Free The Scrapbook by Carly Holmes

I don’t let her answer. ‘They’re for your heart, aren’t they?’
    She sits on the edge of the bed and starts a one-handed shuffle into her socks, wincing. ‘I could really do with a hand here, Fern.’
    I kneel at her feet and we work together, silently, to get her dressed. She’s seemingly engrossed in the task and studiously avoids looking at me. The helpless way she sticks her legs out for me to slide her trousers on disarms my anger and I’m still groping to recapture it when the phone begins its shrill wail beneath us. She turns to me eagerly. ‘Aren’t you going to get that? It could be the restaurant, or Rick.’
    â€˜It’s not a restaurant, mum, it’s a cafe. And I’m not managing it, I just waitress there, as I keep telling you. They have no reason to call.’ I stand up and lean over her. ‘I want to know why you’re not taking your pills.’
    â€˜It’s none of your business, I’ve already told you that.’ She tries to get up but I don’t step away and she butts me gently in the chest before losing her balance and sinking back onto the bed. She rubs her head and glares up at me. ‘I could report you to Social Services.’
    I laugh and, after a moment, she joins in. But the scowl is still there.
    â€˜Is this why you want me to look for dad all of a sudden? Because you’re ill and you’re not going to take your tablets or even stop drinking? A kind of slow motion suicide. How can you be so selfish?’
    She takes advantage of a weakness in my stance to heave herself up and push past me. There’s no pretence at humour now, from either of us.
    â€˜You’re a fine one to talk about being selfish. How long has it been since you visited me? If Tommy hadn’t phoned you wouldn’t be here at all and we both know it. I don’t want to take the tablets so I’m not going to and you can’t make me. I don’t want to stop drinking either. It’s all I’ve got. As to your father, there’s no suddenly about it. I want to know why he left and I want him back. I’ve always wanted that.’
    I hold my hands up. ‘You’re right, I can’t make you.’ I bend to pick up the boxes. ‘I might as well bin them then, if you’re sure.’
    She stares at me, at the tablets, and then turns to pull the window closed. ‘Yes. You might as well. And then you can get on with looking for Lawrence. Do something useful while you’re here.’
    â€˜Then where do you suggest I start? You’ve already said you don’t have anything I can use to trace him. I’m not a bloody magician.’
    Mum grimaces quickly over at her bookcase, a brief tic of guilt. The bookcase is slippery with magazines and I decide to give her a gin with her lunch and go through every one of them while she has her afternoon nap.
    â€˜Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ she says.
    It’s nearly lunchtime when I get back from watching the late morning ferry come into dock. Mum’s sat in the front room, chair angled towards the window and body tense with watchfulness. I can see her face creased into corrugations of hope and anxiety as I open the gate and walk up the path, and I wince and wave apologetically. ‘Only me.’
    She bites her lip and leans back, sinks below the ripples of the half-net. I have a sudden image of her dead in her chair, drowned and serene. She’s sulking but I reckon my peace offering, the most expensive bottle of gin the local supermarket has to offer, will raise a smile, or at the very least a grudging word of thanks.
    I get both. And she doesn’t even notice the tablet I’ve crushed into her food, so busy is she sucking down that second drink before I change my mind. She’s half asleep before I’ve finished washing up and she doesn’t complain when I tuck a blanket around her and pull the