I never imagined my old age would smell of antiseptic and lukewarm broth.
I had pictured myself at seventy with ruby-red lips, dancing waltzes on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the pensioners from the club, and sipping tea with scones while chatting about politics or football. But no. Reality placed me in a care home called Golden Horizons, which sounds poetic but has more locked doors than a prison.
My son brought me one Tuesday, right after lunch.
Mum, youll be better off here, he said in that sheepish voice he uses when hes about to do something dreadful. Youll have company, medical care, activities
Ah, splendid, I replied. Then hand over your credit card while youre at it, and Ill book myself a luxury cruise.
He didnt answer. He gave me a quick peckthe kind you give when youre eager to leave before guilt catches upand off he went. I was left staring at the white ceiling, breathing in the bleach that clings to your skin, thinking that if this was whats best for me, Id rather have the worst.
The first few days were dreadful. I couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Margaret, snores like a lorry engine, and the other, Edith, hides everyones socks to see if theyll look for them, as if it were some psychological experiment.
But I adjusted. People underestimate the elderly. They dont realise how adaptable we are when theres no choice. I do chair yoga (though I look like a crumpled paper doll), play bingo three times a week, and befriended a sweet old chap named Mr. Albert, who proposes to me daily.
Madam, you and I would make a fine pair, he says, clutching a plastic daisy.
Of course, Albert, but first, remember my name, I always reply.
He laughs. So do I. Truth be told, Im happier here than I expected.
Then one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. He wore that suspicious grin Ive known since he was fivethe one that means, Mum, I need something.
Muuuum! he drawled, stretching the word like he used to when begging for sweets.
Out with it, I said, folding my arms. What have you broken now?
Nothing, Mum. Its just Im getting married.
I arched an eyebrow.
Really? What a shock! I didnt know there was anyone brave enough.
He laughed awkwardly. I didnt.
Well, Mum, weddings are expensive I was wondering if you could chip in a bit.
Chip in? You packed me off here because you claimed there wasnt room in your house! Now you want me to fund your fancy reception?
He gave me the puppy-dog eyes. I gave him the look of a mother whos seen too many puppies and knows they always chew the wrong shoe.
Let me get this straight, I continued. You dump me here, surrounded by old folk squabbling over the telly remote, and now you want my money for canapés at your wedding?
Theyre not just canapés, Mum, its a proper venue.
Proper my foot. Why not marry here? Ill lend you my bingo ladies as bridesmaids, and well make Mr. Albert the vicarhe already knows how to say I do!
He turned as red as a ripe tomato.
Mum, Im serious.
So am I, I said. And if you want a party, make it potluckevery guest brings a dish, and everyones happy.
He clutched his head.
I cant believe you wont help me.
Oh, no, darling, I replied. Ive helped plentyI gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when your first sweetheart broke your heart, and even co-signed your car loan. My motherly investment contract has expired.
He fell silent. The nurse passing by winked at me. I reckon every mother in Golden Horizons wouldve clapped.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But I gave him something bettera piece of advice worth more than a cheque.
Listen well, son. To marry, you need three things: love, patience, and the will to share a life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowerscan be bought on credit. And those instalments wont be paid by me.
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and slunk away.
I sat by the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still had something to give himnot money, but wisdom.
That evening, Mr. Albert proposed again.
What do you say, love? Shall we wed and have the do right here in the dining hall?
Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night, I answered.
We both laughed.
And as the care home quietened, filled with the scent of broth and bittersweet memories, I thought perhaps Im not so badly off here. Im still useful. Still teaching. Still alive.
And when my sons wedding day comesif he invites me, that isIll wear my reddest dress, polish my walking stick to a shine, and toast with my bingo ladies.
Because though he left me in this place, I still have something he lacksexperience and a sense of humour.
