4. Holly, Melbourne

Iunwrap my scarf, shrug off my coat and walk the wide, carpeted corridor of the care home to the lounge area. Mum and my brother are seated on the far side of the room by the fireplace. I weave through the recliners and couches, offering hellos to the residents who smile up at me.

‘Hey, Hols,' Adam says with a tired smile and weary eyes.

‘You okay?' I give his shoulder a rub, dump my bag on the floor and take the free chair on the other side of Mum.

‘Yeah. Long day.' He gestures to the fire. ‘And that's putting me to sleep.'

I lean down to kiss Mum's cheek and breathe in the familiar rose scent of her face moisturiser. ‘Hi, Mum.'

‘Hello…' Confusion skates across her pale blue eyes. ‘Erm…'

‘Hol—'

‘I know your name,' she says, her voice tinged with irritation.

My eyes cut to Adam and he replies with a worried frown.

‘Holly.' Mum places her hand on my cheek, soft and warm against my skin. ‘Sorry, my lovely girl. It's Holly,' she says, her English accent still strong even after forty years in Australia.

I give her a reassuring smile. ‘That's right.'

‘Ooh, you're cold,' she says, letting her hand linger on my cheek.

‘Uh-huh. It's icy out there and I walked from the tram.'

‘The nearest tram's a good fifteen-minute walk,' Adam says. ‘Why didn't you call me to pick you up?'

I shrug. ‘Felt like a walk.' I turn to Mum. ‘It's cosy in here, though. The fire's nice.'

‘It's okay.' She glances furtively around the room and lowers her voice. ‘It would be better if everyone wasn't so old.'

Adam and I exchange a bemused look.

‘I reckon a lot of them are around your age, Mum,' Adam says.

Her eyes widen. ‘They aren't!'

‘That's why we chose this place,' I say. ‘So you'd be with people around the same age.'

‘I don't even know how old I am these days. I started forgetting that even before' – she points to her head – ‘I started forgetting.'

I grin. ‘You're only sixty-seven, Mum.'

Her eyes widen again. ‘Only? Well, who wants to remember that?' She pats Adam's knee. ‘Now, how's your little one getting on at school?'

As Adam tells Mum about his youngest son, I take in the other residents, wondering how they came to be here and whether any of them have similar stories to Mum. We moved her in about three weeks ago but she'd been struggling on her own for months, her short-term memory slowly deteriorating over the years. Possibly the consequence of a stroke she'd had after Dad died, according to her doctor. Eventually diagnosed with vascular dementia and the early stages of Alzheimer's, she refused to leave her home or to accept that she needed more care, until – all in one day – she left the gas burning on the stove, the iron switched on and the front door unlocked overnight.

Adam stands. ‘I reckon I'll get going. Walk me to the car, Hols?' He bends down and kisses Mum on the cheek. ‘I'll see you soon.'

‘Okay, love. I'd like to see my grandsons, too.'

‘You will when you come to my place for lunch on the weekend. How does that sound?'

She beams. ‘Splendid.'

I grab my coat. ‘I'll be back in a couple of minutes, Mum.'

‘I'll stay here by the fire,' she says, picking up a magazine from the table by her side.

Adam and I navigate our way through the lounge and back along the brightly lit corridor.

‘Have you spoken to any of the staff today?' I ask.

Adam nods. ‘About an hour ago. They said Mum hasn't eaten much the past couple of days. They think she's had a bit of gastro, but thought she seemed brighter today.'

I tug on my coat before Adam opens the door and the cold wind hits me.

‘You think she's getting worse?' Adam asks, zipping up his jacket and slipping on his beanie. His blue-grey eyes are fatigued and heavy, and the harsh lights above the entrance make the lines around his eyes more prominent. He's only four years older than me, but running his own construction company, looking after two young sons, worrying about Mum and dealing with his youngest child's learning difficulties are all aging him fast.

I shrug and tuck my hands into my pockets. ‘I don't think she's any different than when we brought her here. She still remembers us – it's just our names she's struggling with.'

The unspoken fear of how long it'll be before she forgets us completely hangs in the air, but we've had that conversation countless times and it drains us both.

‘How are you, anyway?' Adam says. ‘Things any better with Tom?'

I release a heavy sigh and the cold air vapour swirls between us. ‘We're okay. We haven't argued for a week, so that's something. Jack's back with us tonight.'

He grimaces. ‘I take it he's not warming up to you?'

‘Nope.'

‘It's a big change for him. He'll come round. How's work?'

Adam always does this – he feels guilty for not contacting me so he squeezes all his questions in at once. ‘Boring. Everything is going to the new team.'

‘Maybe time to look for a new job? You've been there ages.'

‘Kind of like it there. When I've got work to do, that is.' I shrug. ‘This has happened before. It'll pick up soon. Anyway, you've got enough going on without worrying about my job and relationship.'

He gives a half-smile and ruffles my hair. ‘Always worry about my little sister.' He gestures to his car. ‘Better get going. Meg's just home from work and I've got to help with dinner and the kids.'

I hug him goodbye. ‘Tell them hi from me. See you on the weekend.'

He jogs over to his car and jumps in, waving as he drives off.

I hurry back to the lounge and spot Mum heading for the dining area. I collect my belongings and catch up.

She brightens when I appear beside her. ‘Hello, you're back.'

‘I am,' I say, pleased she's recalled that I was just with her. ‘Where are you going?'

‘We're being rounded up for dinner, like cattle in a paddock. Someone will probably give me a prod if I don't get a move on.'

I laugh. ‘I think you're safe from prodding, Mum.'

In the dining room, residents are seated at small round tables that are covered with fresh white tablecloths and feature centrepieces of mint-green vases filled with plastic flowers. A couple of wall-mounted televisions play the six o'clock news and staff members walk around with trolleys.

‘I'll stick around so I can spend more time with you,' I say, pulling out a dining chair for Mum.

She sits and pulls herself closer to the table. ‘I do like it when you visit.'

A staff member approaches and places a tray on the table. ‘There you go, Elaine,' he says, lifting the silver cloche to reveal a bland-looking white meat covered with a drizzle of gravy, a sliver of crackling, a scoop of mashed potato and a medley of carrots, peas and beans.

When he walks away, I lean forward to take a closer look. ‘Looks like roast pork.'

‘Ugh,' Mum says. ‘I don't want pork.'

‘Aren't you hungry?' I unwrap the cloth napkin from around the cutlery and set the knife and fork by her plate.

‘I want pie and mash.'

‘Pie and mash?' I say, surprised.

‘Yes. My dad brought a pie home every Saturday when he finished work and Mum would make the creamiest mashed potato and mushy peas. It was my favourite meal. He was a fishmonger, you know, at the Billingsgate Market.'

As her Alzheimer's has progressed, she's talked more and more about her past. I know she's referring to London, but I want her to latch onto a memory and keep talking. ‘In London?'

Mum's eyes light up. ‘That's right.'

I cut the meat for her since she doesn't appear inclined to do it herself. ‘You've told me about growing up there' – I pass her the fork – ‘but I'd love to hear more.'

She takes a small bite of pork and chews slowly. ‘Hmm, it's all a bit hazy now.'

‘You remembered your dad and your favourite meal.'

Her brows rise. ‘I did, didn't I?' She scoops in a spoonful of mashed potato, and after a few seconds she says, ‘And it was nicer than this.' She reaches for the salt grinder.

As the salt crystals fall onto her food, I gently say, ‘Mum, that's a lot of salt.'

She shoots me a glare. ‘I like salt.'

‘I know, it's just your risk of another stroke…'

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. ‘A bit of salt never hurt anyone. My parents lived until…' Her forehead creases. ‘Well, I don't know, but they were old and had plenty of salt their entire lives.' Her words come fast – a sign she's getting distressed.

I rub her back. ‘Sorry. I just worry.'

Her face relaxes. ‘I know you do, but I feel okay.'

‘Good.' I'm eager to return to the topic of London, hoping it'll put her back in a nice place. ‘You were telling me about growing up in London. I'd like to go back there.'

‘Would you?'

I shift my gaze to the winter darkness outside the large windows. ‘I'd like to find someone,' I add softly.

‘Then why don't you?' Mum says matter-of-factly.

I face her and give a short laugh. Such a simple perspective. ‘It's not that easy.'

‘Isn't it?'

‘I can't just up and leave. I have a job and a partner. And you.'

She points to herself. ‘Me?'

‘Yeah. I'd miss you.'

‘Well, that's lovely of you, but don't worry about me.' She waves her fork around. ‘I have all these people, and your brother and his family. You're far too young to spend your days sitting here with me.'

‘I like being here with you, Mum.'

She pushes her half-finished dinner to the side and picks up the small bowl of apple pie and custard. She breaks off a section and spoons it into her mouth. Her eyes soften as she chews, the way a baby's do when they taste something sweet for the first time. ‘Who do you want to find?'

‘Sorry?'

‘You said you wanted to go to London to find someone.' She points her spoon at me, eyes narrowed. ‘Some things I remember.'

That makes me smile. ‘Do you remember when I went to Berlin for Study Abroad at uni?'

Her brows knit. ‘Hmm, I think I do. It was for a semester in…' She stops eating and peers into the distance, deep concentration on her face, then shakes her head. ‘No. It's gone.'

‘It was my second year. Eleven years ago now.'

‘Eleven? Goodness. Where has the time gone? Your father was so proud of you for doing that.' Her voice has turned wistful, and an ache expands in my chest at the mention of my dad. Not only do I miss him, but everything changed for Mum when he died.

‘I know he was.' I pause in case she wants to talk more about Dad, but she takes a big bite of apple pie and looks at me expectantly, so I continue. ‘I told you about that girl I met when I was there?'

She shrugs. ‘Maybe.'

Mum holding me as I sobbed over the girl in Berlin is a vivid memory for me, but it would've faded into the background for her. ‘She was from London and I've always wondered what happened to her.'

She keeps chewing, her eyebrows raised with interest.

‘Not that I know how I'd find her. She's just always been in my head.' I pause. ‘And my heart.'

‘It sounds like you loved her.'

‘Oh,' I say. ‘I guess I did, in a way. As much as you can when you're twenty and have only known someone a short time.'

The spoon clinks against the side of the bowl as she chases the last of the custard. ‘Well, I always said nothing worth having comes easy.'

I grin and shake my head in disbelief at the random things her brain recalls. ‘You did always say that.'