapist, is there again, and Mum is in her usual chair, her tray table beside her, a chocolate iced donut sitting on it alongside a cup of water. I watch from the door for a minute.

Teresa is holding open what looks like a children’s picture storybook.

‘The . . . cow . . . jumps . . . over . . . the . . . moon,’ Mum says.

‘Very good!’ Teresa says.

‘Thank . . . you.’

‘Very, very good,’ I say, from the door.

Mum looks at me and beams. ‘Pop-pet.’

‘Great timing, as usual,’ Teresa says. ‘We’re finishing up. She’s doing a great job. Just before you arrived, she told me she was thirsty! I brought her a drink of water, and she asked for ice! By next week, she’ll be reading novels aloud!’

‘That seems a stretch,’ I say.

Teresa chuckles as I sit down on a chair beside Mum. Mum has a bit of chocolate on her lip and I lean forward to wipe it off. ‘It’s . . . good . . . to see . . . you,’ Mum says.

Teresa gives me the thumbs-up gesture. She waits for a moment, as if expecting something in response, so I mimic her gesture. She grins, and I focus my attention back on Mum.

‘It’s good to see you too,’ I say.

It’s true, it is good to see her – especially today when I’m feeling all twisted up inside. When you feel like that, there really is nothing quite like seeing your mum.

Mum has always been a good listener, even before the accident. On the odd occasion, she could even be wise. I have a memory of talking to her once after being excluded from a birthday party in Grade Three. I didn’t want to go, obviously. Parties were always loud with music and bright colours and squealing. Worst of all, there were almost always balloons (balloons ranked high in my list of terrors, given their tendency to pop at unpredictable times and elicit a loud bang). But every other girl in the class had been invited, including Rose, so I was upset.

‘I understand why you’re upset,’ Mum had said. ‘It’s one thing deciding not to go, but it’s quite another being told you can’t.’

It had been indescribably gratifying to be understood like that. I yearn for the same sort of wisdom from her today.

‘I’m pregnant, Mum,’ I say.

I look at her to see if she registers this. And I see, from the way her forehead wrinkles, that she does.

‘Remember the boy I told you about?’ I say, and she nods. ‘Well, one thing led to another and . . . I’m pregnant. Anyway, obviously I can’t look after a baby myself. So . . . I’m going to give the baby to Rose.’

I say it fast, perhaps too fast, as it comes out a little wobbly. But I know Mum understands, because her eyes widen.

‘Rose can’t have a baby,’ I explain. ‘She has bad ovaries. Premature Ovarian Ageing, it’s called. And I’m pregnant. So it makes sense that I should give my baby to her. Right?’

‘Why can’t . . . you . . .’

I lower my voice. ‘You know why I can’t keep it, Mum. It would be . . . dangerous.’

Mum still doesn’t speak, but after a minute or two I notice her becoming red in the face. For a second, I think she’s choking. I hand her the cup of water, but she waves it away. She opens her mouth and chokes something out, and though I’m straining to listen, I can’t make it out. ‘What? What did you say, Mum?’

She stares at me very intently, even though she knows I prefer less eye contact, to make sure I’m listening and says, ‘Your baby. Don’t . . . give it . . . to Rose.’





The next afternoon I am reshelving books at the library and thinking about what Mum said.

‘Don’t give my baby to Rose?’ I’d repeated, looking for confirmation.

But Mum just shook her head, which might have meant I was right . . . or wrong. She’d said a few things after that, but nothing that made much sense. It was like she regressed in front of my eyes. As such, I suspect it would be silly to give much credence to what she said.

‘Can I get some help over here?’

I glance up. The man who is speaking – an elderly chap with an extraordinarily large head covered in liver spots – doesn’t bother to get up from the computer where he is stationed.

‘What is the problem?’ I call, from several metres away.

‘My granddaughter set me up with an email address,’ he bellows. ‘But I don’t know how to check if I have any mail!’

I glance around for Gayle or Linda or Trevor . . . even Carmel. They’ve all disappeared. Traitors. The man crosses his hairy, meaty forearms in front of his chest, and glares at me. I wonder if it’s too late to make up an excuse and walk off.

I sigh. ‘What’s your email address?’

‘I don’t know!’ He throws one hairy arm in the air. ‘Something “at” something dot com. Sounds ridiculous to me, quite frankly.’

‘Right. Well . . . we do run introductory computer courses on Tuesday evenings . . .’

‘I play bridge on Tuesday evenings.’

‘Or you can schedule a private lesson? For a time of your choosing.’

‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘I choose now.’

He stares me down. I stare right back. This old guy doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.