Magnetism Read online

  Since Dad’s death she’s been like a helium balloon untethered and I am someone trying to catch hold of the string. I have a recurrent dream lately in which the roof of my house is tipped open, like a lid, and air and rain let in, and I know this is because my mother is getting old and I don’t want her to go anywhere, to leave me behind on one of her whims.

  I shouldn’t have told her she could have died. I shouldn’t have said that. I find her drugs underneath the sink in the bathroom off her bedroom and identify the bag containing various types of sleeping tablets.

  When I get back to the guest room her lips are fixed in a tight straight line and she reaches up to snatch the bag from me. Then she screws her eyes tight shut and fishes in it with one hand. It takes seconds. Before she can open the selected vial, I prise it from her hand to check it’s the correct one.

  It is. She still has her eyes shut. She doesn’t say anything. I hand her back the Ambien pills and take away the others.

  ‘I know exactly what I am doing,’ she says.

  And this is the thing that frightens me most. I might pretend my worry is about her, that she’s incapable of taking care of herself, but it’s me that I am worried for. She’s in charge. It is hopeless trying to stop her.

  In desperation I decide I might as well take a pill as well, and finally twenty minutes later I sleep.

  At some point in the night the dog gets in. I must have left the door open a crack earlier and he was wily enough to wait until we were both out for the count, because here he is with us in the morning, not on her bed but on the floor with me. He’s got that awful doggy breath and he’s trying to lick my face. I push him away and feel for my glasses. They’re not under my pillow.

  Mom, above me on her bed, is snoring still soundly asleep. Fortunately, the dog is too squat and fat to jump up to her bed unless I lift him there, but where are my glasses? If he’s gone and chewed them, not only will I not be able to see right now, but I’ll have to get a new pair made and that will mean leaving her alone for at least a couple of hours.

  Then the dog is back with something orange and the size of a plate in his mouth. A Frisbee. He’s waving it back and forth in my eyeline. I can’t imagine that Mom throws a Frisbee for the dog, but perhaps she does. He’s thwacking it at the legs of the furniture and against the divan, trotting around in a figure of eight – around her bed, around me on the floor and then back to the bed again.

  Her staying asleep is best for both of us but the wretched animal has no consideration for people and is going to wake her up. ‘Stay asleep,’ I whisper upwards. I squiggle myself to standing. I still can’t find my glasses and the dog rushes at my legs. I hate the rudeness of mornings on the best days, but having to deal with a wild animal first thing is ridiculous. He wants to play Frisbee, I guess. Every time I reach down to take it from him, he runs away.

  I climb over my shoes, still worrying about my glasses. I fumble for my sweats in my suitcase, which is open on the floor at the foot of my mother’s bed. As I’m pulling them up, Mom’s voice behind me says, ‘You’d better put him out. He needs the bathroom.’

  ‘Shush. Rest. You should sleep a bit more. He’s okay.’

  ‘He’ll make a puddle if you don’t let him out. He needs a pee.’ At the sound of Mom’s voice, the dog gets excited and starts running about more wildly.

  ‘He wants to play Frisbee,’ I say.

  ‘Frisbee? That’s nice. Good. He’ll like that. Let him out.’

  ‘I can’t find my glasses.’

  ‘Where did you leave them?’

  ‘They’re not there.’

  She leans over the bed as well as she can and, at first without opening her eyes, she calls the dog to her in that silly soppy voice, ‘Come to Mommy.’ Then she tells me that the little shit has got my shower cap. It’s not a Frisbee! She says did I give it to him to play with?

  ‘The hell I did!’

  ‘Well, he’s enjoying himself. You have to make an effort so that he can learn to like you. Dogs don’t like people who don’t like dogs. They can sniff out insincerity at a hundred miles and you should think about that. Dogs can always tell good people from bad.’ Now she produces my glasses from under her blanket and waves them at me. ‘Go and put them on him. The glasses and the shower cap,’ she suggests as if we were six years old. ‘He’d look so cute. Do it.’

  ‘The hell I will.’ I am shouting now, and I grab the glasses from her. They are smudged and slightly bent but as I slide them up my nose my surroundings come into focus. They go from a blurry swirl of soft colour to something smaller and more defined. Mom’s bed is like a throne in the middle of the room and Poopy is in front of me. I look down to see him raise his leg over my suitcase and begin to urinate on my belongings. ‘The hell you do,’ I yell and grab him. He’s a fat wriggle in my arms and he doesn’t stop peeing. There are dribbles all over the floor as well.

  ‘He can’t help it. Don’t be angry with him. You should have let him out. Poor little boy.’ she says at my back as I storm out with the whimpering dog held out in front of me, its hind legs pedalling the air.

  ‘Get yourself back to sleep,’ I shout back. ‘I’m not telling you again.’

  When the wash cycle has finished and my clothes are in the dryer and I’ve dabbed the carpet clean, washed out my suitcase with diluted Clorox and dried it too, I think about making Mom some breakfast. Poopy is now strictly confined to the back yard. He’s barking and crying out there, but he needs to think about what he’s done. I ask her what she wants but she says she wants Vicodin first. ‘I never eat breakfast. I can’t eat breakfast.’

  I don’t point out that this is because for years she hasn’t got up until after midday. I say, ‘You’ve got to eat something.’

  ‘I’ll have some peanut M&Ms. They’re in the icebox.’

  ‘That’s not food. Toast or cereal, or toast and cereal. Or eggs, or waffles?’

  ‘God, you’re torturing me. I never thought you could be so … so … nasty. My own daughter,’ she says. ‘Just give me my pills.’

  I’ve never had a two-year-old to deal with but I imagine it might be something like this. ‘Not until you eat something.’

  ‘No. I won’t.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Obviously, she is beyond reasoning with. So much so that, as we continue to argue, I realise I’ve forgotten the justification for insisting that she eats before the pills. This moment seems entirely inevitable and, though I realise I’ve lost myself in my own stubbornness, there’s still something exhilarating about her dependence upon me. Maybe I am the cruel control freak she’s saying I am.

  I take the bottle of pills from the bag on the table, show her the label and rattle the Vicodin in the air. She glowers at me as I wave them and then I put the vial right into my pocket. It’s a tight squeeze, but very effective theatre. ‘Their street value must be something. Huh?’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ We stare at each other a moment, then she says, not averting her eyes from mine, ‘Toast. One piece.’ And all the tension is released, not immediately like a balloon popping, but slowly it seeps away, like an old balloon deflating.

  ‘Good, Mom. Good.’

  ‘I’m not a pet,’ she says. ‘And I’m not senile. Don’t talk to me like that.’

  I fetch the toast feeling very, very smug. We can do this, I think. It won’t be impossible. She will eat her toast and the dog will stop barking and realise who is in charge. I put margarine on the one piece, our agreement, and march it through to her. I leave her with the toast and go back to the kitchen to get her a coffee and a glass of water for the Vicodin, which she takes from my hand.

  In a few minutes she asks for the dog and, because she’s complied with my demands, I think it’s only reasonable for me to go and get him. When I return, I put him on the bed with her. She’s got a nice druggy smile already, and I’m just thinking that I might put the TV on and watch with her when I see her slip Poopy the piece
of toast.

  She doesn’t know I’ve seen it. I have a choice: I can ignore it and we both win, or I can call her on it. Just then the phone rings and I don’t have to decide.

  ‘If it’s Brenda tell her I’m okay and I’m asleep. If it’s Louelle or Patty, tell them what happened, but I don’t have the time to listen to what’s up with Patty’s divorce or Louelle’s daughter so don’t let them get into it. And if it’s Frank, tell him I’ll call him when I’m a bit better,’ she says. ‘Don’t say too much if it’s Frank.’

  ‘Are you expecting a call from this Frank?’ She has never mentioned a Frank.

  ‘No. No. But if it should happen to be him – I’m just saying – let him know I’m not able to get to the phone. But restrain yourself for once. Don’t tell him everything about everything.’

  ‘It’s right there. Tell them all what you want yourself.’ I point to the princess phone on the coffee table next to the bed. It’s ringing in chirps. ‘Want to be responsible and listen to me, or shall I hand it up so you can take the call yourself and then if it’s this guy you can tell him whatever you want to?’

  ‘You know I don’t want to speak to anyone.’ She looks down at the phone. It’s been ringing maybe twelve rings by now. ‘Okay. Get the call. Do this for me. I’ll do what I’m told. I give up. You win.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say and it is a man. And this man says he’s Frank. He’s heard about the accident, he’s been concerned. ‘Oh, thanks for phoning, Frank,’ I say.

  Mom’s eyes are bright with excitement. She is hanging on my every word.

  ‘She’s being so brave. Yes, I’m her daughter … No … She’s strong. She’s amazing, actually.’

  I hold the phone away from my ear so that she can hear him talk about her. He’s got a nice voice and he’s saying how worried he’s been – not only him, but how worried they will all be at the club.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll give her your love, Frank.’ She grins at me. ‘A visit?’ Mom’s eyes widen and she shakes her head frantically. ‘No, I don’t think she’s up to that. We have to be sensible. Give me your number and I’ll ring you tomorrow?’ I find a pen and the blank back of a bill envelope to scribble his reply down. Then I say a grateful goodbye to Frank, who has given us something new to talk about for a little while.

  The dog is settling down in the curve of her waist; he sighs dramatically and shuts his eyes. She strokes his back tenderly. I wonder if she ever was tender with me like that.

  Only three hours later we are beginning the argument that is the preamble to lunch. The dog is still lying beside her halfway under the blankets. When I ask what kind of sandwich does she want, she says she’s not hungry and she doesn’t want to eat anything, she just wants her next lot of pills because she’s starting to hurt again.

  The dog opens his eyes, wriggles a bit then rolls on his back. Mom tickles his belly and then awkwardly leans over to kiss him on his snout. She repeats that she’s got no appetite and smugly adds that that she knows pain relief works better on an empty stomach anyway. She says that in fact she’s been thinking about losing a bit of weight lately, and then she says it wouldn’t do me any harm to miss a meal as well. The winter has been over for half the year; I should try to use up some of my winter fat reserves. Then she starts to laugh at her joke.

  ‘God, Mom. I presume that’s the pills talking, so, for that reason, and that reason alone, I will not take offence.’

  She doesn’t apologise. ‘I’m your mother,’ she says, and shrugs. ‘Who else can tell you the truth? You’re fatter than ever.’

  ‘Well – ’ I point at the dog ‘ – just so you know, if anything happens to you, the very first thing I’ll do is put that dog down. You should keep up your strength if you care about it. I’m fetching you lunch and you are going to eat what I fix and then I’ll let you have the pills.’

  She whispers, loudly, into the dog’s ear. ‘Don’t worry. She’s just jealous.’

  I walk out leaving the two of them there, and five minutes later, when I come back with the plate, I’m pleased to see that she eats the chicken sandwich I’ve made. She eats it very slowly. Eyes on me and her one free hand firmly on the nasty little dog.

  2007

  The Cockatoo

  The leaflet says, Plastic surgery is a sensible option for the common problem of ageing. And Dr Chartaine’s credentials are on the back. I don’t know what all the letters stand for. Chartaine sounds enough like a charlatan to make me suspicious, but Mom said his name didn’t bother her at all.

  Then the door opens and he’s here in the flesh. Gleaming white medical coat. Huge white hair in a kind of crest on his head. Huge warm smile. Sparkling teeth. The only improvement would have been a halo, and I’ve got to admit that he is one good-looking man. His face puts him around forty, I’d guess, but then he might, I suppose, be fifty, or sixty, or seventy even, with that white hair. Surely they don’t let people operate on faces at seventy?

  He sits down behind his large mahogany desk. Mom is beaming back at him. This guy has already done a job on her.

  ‘This is my daughter,’ she introduces us. ‘She will be staying with me after I have the work done, just to keep an eye on me. She works for the city,’ she says. ‘Not here. She’s come all the way from … ’ My mother pauses and looks confused, as if she’s forgotten where I live. ‘A long way away,’ she finishes.

  ‘Oklahoma,’ I say.

  ‘The panhandle state,’ he says, looking deeply into her eyes.

  ‘Like a saucepan,’ she says. ‘That’s the one. Not a nice place, if you ask me.’

  ‘So, what are you planning to do to my mother’s face?’

  He turns his smile to me and I can see it is designed to disarm. So are his words. ‘Good to see you here. Such a support,’ he says. ‘You must be a good daughter.’

  ‘No, she is a good daughter,’ Mom says. ‘We do everything together.’

  ‘It would be normal to be worried about your mother.’

  Yes. ‘Damn straight I’m worried.’

  ‘She has a bit of a mouth on her,’ Mom says. ‘Don’t pay any notice.’

  Then, without taking his eyes from mine, he gets up and comes over. He stands beside my chair and puts his hand on my shoulder, as if he’s a priest and I’m taking my first communion. He says to Mom without turning, ‘No need to apologise at all. She’s delightful.’

  He strokes my hair, and I find that I let him. He tilts my face to look upwards to him. ‘Great cheekbones. Good chin, fantastic nose, durable skin. You’d get ten years back with a peel.’ He has deep brown eyes and long eyelashes. I’m sure he’s wearing mascara and I’d put money on eyeliner as well. His aftershave is woody and fresh and his teeth are as white as a ten-year-old’s but his breath smells of something off. An unpleasant and slightly familiar smell. Ketones. He’s on a low-carb diet.

  Mom says, ‘She takes after me, except for the nose. I can’t take credit for the nose.’

  I mutter, ‘Dad had bone structure too.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been doubly blessed, then,’ he says. Then he slides his hand down and strokes my back. His hand feels strong and purposeful and, though I pull away, I still feel a finger making a definite circle in the small of my back. He has the hands of a pickpocket.

  ‘Your father’s looks weren’t all that.’ Mom sounds annoyed: he’s paying attention to me, not to her. Astutely, Chartaine retreats behind his desk again.

  ‘It’s a quick procedure. Quite routine but we’ll want to do some pre-op workups just to make sure everything is shipshape. Just jumping through hoops. You know the drill.’

  It’s a whole hour later, after heaps of paperwork and forward appointments to schedule, and we’ve just walked into the underground car park which is cold, dark and stinks of gas fumes. I’m going to have to start parking my car on the street when I go back to work: these fumes, I have just learned from the receptionist as we left, are particularly toxic for the skin.

  The place looks dif
ferent from this angle and I can’t hold my breath any more. I’ve got to figure out where we left the rental. I should have paid attention when we arrived, but we were arguing about whether or not popcorn has nutritional value.

  ‘He’s an asshole, Mom. How much are you paying for this? Are you sure you want him near your face with a scalpel – and what’s with his hair? He looks like some kind of tropical bird.’

  We start down another row of cars.

  ‘I think he’s nice and Brenda recommended him. He did her daughter-in-law’s nose, and threw in some decent breasts for free. I got a good price. Where’s the car?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re looking for it.’

  ‘You should mark the row on the ticket. This place is huge.’

  ‘I have never, ever – not once – seen you do that.’

  ‘When did you last see me lose a car? You should pay more attention.’

  We start down the fourth row.

  ‘You were with me. You could help.’

  ‘The driver is responsible. We were late. I was worried he might not see us.’

  ‘You made us late. And for the amount you’re paying he’d have made a house call.’

  ‘No doctor makes house calls.’

  I’m looking for a dark blue car, but I’m starting to wonder if the rental was, in fact, another colour, and then she points. ‘There it is, it’s got the Hertz sticker in the back window.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with my eyes,’ she says when we get to the exit.

  Which just annoys me because now I can’t find the ticket in my purse.

  ‘Mom, did I hand you the ticket?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to tell them and they’ll charge you for the whole day.’

  ‘It’s got to be here. Somewhere.’ I tip the contents of my bag on to my lap. Two lipsticks missing the caps. Grubby packets of Tylenol. My migraine meds. Four pens, a bunch of receipts for junk I bought, some coins, hairy hard candies stuck to each other. Couple of bobby pins.