A mother, recovering on a psychiatric respite ward, recalls her own mother and her 'other mother', and sees vivid glimpses of hope in the past and present
The staff nurse calls me.
‘Come on, Sara!’ she says, poking her head round the door. ‘You're keeping the doctor waiting.’ The door slams behind her. She hasn't seen the red splashes on the mirror and on the tiles. They have good mirrors here, crystal clear; good mirrors and white tiles. Not all mirrors make me look like my mother – the same dark eyebrows and crowded teeth, the curled up nose and rounded lips. The mother I love. In some mirrors I can't even see myself.
I have two mothers. Sometimes they get confused in my mind. I'm not mad, at least that's what I tell myself when I look in the mirror. I have black shoulder length hair, like the mother I love. I have two clear memories of her – two pictures – that is all. In the first she is standing at an ironing board, pressing backwards and forwards, a white shirt sleeve hanging down, almost to the carpet. She's not looking at what she's doing, she's not looking at me. I'm scratching at the iron's wire down by my legs. I'm six, at least that's what I think I am. She's talking. Reading from a book. She says … I can’t remember what she says, but she’s reading from a book and ironing, all at the same time. Then she looks out of the window. Still talking. Not to me, she’s reading. Talking to herself. I must be six, or thereabouts.
In the second memory she's standing by a wall of rinsed blue tiles. It's like the swimming baths, but there aren't any towels or costumes. I'm seven, maybe eight. She looks lost, can't see, like she's searching through a thick fog. I want to shout out – ‘It's all right Mummy, I'll get the costumes.’ But the man ushers us out to the door and someone grabs my hand. Did he have a white coat? The man. There was something white against the blue of the tiles. I can't stop thinking, I want to run to her, to shout, but my mouth won't open, my legs won't move. Part of me is crying, but not my eyes...
The staff nurse calls me.
‘Come on, Sara!’ she says, poking her head round the door. ‘You're keeping the doctor waiting.’ The door slams behind her. She hasn't seen the red splashes on the mirror and on the tiles. They have good mirrors here, crystal clear; good mirrors and white tiles. Not all mirrors make me look like my mother – the same dark eyebrows and crowded teeth, the curled up nose and rounded lips. The mother I love. In some mirrors I can't even see myself.
I have two mothers. Sometimes they get confused in my mind. I'm not mad, at least that's what I tell myself when I look in the mirror. I have black shoulder length hair, like the mother I love. I have two clear memories of her – two pictures – that is all. In the first she is standing at an ironing board, pressing backwards and forwards, a white shirt sleeve hanging down, almost to the carpet. She's not looking at what she's doing, she's not looking at me. I'm scratching at the iron's wire down by my legs. I'm six, at least that's what I think I am. She's talking. Reading from a book. She says … I can’t remember what she says, but she’s reading from a book and ironing, all at the same time. Then she looks out of the window. Still talking. Not to me, she’s reading. Talking to herself. I must be six, or thereabouts.
In the second memory she's standing by a wall of rinsed blue tiles. It's like the swimming baths, but there aren't any towels or costumes. I'm seven, maybe eight. She looks lost, can't see, like she's searching through a thick fog. I want to shout out – ‘It's all right Mummy, I'll get the costumes.’ But the man ushers us out to the door and someone grabs my hand. Did he have a white coat? The man. There was something white against the blue of the tiles. I can't stop thinking, I want to run to her, to shout, but my mouth won't open, my legs won't move. Part of me is crying, but not my eyes...