The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins
Mum when it became obvious that she needed care after her stroke. Before that, I’d been on reasonable terms with both my sisters, though we weren’t exactly close. It had been over thirty years since we’d lived together as children, then teens. We had drifted in and out of each other’s lives in our twenties and thirties, then slowly grown further apart in our forties. Fleur was often abroad and Rose occupied with her job and family. We got on well enough when we did see each other, falling back into old roles and familiar teasing when we met up at Christmas, for big birthdays or family gatherings, but that was all.
For the last three Christmases, we’d made our visits to Mum separately.
When Mum had moved to the retirement village, Rose had suggested that we spread time with her over the festive period, so that Mum had three visits to look forward to instead of one. The arrangement suited me because the train companies often did engineering works over Christmas, making travel difficult from where I lived in the south west, but it also meant that I didn’t see my sisters – not that either complained. Years ago, Rose had commented that, ‘I wasn’t really in her life any more.’ It had stung. I had thought differently – that we were family, sisters, and always would be, despite time apart, but I knew what she meant. I wasn’t involved in the ordinary everyday events that made up a life. What she said had hurt all the same, but then Rose had always been able to do that to me. She’d been dismissing me since we were little – not including me in her gang when we were in junior school, shooing me away in our teens when her friends were over. I was always too young, not cool or clever enough to be in with her crowd.
All of us were worried about Mum. Even though she’d made a good recovery from the stroke, apart from a weakness down one side of her body and difficulty walking sometimes, her doctors warned that it might happen again. Rose, Fleur and I agreed on one thing. We wanted the best for her last chapter in life. Rose had a demanding job in publishing, a husband, her children, still at school then, and no spare room. Fleur was living in California at the time and there was no way Mum was going to uproot that far. I’d been the obvious choice to take care of her. I’d lived alone since my daughter Lucy had flown the nest almost six years ago. She’d gone first to live with her aunt on her father Andy’s side, in London, then later with her boyfriend to live in Australia near Andy, so I had her old room on the first floor that could be used.
‘Dee, you could go and live with Mum and take care of her,’ Fleur had suggested.
‘You can work from anywhere,’ said Rose. ‘There’s loads of room in the old house for you to paint.’
‘But my life is in Cornwall. I don’t want to uproot any more than Mum does, and if I let go of my house, I’m unlikely to ever find such a place to rent again. My landlady will find a new tenant, and when Mum does pass, the family home will have to be sold and I’ll be homeless.’
‘Don’t be overdramatic,’ said Rose.
‘It’s OK for you two. You have your own homes. I don’t own mine.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ asked Rose.
I’d chosen to ignore her jibe. ‘What would I do with Max and Misty?’
‘Mum’s allergic to cats,’ said Rose, ‘so if she came to live with you, you’d have to put them in a rescue home.’
‘Forget it. I can’t – won’t – abandon them. I can’t believe you can even suggest that. And what about Lucy when she comes home?’
‘She only visits every couple of years,’ said Fleur. ‘There’d be room at Mum’s.’
‘Summer Lane is her UK home as well as mine.’
‘You’re being selfish and uncaring,’ said Rose.
‘I am?’
‘And putting your cats before Mum,’ added Fleur.
I was outraged. ‘I do what I can. Neither of you have ever appreciated the distance I have to travel to visit, never mind the cost. Door to door can take seven hours, and that’s if the buses, ferry and train run smoothly, which more often than not, they don’t.’
‘Oh stop moaning,’ said Rose.
‘It’s all right for you, Rose. You live less than an hour away in Highgate.’
‘I don’t though,’ said Fleur. ‘I live in California, yet I still manage to get to see Mum.’
‘You let her down more times than you turn up, though,’ said Rose. ‘Don’t you know she marks the date in her calendar when you say you’re coming? She likes to anticipate a visit, gets food in, bakes for you, then you cancel and turn up out of the blue with your expensive presents to make up for your absence.’
‘Fuck you, Rose. I like to spoil her. What’s wrong with that? Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I do what I can,’ said Fleur.
‘Yes, but you have property in London so it’s not a big deal to visit when you’re in town,’ I said.
‘Dee, you’re the best option,’ said Rose.
‘I am not. Stop trying to control me and take over my life. Both of you are being insensitive to my situation and to suggest I give up my home is the last straw. And anyway, it’s up to Mum. We should ask her what she wants.’
While we’d sulked and seethed at each other, Mum did her research online then went ahead with her own plans. The three of us, smarting from our wounds, withdrew from one another. We visited Mum separately. It was easy enough to do without dragging her into our quarrels, and actually it was nice to have time alone with her when I did visit. I could fantasize that I was an only child. Mum’d reassured me that she was fine about not coming to live with me, or me coming to live with her – she understood and not to feel bad about it, but of course I felt dreadful. I felt I’d let her down when she needed me.
*
Mr Richardson reappeared and handed each of us an envelope. ‘It’s all in there. Do feel free to call if you have any questions.’
‘Thank you, we will. In the meantime, I have to dash,’ said Rose as she put away her phone and got up.
Fleur and I left soon after and went our separate ways. I didn’t mind. Mum might have made plans to get us back together but I couldn’t see it happening, not in a million years.
As I headed for the train station, I decided that after we’d done whatever Mum had requested, I’d have nothing to do with either of my sisters. I had a feeling that they felt the same.
Wednesday 2 September, morning
I picked up my bag from where I’d left it when I got home last night and pulled out the envelope that Mr Richardson had given me. As I put it on the bedside cabinet to read again later, I remembered Mum’s request that I talk to God.
I sat on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘OK Mum, no time like the present so here goes. Dear God, my mother’s suggested that I talk to you. I know, it’s been a while – that’s because I’m not convinced that there’s anyone listening and, if there is, speaks English. How does it work? Do you have a Google Translate system on your cosmic exchange for incoming prayers? Er …’ Why am I talking to the ceiling? I wondered as I noticed a damp patch in the left corner above the door. If God is omnipresent then I could just as well talk to the floor. I looked down and there, as clear as daylight, was a message from God, spelt out in cat hairs and toast crumbs. It said, Dee McDonald, your carpet needs hoovering. ‘So … God … I’d be interested to hear what you have to say about wasps and why they exist. And why is there so much trouble and hatred in the world? What do you have to say about that?’
No reply. Just the ticking of the clock by the bed and, in the distance, the sound of an occasional passerby going about their business outside. In the dressing-table