Where Has Mummy Gone?

  ‘Good morning, you’re early today,’ the care assistant who let me in said. Many of the staff knew us now, as we did them. ‘No daughter?’

  ‘No, not today. She’ll be coming every two weeks in future.’

  ‘Amanda is in the lounge,’ she said, relocking the door.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Having said hello to Mr and Mrs Bennett, I headed off along the corridor in the direction of the lounge, but as I passed Mr Wilson’s room he didn’t call out, so I assumed his routine was different in the morning and that perhaps he was in the men’s lounge.

  The women’s lounge was fuller than I’d seen it before and Amanda was sitting on the far side with a care assistant beside her. I went over and said hello to them both.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ the care assistant asked with a smile.

  ‘Very well, thank you, and you?’ I replied while Amanda stared at me.

  ‘Good. No daughter with you today?’

  ‘No, not today. She will be coming fortnightly from now on.’

  The care assistant nodded. From what I’d seen, not many residents had regular visitors. Some we’d seen – like the young woman who came to visit her grandmother and an elderly lady who visited her husband each day – but most residents had only the occasional visitor, some none at all.

  Amanda was still staring at me and I said hello again and smiled. It was impossible to guess what she was thinking. I drew up one of the chairs from the table.

  ‘Melody is at school,’ I said. ‘She sends her love and will see you next week.’

  There was no response, but she continued to look at me quite intently, as if trying to work out something.

  ‘Melody has made you some cakes,’ I said, and took the box from the carrier bag.

  She suddenly snatched it from my hand, quite aggressively, making me start.

  ‘It’s rude to snatch,’ the care assistant said evenly.

  Amanda took no notice but began struggling to get the lid off the box.

  ‘Shall I help you?’ I offered.

  She thrust the box back at me and I took off the lid. I gave her a couple of cakes and resealed the box and returned it to the carrier bag. Having eaten them, she grabbed the bag.

  ‘Don’t snatch,’ the care worker said again. Amanda’s aggressiveness was a new development, although perhaps she was confused because Melody wasn’t with me. She rummaged in the bag.

  ‘We can put the box of cakes and fruit in your room later if you like,’ I said.

  She threw the bag in my direction, stood and set off across the lounge.

  ‘She wants to go to her room now,’ the care assistant said, which I’d rather guessed.

  I followed her out and as we left the lounge Mr Andrews entered, making his usual ‘boo-boo’ noise. A young care assistant I hadn’t seen before followed him.

  ‘This must keep you fit,’ I said as I passed her.

  ‘Absolutely!’ she returned, laughing. ‘I’ve cancelled my gym membership!’ Not for the first time since I’d been visiting the care home, I thought how much good humour and patience were required to do their job. They really were saints.

  Amanda stopped outside Mr Wilson’s room and cocked her ear, listening out for him. ‘I don’t think he can be in his room,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s in the men’s lounge.’

  She looked at me oddly, waited for a while longer and then continued along the corridor to her room.

  As we went in I immediately saw the letter from Melody open on the bed with the envelope beside it. It must have arrived that morning. Had someone read the letter to her and explained who it was from?

  ‘You got the letter from Melody then,’ I said, pointing.

  Amanda looked at me blankly.

  ‘The letter on your bed,’ I said, and pointed again.

  ‘Letter,’ she repeated. I went over and picked it up.

  She made a rush and snatched it back. Perhaps she thought I was going to take it.

  ‘I know it’s yours,’ I said. ‘It’s from Melody. I helped her write it. Shall I read it to you?’

  She didn’t reply but stuffed the letter under her pillow for safe keeping, so I assumed she must at least feel it was precious and possibly know it was from her daughter. I took the box of cakes from the carrier bag and put it in her bedside cabinet where we had been leaving them. At the same time I retrieved the box from last time, telling her what I was doing as I did it. I put the grapes into the fruit bowl, which was empty again. Amanda was watching me carefully, possibly a little confused, for in whatever memory she had of my previous visits Melody would have been there too.

  ‘Melody is at school,’ I said again. ‘She will be coming next week.’ At the mention of her daughter’s name Amanda’s gaze went to the framed photographs of her on the bookshelves, which I took as proof she still knew who Melody was.

  ‘Would you like to look at the photograph album?’ I asked her. It was on the bottom shelf. ‘I could show you the photos as Melody does.’

  The poor woman just stared at me but then suddenly seemed to make the connection and understand. She went to the bookshelf, picked up the album, sat on the bed and then patted the place beside her for me to sit as Melody did. I smiled and sat next to her. As she turned the pages I told her about each photograph: Melody on the swings, Melody having her dinner, Melody’s bedroom and so forth. When she came to the end she returned the album to the shelf, walked around the room a few times, then looked directly at me.

  ‘Photos,’ she said and went back to the shelf. Taking the album, she returned to sit beside me and we began to go through the album again exactly as we had the first time. Sadly there was nothing from her to say she remembered any of them from looking at them before. Part-way through a knock sounded on the door and a member of staff put her head round. ‘Amanda, it’s lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Come to the dining room, please.’

  She said hello to me and closed the door, so I assumed Amanda understood and knew where the dining room was. Clearly she did, for snapping shut the album she threw it on the bed and headed for the door. I followed her out. It was 12.20 now. I’d been there nearly an hour so I thought that once I’d seen her into the dining room I’d say goodbye and leave. We passed Mr Wilson’s room and it remained quiet, but Amanda didn’t stop or give it a second glance now. She was more intent on going to dinner. We turned right down a corridor I hadn’t been through before, passed a kitchen and then went into the dining room, where residents were arriving. The room was about the same size as the lounge and six small dining tables were set with cutlery, condiments, glasses and a jug of water. Some residents were making their own way in, others were being guided in by care assistants, some were being pushed to the tables in wheelchairs, and three large pressure-relieving air chairs had been parked to one side, their occupants the most disabled. Men and women were in here and I thought it was nice that everyone came together at mealtimes, like a family. Apart from the elderly lady who seemed to spend most of each day with her husband, I was the only visitor present.

  An assistant standing by a catering trolley began taking plated food to the residents and setting it on the table in front of them. Not everyone had identical food so I assumed some were on special diets. Mr and Mrs Bennett had temporarily left their post by the main door and now sat together, while Mr Andrews had joined a table of ladies but interestingly had stopped making his ‘boo-boo’ noise while he ate. The smell of food was making me hungry. I poured water for Amanda and the other lady at the table and then, when their food arrived, I said, ‘Amanda, I’m going now. I’ll see you next week.’

  She didn’t respond – I hadn’t expected her to – but she had picked up her cutlery and was concentrating on the food on her plate. ‘See you next week,’ I said again, and kissed her cheek as Melody always did.

  I left the dining room, returned down the corridor and passed Mr Wilson’s room. It remained quiet. Perhaps he’d been in the dining room; I wouldn’t have recognized him, as I’d nev
er seen him, only heard him. I assumed the plane he had to catch must wait until he’d eaten, for until now his calling out had been constant. When a member of staff arrived at the main door to let me out I remarked, ‘I haven’t heard Mr Wilson today.’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘Know what?’ A chill ran down my spine.

  ‘He passed away in his sleep two nights ago.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s so quiet without him.’

  ‘Yes, we do miss him, but I guess he’s finally caught his plane – to heaven.’

  I nodded and hurried out, for ridiculously I’d teared up. I’d never met Mr Wilson, yet I felt I knew him. He was one of the characters in the care home and now he’d made his final journey – to heaven – as the care assistant had said. Goodbye, you finally caught your plane, Sir.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Timely Reminder

  Bad news never seems to come alone. I had time to go home first before I needed to collect Melody from school, but as I let myself in Adrian immediately appeared in the hall looking very worried. My first thought was that the exam he’d sat that morning hadn’t gone well, but then he said, ‘Mum, there’s something wrong with Toscha. She’s in her bed and won’t get up. I’ve tried to tempt her with food, but she’s just lying there and her nose is running.’

  I quickly followed him into the kitchen-diner where Toscha had her basket in one corner. She was never in her bed during the day. We knelt beside her and I stroked her. She looked so poorly and hadn’t the energy to raise her head, and her eyes were watering. ‘I’ll phone the vet,’ I said, straightening.

  ‘Here’s the number,’ Adrian said, handing me a piece of paper. ‘I was going to phone them, then you came in.’

  ‘Thanks, love. Can you get the pet carrier from the cupboard under the stairs? It’s right at the back.’ The carrier was only normally used once a year to take Toscha to the vet for her annual check-up and vaccination – I couldn’t remember her ever being ill before.

  I used the handset in the kitchen to phone the vet. They ran an appointments system, but when I described Toscha’s symptoms the receptionist said to bring her in straight away, as there was a nasty flu-type virus appearing in local cats, which could be fatal in older animals. I felt my heart twist and said I’d be there in ten minutes. Adrian and I gently lifted Toscha into the carrier. Normally she had to be tempted in with treats, but now she was too ill to protest. A lump rose in my throat. Toscha had been part of our family for as long as anyone could remember.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Adrian said, picking up the carrier.

  ‘Thanks but what about studying for your exam tomorrow?’

  ‘I won’t be able to concentrate until I know she’s OK.’

  He carried her to the car and then sat on the back seat with her on his lap, talking to her in a soothing voice. It was only ten minutes to the vet and I was able to park right outside. Adrian carried her in. I went to the reception desk to check in as Adrian sat on a chair with Toscha in the carrier on his lap. There was one other lady in the waiting room, elderly, with a small dog on her lap. Usually Toscha would have hissed at a dog, but now she remained unnaturally quiet.

  ‘The vet won’t be long,’ the receptionist said. ‘She’s with another emergency, but you’ll go in next.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said, and sat next to Adrian.

  ‘Are you the ones with the very sick cat?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I guessed the receptionist had told her and that we would see the vet ahead of her.

  ‘I hope your cat is OK. Albert is just here for his check-up.’

  I raised a smile and nodded and assumed Albert was her dog. I think she would have liked to chat, but I was too worried about Toscha to make conversation. I also had one eye on the clock. If I was going to be late collecting Melody from school I’d have to phone and let them know. Five minutes ticked by with Toscha remaining unnaturally quiet and still, and then a veterinary assistant came out and showed us through to a consultation room.

  The vet was waiting there and we carefully lifted Toscha out of the carrier and put her on the examination table. Adrian and I were silent as the vet looked in Toscha’s eyes, ears and throat, then listened to her chest and took her temperature.

  ‘When did she fall ill?’ the vet asked.

  ‘This morning,’ I said. ‘It was very sudden. She seemed fine first thing, although I noticed she didn’t eat all her breakfast. Then when my son came home at midday he found her in her basket like this.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s the new strain of feline influenza that’s appeared. It comes on very quickly, even in cats that have been vaccinated. I’ll give her a shot of antibiotics now and a course of oral antibiotics for you to continue at home. I want to see her again on Monday, but if she worsens over the weekend then phone our emergency out-of-hours number.’ I nodded. ‘Keep her calm and try to get her to drink. Don’t worry too much about food. She won’t feel much like eating while she’s feeling poorly. She’s an old cat, so let’s hope for the best.’ I heard her warning, as did Adrian.

  ‘She will be all right, won’t she?’ he asked.

  ‘The next forty-eight hours are crucial,’ she said. ‘Do you have any other cats?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keep her in and away from other cats, as the virus is very contagious. I’ll get the medicine.’

  She left and Adrian and I stroked Toscha, who was on her front, legs tucked under her and head down. I could see how worried Adrian was. He doesn’t easily show his feelings, but he was close to tears.

  ‘She’s strong,’ I said, touching his arm. ‘I’m sure she’ll pull through.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I know she’s old, but I’m not ready to say goodbye to her yet.’ His voice broke.

  The vet returned and prepared the antibiotic injection. I steeled myself for the needle going in, but Toscha was so poorly she didn’t murmur. Adrian and I stroked her as the vet talked us through how and when to give the oral antibiotics, then we gently lifted Toscha back into the carrier. I thanked the vet and we returned to reception to pay and make the follow-up appointment for Monday. Another couple with a pet carrier had joined the woman with her lapdog, Albert. As we left she said goodbye and hoped our cat was better soon. I thanked her.

  Toscha was quiet on the drive home. Usually by now – on her annual trip to the vet – she would have had enough of being in the carrier and would meow constantly, calling us all sorts of names. Her silence deepened our concern, and Adrian and I were quiet too.

  Once home, we settled Toscha in her basket again and I left Adrian trying to tempt her to drink some water, as I had to collect Melody from school. I arrived in the playground a few minutes late and Miss May was waiting with Melody. I walked swiftly over.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to take our cat to the vet,’ I explained. ‘She’s got cat flu.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope she’s all right,’ Miss May said, concerned. ‘Melody’s told me all about her. Toscha, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. She’s on antibiotics.’

  ‘She’ll be better soon then,’ she said positively.

  I didn’t go into more detail and sound the warnings the vet had done – that the disease could be fatal in older cats. I thanked Miss May for looking after Melody, wished her a nice weekend and said goodbye.

  ‘What’s the matter with Toscha?’ Melody asked, worried, as we walked away. Despite her early animosity towards Toscha, she was now very good with her and often stroked and talked to her just as we did.

  ‘She’s got cat flu,’ I said. ‘We have to look after her and keep her quiet so she can rest.’

  ‘My mum knew a man who died from flu,’ Melody said.

  ‘Yes, it can happen.’

  ‘I hope Toscha doesn’t die.’

  ‘So do I, love.’ I put off telling her about Mr Wilson.

  At home I found Lucy and Paula sitting
beside Toscha’s bed, stroking her, clearly very concerned. Adrian had told them how ill she was, and was now in his room trying to study. I explained to them what the vet had said – that the next forty-eight hours were crucial and she needed water but not to worry if she didn’t want to eat. Melody joined them for a while and then I suggested they left Toscha to rest.

  That evening we had fish for dinner and normally Toscha would have been purring around our legs, hoping for a titbit, but now she stayed in her bed with her eyes closed and with no interest in food.

  ‘I expect the antibiotics have made her tired,’ I suggested, but it was clear to all of us that she was very ill.

  I cancelled the visit to my parents that weekend. They understood I needed to be at home to take Toscha to the vet if her condition worsened. I was the first one downstairs on Saturday morning and I opened the door to the kitchen-diner with some trepidation, scared of what I might find. But as I approached Toscha’s bed her head moved and she opened her eyes a little, although she made no attempt to stand. Normally she would have already been out of bed by now, meowing for her breakfast. I saw that the food and water in her bowl were untouched. I stroked her, made myself a coffee, and then gave her the first dose of the liquid antibiotic using the pipette provided. She couldn’t be bothered to resist and swallowed the medication I squirted into her mouth. I then had the idea of using the pipette to give her some water. I filled a tumbler, drew water into the pipette and slowly released it into her mouth. She swallowed and I refilled the pipette twice more, then her eyes closed and she went back to sleep. The next forty-eight hours were crucial, the vet had said.