Saving Grace (8 page)

What had I expected? she thought. A
Waltons
-esque reunion? The two of us flying into each other’s arms, tears of gratitude and joy rolling down each of our cheeks.

Well, yes. She had expected something like that. Had hoped her mother would be pleased to see her after so, so many years, but perhaps this is her mother being pleased to see her. Perhaps this is as good as it gets.

She felt her mother’s small body against hers, incredulous that she came out of this woman, that this was the woman present for the first eighteen years of her life. She expected to feel a huge bond, the invisible umbilical cord still stretching between them after all this time, but holding her mother, feeling the boniness of her spine, her soft, distended stomach, noting her wiry grey hair, Grace was astonished to feel little other than tremendous sadness.

‘Come and see my room!’ Sally disengaged, tugging on Grace’s arm. ‘I have a picture of you on my wall.’

‘You do?’ Grace was momentarily thrilled, reaching the room to find an old photograph of Grace as a child with Sally, one she didn’t even know her mother still had, blu-tacked to the faded yellow walls of a room that contained three iron single beds and three lockers, each carefully locked.

‘See?’ Sally said, proudly pointing out her room. ‘There you are. And there I am.’ She moved closer to the picture. ‘Not ageing so well, but I’m not running around America without a care in the world, am I?’

‘You look well,’ said Grace. ‘I have spent a long time hoping to find you. I didn’t know about this hostel. I’m glad I now know where you are.’

‘Here for the time being,’ said her mother brightly, spinning around and pulling a small key from a string tied around her neck. ‘With all my worldly possessions. Want to see?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Grace, but Sally was already on her knees, pulling things wildly out of the locker and flinging them on the bed. There was nothing of value in there. A tennis ball; mismatched socks; an oversized, filthy sweater with holes all over it; a plastic doll with a missing leg; a green plastic bowl; a child’s plastic tiara with one remaining red gemstone stuck in the middle; a lipstick; a scarf; trainers that looked to be at least three sizes bigger than Sally would wear; and an empty plastic bottle that had once contained Coke.

‘That’s quite a collection you have there,’ said Grace, sitting down on the bed.

‘I know!’ Sally was proud. ‘This is my favourite.’ She pulled the lipstick out and inexpertly applied it over the lines of her lips as Grace felt a twinge of pain. Everything she had always dreaded was right there in front of her – her mother with lipstick all over her face, glittering eyes, appearing to be the craziest of crazy old ladies.

When she wasn’t even old.

‘And this!’ Her mother perched the tiara on her head and laughed, dropping into a curtsey.

‘Very pretty,’ Grace said. ‘Mum, I know it’s been a long time since we saw each other, and I’m only here for two weeks, but I’d really like to help you in some way. I have a job now, in publishing, and things are going well. How can I help? What can I do for you?’

Sally seemed not to hear. ‘I loved it when you were young,’ she said suddenly, her eyes whirling around the room, settling on Grace every few seconds before darting off somewhere else. ‘Didn’t we have fun, Gracie? Remember when you and I would climb in the car and go off and have adventures? Wasn’t that the best? Just you and me?’

‘It was,’ lied Grace, astounded her mother had such fond memories of a childhood that was so completely disappointing to Grace, so completely unsafe.

‘Mum? Margaret tells me you’re not taking your medication. She says you were doing really well until that point. I was wondering whether you might be willing to go back into a treatment centre, just to get you back on the straight and narrow again.’

It was like watching a cloud descend over Sally, a veil drop over her face, and instantly Grace knew she had said the wrong thing. Instantly she regressed to a little girl, knowing that she had set a foot wrong, that her mother was about to embark on one of her terrifying rages. There was no place to hide.

‘Why?’ barked Sally, her voice loud and aggressive. ‘You think there’s something wrong with me? You all think there’s something wrong with me! All of you lot who want to drug me up with pills that make me feel like I’m half dead, who tell me there’s something wrong with being who I am. Look at you, all fine and fancy in your fancy American clothes. Who do you think you are, coming here to sneer at me? You don’t know anything about my life. You don’t know what makes me happy and what I need to get by. You don’t care. No one cares.’ Her voice dropped as her mood changed from rage to self-pity. ‘I don’t need some busybody do-gooder swanning in and telling me what I need to make me better. I’m fine. Better than fine, and I don’t need anyone’s help.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to . . . help.’

‘Everyone wants to help,’ she spat. ‘I don’t need help. I don’t need you, do I? Can’t you see? I’ve managed perfectly well all these years without you and I certainly don’t need you now.’

‘I’m your family, Mum. I’m your daughter. Daughters are supposed to take care of their mothers when they get older. It has nothing to do with me thinking I know what’s best for you, it’s just . . . biology.’

‘
Hmph
.’ Sally turned away, busying herself sorting through the pile on her bed. ‘Like my bottle?’ she said, brandishing the Coke bottle with sudden delight. ‘It’s my water bottle. I fill it whenever I find a tap. Or a half-empty beer bottle. Beer. You don’t have any beer, do you?’ She looked at Grace hopefully, who shook her head wearily. ‘Vodka’s my favourite,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘But not much chance of getting hold of vodka these days. That’s my treat. That’s the thing I really look forward to.’

Grace desperately tried to distract her, even knowing what a futile exercise that had always been when her mother was . . . like this. What is it they say about the definition of insanity? she remembered thinking. Ah, yes. The definition of insanity is doing what you’ve always done and expecting different results. ‘What about food?’ she offered. ‘Can I at least buy you something to eat for lunch?’

‘They feed me here,’ said Sally. ‘Are you staying for lunch? Soup. It’s good. You should stay for lunch. Dinner’s usually leftovers, or something pretending to be different to lunch, but it all tastes much the same to me.’

‘Would you like to go out for lunch?’ Grace ventured. ‘We could go to a restaurant. You always used to like fish and chips. Maybe we could find fish and chips nearby?’

But her mother wasn’t listening, was busy pulling things frantically out of the pile, organizing them, messing them up again, then starting all over again, all the while muttering to herself.

‘Mum?’ Grace said, leaning forward. ‘Mum? Do you want me to stay?’

‘No!’ Sally said. ‘I didn’t want you here in the first place. Why are you here? What do you want from me? Do you want to take my stuff?’ She snatched the tiara from her head and cradled it against her chest. ‘Is that it? You think you can come here and help yourself to my precious jewels? Get out of here! I can’t stand you, Grace. I never could. Always whining, whining, whining. Why are you here? What do you want from me? You always want so much from me, you always make me crazy. Get out.’ Her voice rose to a shout. ‘Go on, you stupid bitch! Get out of here!’

Grace stood, fumbling for words that might appease her mother, but there weren’t any, or if there were, she didn’t know them. She left the room, went back downstairs and rounded the corner, almost walking straight into Margaret, barely seeing her, her eyes misty with tears.

‘Oh dear.’ Margaret took her by the arm and led her back into the room they were in before. ‘Sit down, love. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No. I just . . . I didn’t expect her to be so hostile.’

‘That’s the illness, my dear. You never know what you’re going to get. She may not be registering happiness today, but she will be happy you came. She talks about you a lot, you know. My daughter, Grace, in America!’

Grace attempted a smile. ‘Isn’t there something I can do? Can’t I pay to put her in a treatment programme? Or send her somewhere to get help? Hire a nurse? I don’t know . . . something!’

‘You could do all of those things,’ said Margaret, ‘and none of them would help. She has to get to a point where she wants to help herself. Until then throwing money or programmes or pills at her won’t do anything. She’ll leave, flush the pills down the toilet, end up back on the streets. There isn’t anything you can do, except maybe visit her. It doesn’t look like it makes a difference, but I believe it does.’

Grace nodded, unsurprised by what Margaret had said. Margaret left, and although Grace knew Patrick was outside in the car, waiting, she didn’t go out straightaway. She thought of her mother, her volatility; the glitter in her eye that could lead to fun or anger or any other emotion that was stretched to its limit.

I can’t change her, Grace thought again, only this time the thought floated through her body and settled in her bones. I am powerless over her, she thought, walking out of the hostel and heading for the car.

‘Well?’ Seeing Patrick was comforting, safe, and it was only when she sat in the passenger seat, closed the door, and turned to Patrick to try and talk that she found she couldn’t.

Shaking her head to dislodge the lump, instead tears leaked out of her eyes and Patrick leaned over and took her in his arms as she sobbed.

‘I’m okay,’ she said, attempting to smile when the sobs had calmed down. ‘I should know by now that I can’t ever expect anything. I should know by now that nothing has ever changed, nothing will ever change. I can’t help her. I’ve spent my life trying to help her, but I can’t.’

Six months later, Sally was dead. A heart attack. Shocking in someone so young, but the alcohol abuse had aged her and worn her body down to the point where it couldn’t tolerate life.

Relief. That was what Grace felt when she got the news. Swiftly followed by guilt. She never told anyone about her mother. Not even Ted. It is, she supposes, her guilty secret. The shame of having a mother who was mentally ill, and the fear that this too may happen to her.

‘W
here have you been?’ Ted is thundering up the path from his barn, his face a mask of frustration, as Grace gets out the car. Immediately, she feels her body start to tighten. Tingling starting in her arms and legs.

It is exactly what used to happen to her when she was a child, in the face of her mother’s rages. Grace is well aware that each time this happens she regresses to that same, scared child, but there doesn’t seem to be anything she can do to change it.

Ted’s anger, his dissatisfaction, his rage, even when it has nothing to do with her, even though she should be used to it after all these years, still causes her to tighten, her breath to shorten as her throat constricts, as her mind searches for the perfect words that will calm him down.

‘Is everything all right?’ she calls, her arms filled with shopping she picked up after Harmont House.

‘Does everything look like it’s all right?’ he says, disdain and derision in his voice as Grace concentrates on keeping her breathing steady, on staying calm, for one of them has to remain the adult here and it is never, ever Ted.

‘What can I do to help?’

‘You can buy some goddamned ink for the goddamned printer,’ he says. ‘I needed to print my first draft today and it ran out after twenty-eight pages.’

‘Did you look in the office supply cupboard?’ Grace says. ‘Ellen usually kept spares in there.’

‘Of course I looked in the office supply cupboard. What do you think I am,
stupid
? There’s nothing there. No one has replaced the cartridges since last time.’ He fixes a glare on Grace, as if it is her fault, for Grace is quick to shoulder the blame if it will appease him.

‘Did you order new cartridges?’

‘No, I did not order new cartridges.’ His voice is like ice. ‘I don’t know the passwords to any of the websites.’

‘Aren’t they in the family book?’

‘What family book? What the hell’s a “family book”? And where am I supposed to find it?’

He is a child, Grace thinks. This is a child’s tantrum and this has nothing to do with me. She keeps the focus on her breathing, noting that her heartbeat is coming slowly back to normal, the tingling in her arms and legs almost gone.

Thank God
, she breathes, closing her eyes for a few seconds. When Ted gets into one of his rages, often set off by something as small and insignificant as the ink in the printer running out, there is no telling where it will go.

There are times when it escalates, growing and pulling in anything and everything in its path; other times when, like today, he will lose steam and slowly go off the boil.

His face is now a sulk as Grace expresses sympathy for his confusion and hardship. ‘That must have been so frustrating,’ she says, watching him nod, grateful that she understands. ‘Why don’t I go and order the cartridges, and if you put your draft on a disc, or USB stick, I can take it into Nyack and get it printed for you? You’ll have it in an hour. How does that sound?’

‘That sounds fine.’ The anger has gone, replaced by an apologetic smile. ‘I didn’t mean to shout. Sorry. Perhaps you can bring me in a Scotch. It is, after all—’

‘Five o’clock somewhere.’ She finishes his sentence for him, waiting for him to turn and make his way back to the barn before her body sags with relief.

In the kitchen she pours him a Scotch, realizes she has to call the handyman as the cupboard door in which the liquor is kept almost comes away in her hand, and buries her face in her hands.

Ellen kept him under control. Ellen made him the kind of man she could be married to. Ellen mothered him, and looked after him, and made sure his every need was taken care of so that when he was delivered back to Grace at the end of every working day he was happy and loved, like the happiest of children.

Without Ellen, he is almost unbearable. This isn’t what she signed up for. This isn’t something she can live with. It is evening time, the time when she should be able to relax, to lie on a sofa and read a book, or watch a television show, or enjoy dinner with a glass of wine.