‘Are you for real?’ I ask. ‘That’s my grandbaby we’re talking about here. Of course she can come. She’s probably missing her granny anyway and will be desperate for a cuddle with me.’
‘You mean my grandbaby?’ Niamh says, her tone teasing – and everything feels absolutely okay with the world right here in the minute.
‘Right, everyone!’ Karl shouts. ‘Can we take our seats. It’s time for our warm up. Whitney is waiting for us!’
43
JUST A GIRL
Becca
When I arrive at my mother’s bedside, I am surprised to find we are not alone. Ruairi is there, suited and booted and looking much more himself than when he was wearing Adam’s joggers. Lizzy is also there, with her wonderful bosom. The social worker appointed by the Stroke Team, a lovely young man called Diarmuid, is there, and so is Mrs Bishop.
They all turn to look at me as I walk in and I sense some sort of evil plot is afoot.
‘Becca,’ Lizzy says. ‘We were just discussing our options there. Grab a seat and join us.’
I bristle because I have told Lizzy of my plans. I have outlined them quite carefully, and we have even discussed getting an OT assessment done in Mum’s home.
‘I thought we knew what we were going to do,’ I say, looking at them all one by one and trying to read from their expressions just what the hell they are at. ‘Mum is coming home. I’m going to move in during her convalescence, and beyond if necessary. Ourfamily and friends are going to help support us and it’s all going to be grand.’
There’s a pause in the room. Silence as everyone looks at me, and I realise those sneaky shites really have been plotting.
‘Mum,’ I say, ‘you are not going into a home. You are not a burden. I don’t care what you think. You are my mum and I will care for you. I want to do it.’ There’s a fierce protectiveness towards my mum rising up inside of me and I can’t believe that Ruairi, and Mrs Bishop, and Lizzy With The Wonderful Bosom, and Diarmuid – who for the record looks as if he is young enough to be on work experience – think that is a better option for her than being cared for by her own daughter.
‘Becca, I know this is an emotive issue,’ Lizzy with her now-treacherous bosom says. ‘But your mum is of perfectly sound mind and we have to take her wishes into consideration.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘You don’t. And clearly she isn’t of sound mind if she is choosingahome overherhome.’
‘Sis…’ Ruairi begins, but I am so not in the form for his shite today.
‘Don’t. Sis. Me,’ I bark with the same level of fury as I used on him when he told on me for having a quarter bottle of vodka stashed in my bedside locker.
‘Rebecca,’ Mrs Bishop says, and I don’t bark back at her, because she’s an old woman and I’m not a complete psychopath, but I do give her a bad look – and immediately feel guilty.
‘Your mum and I have been talking about this for some time,’ she says.
‘You have been planning it with her? Sure you’re alone in your house and happy to stay there. Why do you want rid of Mum? Will you not miss her?’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ Mrs Bishop says.
‘I think I understand perfectly well. Everyone has lost the run of themselves.’
‘Rebecca Louise Burnside!’ My mother’s voice is as steady and strong as it has been since her stroke. It’s actually quite intimidating. I fall silent, and I’m pretty sure the rest of the ward, right down to the double doors leading to the lifts, falls silent too. There is little that demands respect as quickly as my mother calling you by your full name.
‘Ruairi, tell your sister,’ my mother says, and I look to my brother – the smug shite, there in his suit all delighted because Mammy told me off.
Christ! When did I revert to the mental age of a fourteen-year-old?
‘Becca, please listen. Let me tell you the craic and then you can ask questions or have your meltdown or whatever you want.’
I suppose I’ll have to, I think. But I’m not happy. I’m so frustrated, I want to cry. This isn’t right.
‘It seems that Mum and Mrs Bishop have indeed been talking about this for a long time. They are both getting on and they feel increasingly vulnerable being home alone.’
Blinking back tears, I look at my mother, wanting to ask her why she didn’t tell me she was feeling vulnerable. She could’ve let me help more.
‘They also both want to enjoy life for another while yet – and their independence as much as possible.’
