While Paula, Lucy and Adrian didn’t bring up the subject of contact, Melody told each of them in turn that she hadn’t seen her mother because she was being moved to a care home, and she would see her on Friday and take her chocolates, biscuits, fruit and the cakes we were going to make.
‘Sounds good to me,’ Lucy said.
‘That’s nice, she’ll like those,’ Paula said.
‘She’ll explode eating that lot!’ Adrian joked.
‘No, silly, she won’t eat them all at once,’ Melody told him firmly. ‘You are daft sometimes.’
Melody loved being around my children, but sometimes I had to subtly intervene and suggest she and I did something together, for clearly at their ages, apart from having homework, Adrian, Lucy and Paula needed time to themselves to do what they wanted. I was very lucky that they were so patient and understanding with all the children we fostered, but they had their own lives to lead.
The week passed. Melody counted down the sleeps until Friday and became increasingly excited, while I worried that something might happen to postpone contact again – either with Amanda or possibly the weather. If we had another heavy snowfall we wouldn’t be able to make the journey until the roads were clear, so I kept an eye on the weather forecast. On Thursday evening, with no snow forecast, Melody and I made the cupcakes for her mother and, once they were cool, Melody covered them in pink icing. We put some aside to take to her mother and we all ate the rest. I knew there was a reason I didn’t bake cakes often – they’re irresistible!
I’d planned the route to the care home and I also made a lasagne for Lucy, Paula and Adrian to put in the oven and have when they were ready. Melody and I would eat when we returned from seeing her mother. I estimated it would take at least an hour to drive from Melody’s school to the care home, then we’d probably spend about an hour there, and an hour to drive back again meant that we wouldn’t be home until 7 p.m. Melody had school lunch around 12.30, so I made her a little picnic to eat in the car to tide her over until dinner.
It had been difficult for me to prepare Melody for what to expect at the care home, as I’d never been in one specializing in the care of dementia patients before. From time to time I visited an elderly neighbour who’d gone into a nursing home, so I modelled what I said on that when I explained to Melody what a care home was or answered her questions.
It was a relief when Friday came and the contact arrangements were still in place and the skies were clear. At the end of school I waited in my usual spot in the playground and Miss May, whom Melody had excitedly told a number of times that she was seeing her mother in the care home today, came over. ‘I know you need to get going so I won’t keep you, but I just wanted to say have a lovely evening and weekend.’
‘Thank you, and you,’ I said.
‘And please tell Amanda how well Melody is doing at school.’
Melody glowed with the praise.
‘I will. Thanks again.’
Miss May was a wonderful woman and I thought Melody was very lucky to have her as her TA.
As we crossed the playground Melody skipped for joy. ‘I’m going to see my mummy! Did you remember to bring everything?’
‘Yes. It’s all in a bag in the car.’
But just to be sure, once we were in the car Melody unpacked the bag and checked off all the items: ‘The card I made for Mummy, the cakes we made, biscuits, grapes and the box of chocolates we bought.’
I smiled to myself. Melody was so excited to finally be seeing her mother and she talked non-stop as I drove. ‘Do you think Mummy has made any friends, like I’m doing at school?’
‘Yes, I expect she has.’
‘Does she have her own bedroom, like I do with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do they watch television at the care home?’
‘I think so. I’m sure there’ll be a television in the lounge, but I’m not sure if each bedroom will have one.’
‘We could watch my favourite programme.’ I nodded.
‘Will Mummy’s carer buy her new clothes, like you do me?’
‘If she doesn’t have any of her clothes from home, they’ll give her some.’
‘From spares? Like you did with me when I first arrived?’
‘Yes, I expect so.’ I thought that Melody was viewing her mother’s care home as similar to her being in foster care, which I suppose in some respects it was.
Then revealingly Melody asked, ‘Will they give Mummy shampoo and tell her when to wash her hair?’
‘Yes, if necessary,’ I said. ‘Why? Did you have to do that for your mother?’ I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘Sometimes.’
‘And remind her to bath or shower?’
‘Can’t remember,’ she said and, closing the subject, she began eating the sandwiches I’d made for her.
No one really knew exactly how much Melody had been supporting her mother at home, and the chances were they never would. But given Amanda’s diagnoses and her need for long-term care, Melody must have been doing an awful lot, far more than the social services had realized – partly due to Melody and her mother covering up their need for help.
The traffic was heavy as we crossed the town, but once on the dual carriageway we made good progress. Melody finished her sandwiches, crisps and packet of juice and then gazed through her side window.
‘It’s a long way,’ she said. ‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Not too far now. Would you like to listen to a CD?’
‘The nursery rhyme one.’
It was already in the player from the last time we’d played it and I switched it on. Although the songs were really for younger children, Melody loved hearing them over and over again. While riding in a car and listening to music is nothing unusual for most children, it hadn’t been part of Melody’s life with her mother. Impoverished, with a chaotic lifestyle, moving from one cheap rented room to another and with Amanda’s memory failing, they’d struggled even with the basics, let alone had CDs or a car. I was pleased that Melody was now able to listen to her favourite rhymes, was being looked after and didn’t have to worry about where her next meal was coming from, just as her mother was being looked after too. It wasn’t long before I found myself joining in with the sing-along. As I drove our singing got louder and louder until the CD finished, when Melody clapped.
Shortly before five o’clock I pulled into the road where the care home was and slowed the car to a crawl. I knew it was on the far side of a relatively new housing estate and we followed a residential road of semi-detached houses to the end.
‘There it is,’ I said. ‘Oak Lane House Care Home.’ It was a two-storey red-brick building and I drew into the car park where about half a dozen other cars were already parked and cut the engine. Because the care home was right at the edge of the estate it had a backdrop of rolling hills stretching into the distance, over which the wintry sun was now descending. The home itself was set in beautiful landscaped gardens; even at this time of year they were well tended and green with shrubs.
‘Which is Mum’s room?’ Melody asked, peering through her car window.
‘I don’t know yet, we’ll have to ask.’
I opened Melody’s door. ‘Bag,’ I reminded her. She’d been about to leave it on the back seat.
I brushed the crumbs of bread and crisps from her school uniform and locked the car. It was quiet and peaceful here, very tranquil. A lone blackbird trilled from somewhere in the shrubbery. A short path led up to the main entrance, either side of which were more neatly tended gardens. Wooden chairs and benches were set out ready for summer, although I noticed these areas were surrounded by a high wire-netting fence discreetly hidden by ivy and other evergreen climbers. A pair of large stone planters filled with brightly coloured pansies stood either side of the main door and the doormat had ‘Welcome’ printed across it, which gave the place a warm, homely feel.
The outer door wasn’t locked, so I pushed it open and let us in. We no
w stood in a lobby with a set of double doors in front of us. On our right was a small oblong table covered with a lace cloth, on which stood a beautiful vase of cut flowers. Beside the vase lay an open Visitors’ Book, and a notice on the wall behind it told visitors to sign in, then press the bell to be admitted. Using the pen provided, I filled in the columns with the date, my name, the time and the reason for my visit. Then passed the pen to Melody. ‘Write your name there,’ I said, pointing.
‘It’s like at the Family Centre,’ she said, and carefully printed her name below mine.
I pressed the bell and heard it ring somewhere inside.
‘Why can’t we go straight in?’ Melody asked.
‘We have to wait for someone to open the doors.’ This and the wire-netting fence surrounding the gardens were the only differences so far from the nursing home I’d visited, and suggested the residents here needed a higher level of protection. We were soon to find out why.
As we waited for the doors to be opened a man and a woman, who I guessed to be in their seventies, appeared on the other side. Dressed in casual day clothes, they could have been visitors about to leave the building, except there was something in their manner, the way they held themselves, and the distant look in their eyes that suggested otherwise. Melody was watching them carefully and had gone quiet. The man began banging on the glass of the door, while the woman pointed to the lock.
‘I can’t open the door from this side,’ I said, and shook my head, unsure if they could hear me. Even if I had been able to open it, I clearly wouldn’t have done. It was locked for a reason.
I glanced at Melody, who was looking at them, very worried. ‘I hope they’re not Mummy’s friends,’ she said quietly.
I smiled reassuringly and held her hand. ‘Don’t worry, love, your mummy is being well looked after.’ Although I was feeling a little apprehensive. It wasn’t the best start to her first visit to be greeted by a couple desperately trying to get out. People suffering from dementia can act in strange and sometimes disturbing ways. Thankfully, a care assistant appeared behind the couple and slowly and gently moved them aside, then opened one of the doors to let us in.
‘Sorry,’ she said with a small sigh. ‘It happens every time the bell rings. They think they’re being taken out.’
The care assistant took the couple’s behaviour in her stride and I guessed she was used to it, but I thought how sad it was, and exhausting for the care assistants, to keep having to go to the door to move the couple every time anyone arrived, instead of just releasing the doors from the office as they did at the Family Centre. I guessed they probably had to be there when anyone left the building too, as clearly the couple were determined to leave. Even though the door was now closed, the man had resumed banging on the glass while the woman was rattling the door handle.
‘We’ve come to see Amanda –’ I said, giving her full name to the care assistant.
‘I think she’s in the lounge.’
‘Could you tell me where that is please. This is our first visit. Melody has come to see her mother.’
‘Yes, sure, this way,’ she said, throwing Melody a smile. Melody held my hand as we followed the care assistant down the corridor. The walls were painted magnolia and had framed prints of country scenes. We passed residents’ bedrooms. Some of the doors were open and I glanced in. Carpeted, with brightly coloured curtains at the windows, they were decorated in warm colours and personalized with the resident’s belongings. We also passed a meeting room with chairs facing a projection screen and then more bedrooms. A man called out from inside one, ‘Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch.’
‘It’s all right, Mr Wilson,’ the care assistant replied kindly. ‘There’s plenty of time.’ We continued by.
‘Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch,’ he called again and again.
I felt Melody’s hand tighten in mine and I gave it a comforting squeeze. We turned left and into the lounge. It was a spacious carpeted room and light, with patio doors, closed now in winter, leading to a courtyard. The hills could be seen in the distance beyond. Around the edge of the room were about twenty high-backed armchairs, some with residents sitting in them, their feet resting on the rising footstools. In the centre of the room was a table with four dining chairs, where an occupational therapist sat with two residents, helping them weave small baskets using brightly coloured raffia. I couldn’t see Amanda; neither apparently could Melody, for she too was looking around. The care assistant saw our hesitation. ‘Your mummy is over there, love,’ she said kindly to Melody. Even then I didn’t immediately recognize Amanda.
We followed the care assistant to a chair in one corner where I now saw Amanda was slumped. Head back and jaw hanging open in sleep, she was snoring quietly. With her missing teeth at the front now more visible and the grey roots of her hair growing through, she could have been an elderly woman in her eighties. I was shocked by the change in her in little over a month.
‘Should we wake her?’ I asked the care assistant.
‘Yes, she’ll want to see her daughter.’ She gently touched Amanda’s shoulder. ‘Amanda, your daughter is here to see you.’
Amanda woke with a start, sat bolt upright and stared around. Clearly disorientated, I assumed from having just been woken, she appeared not to know where she was or who we were. Even when she looked directly at Melody she didn’t immediately show any signs of recognizing her. It was only when Melody said, ‘Hello, Mummy, I’ve brought you lots of nice things to eat,’ that she looked more closely at her daughter.
‘Melody,’ she said. ‘Melody, well, fancy finding you here. How did you do that?’
Melody looked confused. She didn’t know what to say and tried to smile.
‘I brought her here in the car, Amanda,’ I said, which would have been obvious to someone who wasn’t suffering from dementia. ‘Do you remember that Melody is living with me for now?’ I asked her. ‘I’m Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer.’
The care assistant who’d shown us in had gone to attend to a lady who was struggling to get out of her chair.
‘Are you taking me home?’ Amanda asked me, ignoring her daughter.
‘No, love,’ I said. ‘You’re living here now. So you can be looked after.’
‘It’s very damp,’ Amanda said, ‘and that bloody social worker keeps poking her nose in.’ Of course, she was referring to the past, not the present, but for her it was very real. Melody didn’t know what to say.
‘Amanda,’ I said, leaning in slightly so I could make eye contact, ‘you don’t have to worry about that any more. Your room isn’t damp and the social worker is pleased you are being looked after here. I am looking after Melody.’
‘That’s good,’ she said, but I wasn’t sure she’d understood. She appeared to have little grasp of the present, and from her expression and the look in her eyes I doubted she knew where she was. Her condition had dramatically deteriorated.
Melody, who’d been standing beside me watching her mother, not sure what to do for the best, now put down the bag she’d been carrying and threw her arms around her mother. Amanda looked surprised at first, as though she didn’t know who was hugging her, and sat upright and unyielding. Then she appeared to realize – perhaps from the smell and feel of Melody – that this was her daughter. Her expression changed. Her face softened and she slipped her arms around Melody and hugged her back. As she did, a tear slipped from her eye.
‘I knew you’d find me. You always do when I get lost,’ she said.
I swallowed hard. It was heartbreaking.
Chapter Fourteen
Precious Freedom
Past and present merged again for Amanda, and as quickly as she had recognized her daughter it vanished and the light went out of her eyes. She took her arms from around Melody, sat back in her chair and looked at us as if we’d just arrived.
‘Mummy’s gone again,’ Melody said. Her comment surprised me. I supposed she must have recognized the distant loo
k in her mother’s gaze from when they’d lived together and at contact. Thinking back, I too had seen it at contact, but, not knowing that Amanda had dementia, I’d assumed it was a result of substance misuse.
There were empty chairs either side of Amanda, so I suggested to Melody that we sit down and she could show her mother what she’d brought for her. Amanda was still staring across the room with apparently no interest in us at all.
‘Look, Mum, I’ve made cakes for you,’ Melody said, and she took the box containing the cupcakes from the bag and set it on her mother’s lap. ‘I bought you a box of chocolates,’ she said, taking that from the bag and placing it on her mother’s lap too. ‘And biscuits, and grapes. Here’s the card I made.’ The pile grew, yet Amanda appeared not to notice and didn’t give them so much as a glance. Then suddenly she stood up, jettisoning all the items onto the floor. Melody and I scrambled to pick them up. Amanda left her chair and began walking slowly across the room.
‘Amanda, where are you going?’ the care assistant called. Leaving the lady she was with, she went to Amanda.
Amanda heard her and stopped. It was as if her words had for a moment meant something.
‘You’ve got visitors. Come and sit down and talk to them,’ the care assistant encouraged. Amanda turned and began walking back towards us, seemingly recognizing Melody as if for the first time.
‘You found me, you always do,’ she said again as she sat in her chair. I thought Melody was coping very well.
‘Look, Mum, I’ve made you some cakes,’ she tried again. Leaving the other items in the bag this time, she took out the box of cakes and, peeling off the lid, offered them to her mother. ‘They’ve got pink icing on, your favourite colour,’ she encouraged.