Choose: Your Mother or Me
The telephone rang at half past ten in the evening, just as Eleanor had settled in bed with a novel. Victor was in the sitting room next door, facing his laptop, the murmur of some business commentator drifting through the open door.
The number was unfamiliar but bore the code of their old hometown, Wellow.
Hello? Eleanor answered, that odd twist of dread already gathering beneath her ribs.
Is this Eleanor Weston? a woman’s voice began, hesitant. Its Mrs. Evans, your mothers neighbour, across the lane. I dont believe weve met before. Theres been a bit of trouble Your mum, Mrs. Grace Weston, had a fall this morning. I popped round this evening and found her on the floor, hardly able to speak, half her face I rang for the ambulance
Eleanor was already scrambling out of bed, feeling for her slippers.
Is she at the hospital?
They took her off an hour ago. Paramedics said it looks like a stroke. I found your number in her booklooked for ages. Im sorry for the late call
Thank you, Mrs. Evans. Thank you so much.
She hung up, standing quite still in the bedroom, clutching her mobile in both hands. After a moment, she made her way into Victors study.
He sat reclined in his favourite chair, expensive lounge suit pressed, a glass of sparkling water within reach. Fifty-six years old, always immaculately presented, even at home, his hair steely and neatly trimmed. A successful man, in his successful London flat.
Vic, Mums ill. Shes had a stroke. Theyve taken her to Wellow Hospital, she said.
He turned, thumbed the volume lower with the remote.
When?
Today, Eleanor told him. Mrs. Evans found her on the floor. Shed been there since morning, all alone, the whole day
Victor set his glass on the coffee table.
Well? What happens now?
Eleanor gazed at him.
I need to go. First thing in the morning. I need to see her.
Go if you want. I wont stop you.
Vic, we need a real conversation. Mums seventy-eight. If this is a proper stroke, she cant stay alone in that house anymore. We need to decide what to do.
Victor, eyes fixed on the muted tele, increased the volume a fraction, almost to declare his lack of interest.
Weve discussed this, Ellie. More than once.
That was in theory. Now its happened.
And whats changed? Ive told you, were not bringing her here; weve not the room for it.
Eleanor sat heavily on the sofa opposite.
We have four bedrooms, Victor.
Four, of which two Im planning a proper renovation for. Weve talked about this a hundred times. Id like to convert one into an office and you wanted a dressing room. Where do you suggest she sleepsin the corridor?
She can have a room. The renovations can wait.
The renovations cant wait, he replied, perfectly evenworse perhaps than had he shouted. The builder’s team is coming in March. Deposits down. You know that.
Vic, shes ill. Shes my mother.
He finally looked at her.
Im sorry for you, I am. But think about what it really means: an elderly stranger in the house, poorly, possibly in nappies, unable to talk. Im not prepared for that. Can I not say so honestly?
She isnt a strangershes my mother.
Shes a stranger to me. Weve seen each other four times in a decade. She never went out of her way.
Because you
No point blaming anyone now. This is reality. I work, Ellie, serious projects, I need peace at home. This is as much my home as yours.
Eleanor was silent, Londons rush muffled beyond the double-glazing, the familiar indifference of the big city.
What if we paid for a carer? Back home, in Wellow. A good one, we could afford it.
We could. So do it.
Ill have to go down there often.
As often as you want. Go.
Vic, do you understand what Im saying? Ill need to spend most of my time there. Three-hour drive each way.
I understand. Gono ones stopping you.
His no ones stopping you fell too smoothly, too easilyso usual it made Eleanors foundation shift inside, not snap, just slowly, inexorably, like the earth sluffing beneath her feet to show it was never quite solid.
She returned to the bedroom and lay staring at the ceiling until nearly two.
She drove to Wellow alone the next morning.
The local hospital greeted her with the scents of disinfectant and institutional paint. Her mother, Grace Weston, lay by the window in a six-bed ward, the right side of her face slack, right hand unmoving atop the blanket. She looked at her daughter and tried to smile, her mouth twitching feebly.
Mum, Eleanor whispered, taking the cold, papery hand. Mum, Im here. Im right here. Its all right.
Grace made an effort at speech, but the sounds were misshapen.
No need, dont talk. Im not leaving.
The doctor, a tired, middle-aged woman, was brisk: a severe ischemic stroke, right-side paralysis, slurred speech. Prognosis? Guarded. Some recovery possible, but it could take monthsat least six of hard work, exercises, speech therapy, constant care.
She cant live alone, thats for sure, the doctor finished. Are you her only daughter?
I am, admitted Eleanor.
The doctor gave her that certain look medical people have after seeing so many families in this sort of mess. Not quite pity, not judgementjust knowledge.
She spent the whole day at her mothers side, feeding her watery porridge by the spoonful, talkingjust her voice, nonsense stories, while Grace listened, eyes bright with comprehension, though unable to reply much.
That evening, Eleanor stepped out to the car park and called Victor.
How is she? he asked.
Bad. The right sides paralysed, she cant talk properly. Shes not going to manage alone.
A brief silence.
I see.
Vic, I need you to listenIm staying. Here. I cant leave her.
For how long?
I dont know. As long as I must. She cant be alone.
His tone altered, a shade tenser.
Ellie, youve got a job and a life back here.
Ill sort work remotely, get part-time if I can manage. Mum needs me now.
You said something about a carer.
A carer isnt a daughter. You know that.
He was silent.
You realise this could be for ages?
I do.
And youll live in that that old house?
I will.
A longer pause.
All right, he said, and in that all right there was neither warmth nor protest. Simply a statement. Ring if you need anything.
She put away the phone and watched dusk settle over the small town. Here, only half the iron lamps burned. Along the footpath, a bent old lady tottered by with her carrier. Somewhere, wood smoke caught in the mist.
Her mothers house stood on Orchard Lane, at the end of a cul-de-sac: old timber, porch sagging, tiny windowpanes outlined by peeling white paint. Eleanor opened the door using a key shed carried all her life, rarely used.
Inside, the cold bit at her. The house hadnt been heated in days. Eleanor fetched logs from the scullery and coaxed the ancient stove to life. It took several goesher hands sort-of remembered the way, from childhood, but not confidently. Shed lived here eighteen years, long ago.
She went round the house: the little kitchen with cracked tiles; the corridor; two rooms, her mums bed in one, a battered daybed shed slept on as a child in the other. Everything was neat, clean, but so threadbare, so modest. On the walls, photographsherself young, her late father, two ancient black-and-whites of unknown kin. And that particular country tidiness: few things, each in place, each remembered.
She texted Victor: Ill be living here now. Not sure for how long. Ill come to fetch my things.
He replied twenty minutes later: Understood. As you wish.
That was the sum total. That was the marriage, it seemed.
The first few days blurred into a single stretch of physical toil. Eleanor went to the hospital morning to evening. She learned everything: how to turn her mother to avoid sores, how to start exercises for the limp arm, feed her gently, talk without weariness. Speech therapy beganit was painful to watch her mother, once a sharp maths teacher, fumble for simple words.
One morning, a fortnight on, Grace saidvery clearly for once, her left hand motioningEllie. Go home.
I am home, Mum.
No. Another weary gesture. To Victor.
Lets not get into that now, Mum.
Victor not happy?
Eleanor straightened her coverlet. Its fine, Mum. Dont worry.
Her mother looked at her intently, something in her gaze that Eleanor couldnt bear, so she turned to the window.
Grace was discharged after three and a half weeks, with medicine, a sheet of exercises, a referral to the speech therapist. Eleanor hired a car to bring her to Orchard Lane. A young neighbour, out by chance, helped her carry her in and settle her. The stove was readied, soup on the hob.
A new life began.
Caring for an invalid isnt something you chat about lightly. It means turning her every two hours, bedpans and sheets through the night, morning exercises, slow feeds from a teaspoon, checking she doesnt choke. Tablets by the clock, seven at breakfast, five at tea. Speech therapist three days a weekher mum, always determined, gritted through each session.
Eleanor worked remotely, accounting for a small firm. Her boss was understanding, allowed her part-time hours. Money was tight. Occasionally, Victor sent fundsnot much, without notes, just a bank ping. She never asked.
They barely spoke on the phone.
One sodden morning in November, as Eleanor fiddled with the loose step outsideher mother was meant to start walking practice soonshe was approached by a stout, kindly-looking man in work clothes, about fifty-five, a contemporary.
You’re holding it wrong, he said. Angle the nail downsee, it holds stronger.
She looked up.
Nick. From across the way. Are you Graces daughter?
Yes, Eleanor.
Hows she doing?
Improving, a bit at a time.
He nodded, took the hammer, and in five minutes did what she’d been poking at for thirty.
If you need anything sorted about the place, just let me know, he said as he got up. Im always nearby.
Thank you. I dont want to be a bother.
Not a bother. He shrugged, plainly. Known your mum since I was a lad. She helped mine out, years back. I havent forgotten.
He wandered off.
Eleanor watched him go, realising she no longer feared being a bother. That wasn’t what made her uncomfortable. No, uncomfortable was living in a grand London flat knowing her mum lay helpless here, alone.
November bit deeper. The old stove began to smoke, filling the rooms with a sting. Eleanor, baffled, knocked at Nicks, apologies tumbling out.
He just came alongwithout annoyance, as if it was obvious. He shinned up the roof, found a blockage, cleared it, explained it needed doing each autumn. Refused payment with a dignity she didnt contest.
Cup of tea? she offered.
If its not trouble.
They sat in the kitchen over shop-bought biscuits. Her mother slept in the next room; through the window, the wind whistled past the old apple tree.
How longve you lived here? Eleanor asked.
All my life. Spent five years in Oxfordshire, at the factory, then came back.
Why?
Nick hesitated. Home is home. Some folk like new placesI dont.
Eleanor wrapped her hands round the mugit was warm in the kitchen, the stove quietly humming.
I lived in London for twenty years. Thought thats what I wanted. Now Im half-ashamed I didnt visit more. How did it come to this?
Nick didnt try to console her. Well, youre here now. Thats what matters.
In December, Grace sat unaided for the first time. It felt enormous. The speech therapistSally Pearce, a brisk, cheery womanpraised her so warmly that Grace even managed a lopsided smile.
Words returned, slowly. Not allsimple phrases, frustration at herself for losing others.
Youve lost weight, Grace said one day.
I havent, Mum.
You have. She fixed Eleanor with a long stare. Does Victor call?
Occasionally.
Is he coming?
I dont know.
After a pause, Grace said, matter-of-factly, He wont. Not bitter, simply as someone who had lived long enough to know hope from reality.
Victor, indeed, did not come. He rang once a week, asked how are things, accepted brief answers, and closed with keep going. Once he mentioned the redecorating; once, a company dinner at a rather good Covent Garden restaurant. From Eleanor, the distance only widenednot angry, just apart. Two people in different worlds, carrying on the motions of what once was.
In January, Eleanors friend Mary came from London, bringing cake and an offer of help. Mary was generous, and Eleanor was glad to see her, but the conversation buckled.
Ellie, isnt this, well, too much? Mary asked at the kitchen table. A month or two is one thingbut how long will this last? Youll ruin yourself.
What am I meant to do, Mary?
Get a proper carer, or there are plush care homes, you know.
Mum fears care homes.
Thats sentiment, Ellie. She cant know what youre going through
She does know, Eleanor whispered. Her minds sharp. She knows.
Mary was silent.
Victor isnt showing up?
No.
And this is how it’ll stay?
I dont know.
Ellie, youre cleveryou cant leave a husband for this! Hes the breadwinner, you’ve the flat, standing
Eleanor looked at her. Mum was on the floor a whole day, alone, seventy-eight years old.
I know
No, you dont, Mary. Please, no lectures about being sensible.
Mary left that day, slightly stung. They made up by messages, but something shifted.
Older neighbours seemed to regard Eleanor differentlynot with pity, but with a quiet, rural respect. Mrs. Evans brought tinned fruit or a cabbage pie, leaving it silently by the door. Another neighbour, Mrs. Jenkins, nearly seventy herself, sat with Grace for hours so Eleanor could run errands. Were nearly the same agegood to have company, shed say, nothing more.
Women Eleanors age, those who knew her as Victors wife, looked at her askance. A former schoolmate met her in the village shop, pressing with questions: hows Victor, whys he not come down, how are you coping? There was something sly in the curiositya secret, unkind pleasure.
We manage, said Eleanor, and shared nothing more.
Nick kept helpingso much so it became normal. He mended the fence after snow. He brought a trailer of logs, stacking them neatly. When Eleanor caught a chill one February and could barely get up, Nick brought food, stoked the stove, even changed her mothers bedding once, matter-of-factly, without shame.
Nick, how can I ever thank you? Eleanor asked when she was better.
Dont mention it. Thats what neighbours do.
Not all of them.
No, he agreed. Not all.
They were quiet. Her mother slept. Outside, February lay grey and half-frozen.
Do you have family? she asked.
Did. Wifes been gone eight years. Daughters up in Manchesterseldom calls. He wasn’t bitter. Im used to it. Been on my own a good while.
Doesnt it get lonely?
Sometimes, he said, looking past the window. But if youve work and hands keep busy, not too often.
She pictured Victor, alone on his leather sofa in London, business news low, things just sowas he lonely?
That evening, she phoned him.
Vic, can we talk?
Something wrong?
No, justits been so long since we really spoke.
A pause.
All right. Go on.
How are you?
Fine. Redecorating is almost done. Got one promising new project simmering. He hesitated. When are you coming back?
Im not sure I ever will.
A long, long pause.
Never?
Never.
He didnt shout or blame her, only asked,
Is this about your mother, or about me?
Eleanor thought three seconds.
Myself, really.
He sighed down the line.
Right, he said. Do you want a divorce?
Yes.
All right then. Divorce it is.
And that divorce it is, delivered in the neutral manner he used for projects and wallpaper, closed the door, clear as any words.
In spring, her mother began walkingfirst with a zimmer frame, then upright, tentatively. She reached the kitchen, then the porch. It was slow and hard; there were tears, rare for her mothers steely nature, but she kept at it.
Speech therapist Sally was over the moon. Motivation, she told Eleanor. Thats half the battlesomeone to fight for.
Eleanor wasnt sure it was herself, rather than her mothers character, but she liked to believe it.
One evening in May, she and Nick sat on the bench by her gate. Grace now settled herself in at bedtime, giving Eleanor a free hour.
Dont you ever think of leaving? he asked.
No, she replied, eventually. I used to dream about the city. Now I sit here, and I dont want to leave at all.
That isnt so strange, said Nick. Takes people a long time, sometimes, to find where theyre right.
Im not always happysometimes I struggle.
Thats not the same as being where you belong. Happy isnt easy. Right is when things fit.
She looked at him in the slanting light, hands rough from work, face creased by years, his words simple, but staying with her.
Nickdid you hear Victor and I are getting divorced?”
“I did. Word gets round.”
“Do you disapprove?”
He regarded her.
“Of what, exactly?”
“Well. Of leaving a marriage.”
He considered it. “A familys when youre together, good or bad. Otherwise, its just sharing a postcode.”
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
The divorce was handled by a solicitor, like everything else, calmly. Victor kept the flat, offering her some moneyshe accepted, needing it for repairs: sagging floors, a leaking roof, old wiring.
In summer, Nick helped again, bringing mates to re-do the floors and patch the roof. They charged only for supplies.
“Why?” Eleanor asked.
“Neighbours,” Nick answered plainly.
“Not just that, though.”
He met her gaze and nodded. “No. Not just that.”
Grace watched from the porch every evening, getting stronger, her face still a bit lopsided but her eyes bright. One day she told Eleanor, Hes a good man.
Yes, Mum.
You can see that, cant you?
I can.
Grace nodded, and said no more.
Victor phoned in July, for the first time in months since the decree absolute.
How are things there? His voice sounded differenta little less contained.
Good. Mums walking again. The house is sorted.
Glad to hear it. A pause. Ive thought it over Last autumn, I should have acted differently.
Eleanor didnt offer false comfort.
Maybe you should, she said.
Are you angry?
No. Not for a long while.
Thats good. Are you happy there?
She looked out. Grace sat in the old armchair Nick had dragged outside, reading, looking over the garden. The apple trees had flowered late, small green fruit swelling now in July. A starling perched on the fence.
Im not sure happy is the word, said Eleanor. But Im where I should be.
I see, Victor said, and from the way he said it, she believed he finally understood something he hadnt before.
They said their goodbyes amicably.
Eleanor went to the kitchen.
Mum, shall I make tea?
Yes, love.
She set the kettle boiling; the old kettle with a chipped handlea new one always on her to-buy list yet never reaching the top. By the windowsill, Graces geranium bloomed bright scarlet, thirty years and counting. The air smelt of cut grass and resin off warm boards.
At half five, Nick arrived, a box of home-grown raspberries in his hands.
Evening, Mrs. Weston. The first crop this year, I thought Id bring some.
Thank you, Nick. Come in, said Grace.
Eleanor stood a moment, listening to their quiet, friendly voices mergethe simplest, deepest comfort. Somewhere in London, in that large, tastefully redecorated flat, someone sat on their perfect settee but had chosen all the wrong things.
She had made the right choice.
Or was still choosing, day by day.
She carried the mugs out.
Nick, stay for tea.
Id be delighted.
Her mother smiled, a small, lopsided smile, but true.
Both of you sit down, said Grace.
And they did.
The sun slid beyond the pitched roofs; long shadows stretched across the garden, the starling trilled on the fence. Raspberries in the bowl glistened, warm, the scent of high summer.
Nothing further needed saying.
