Fern

FERN

At eighteen weeks, while setting up chairs for the Toastmasters group, I feel the baby move for the first time. It doesn’t feel like much—barely anything at all. Like someone is tapping me from the inside. A small, rather benign experience and yet, at the same time, the very definition of pleasure. It is, I suspect, what happiness feels like.

After that, I am aware of the baby every second. I spend hours reading books and googling. Is it cold when I am cold? Hot when I am hot? Does it hear my heart beating loudly from the inside? I pay attention to its movements to try to intuit its likes and dislikes. Judging from its movements, he or she is a little like me, because the one time I can guarantee movement is at night when it’s quiet, and I am lying in bed. I find myself looking forward to that time all day, when I pull up my nightie and watch the little elbows or feet or shoulders bumping around under my skin. I love that time because Rose isn’t around to see it. It’s our time. Just the baby and me.

I’ve always enjoyed my job at the library, but as the months of my pregnancy pass, work becomes even more of an oasis. Carmel is part of it. Since our shadow day, she’s given me a lot more freedom, but she’s also asked for a few things in exchange. Greeting people as they enter the library with eye contact is one of them, so I’ve devised a system where I look at the patch of skin between people’s eyebrows instead. Delightfully, everyone is none the wiser, and the results of this pseudo eye contact are surprisingly good. Now people smile and wave to me as they enter the library. Some pause to tell me how much they enjoyed a book I recommended; others compliment me on my fashion choice of the day. Once, I even became engaged in an impromptu discussion with a group of women who’d all read The Secret Life of Shirley Sullivan by Lisa Ireland. I’d suggested they start a proper book club at the library, and Carmel gave me permission to host it in the training room and order fruit and cheese (not as good as cake, but not bad). All in all, with my new eye contact trick, I find the front desk is no longer the fearsome place it once was, and I have Carmel to thank.

One day, as I am taking my place at the front desk, I become aware of Gayle hovering nearby. Her eyes flicker here and there. She looks quite bizarre.

“Is everything all right, Gayle?” I ask her as I lower myself into the ergonomic chair at my desk.

“Fine,” she says. “It’s just … may I ask you something?”

I wince as my lower back hits the seat. “You may.”

“I just wondered … if you had anything to tell us.” She glances demonstrably at my burgeoning belly. “An announcement, perhaps?”

I notice Linda, a few meters away, listening. When she sees me looking, she glances quickly at the bookshelves.

I am perplexed by the question. I am six months pregnant now, and it is, quite frankly, obvious to anyone without vision impairment that I am pregnant.

“If you’re asking if I am pregnant, I can confirm that I am. Nearly six months along,” I add, as people (including the nurses at Sun Meadows, the lady I’d passed at the bus stop yesterday, and the sales assistant at the pharmacy where I buy my prenatal vitamins) seem interested in these sorts of details.

Gayle and Linda gasp in unison. “Six months!” Gayle says. “My goodness. Why didn’t you tell us?”

I wonder if this was a social faux pas. Am I expected to tell every person that I work with that I am pregnant? I assumed they would notice my growing belly and consider themselves informed, but I am well aware of the offense it can cause if I fail to adhere to certain social graces.

“Well, you don’t like to announce these things too early,” I say, as this does appear to be the case. “In case, heaven forbid, something goes wrong.”

Gayle nods, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

“So who is the father?” Linda asks. “It isn’t that handsome American, is it? From the bowling?”

I busy myself by scanning my desk calendar. As I haven’t been seen with any men other than Wally, it’s natural that this is what people will assume … but I don’t like to confirm it since I haven’t told Wally himself. I’d hoped this would be one of those social situations where people felt it was impolite to ask. As this clearly isn’t the case, I ignore the question and start shuffling books around my desk instead. After a moment or two, Gayle and Linda take the hint and scuttle away. The downside is that Carmel chooses this moment to approach.

“Just the woman I was looking for!” she says. “Gayle is giving a how-to class on IT troubleshooting this morning, which covers the printers and photocopiers. I thought you might like to join.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Carmel gets in first. “It’s a two-hour class, and you can sit down the whole time.”

We lock eyes. Carmel hasn’t commented on my pregnancy yet, but it’s obvious she knows.… Last week, for example, when she caught me coming out of the secret cupboard after a two-hour nap, she simply looked the other way. And the week before last, she asked me to cover some new books in contact paper, which allowed me to sit down for nearly half my shift. Then there are all the other times she’s brought me a glass of water or suggested I pop outside for some fresh air.

“It’s pretty straightforward and if you pick it up, you could even teach the class in the future,” Carmel says. “It would mean you could sit down for a few hours each week while teaching. And there are free cakes and cups of tea!”

It’s the cakes that get me across the line. I still bring my sandwich to the library, but these last few weeks I’ve found myself ravenous between meals—and the idea of cake is simply too much to resist. I head to the training room fifteen minutes early (naturally) and take a seat at the front of the class. As others arrive, I’m encouraged by the fact that they—all older than me by at least a good thirty years—share my distaste for IT troubleshooting. I also understand that, like me, they are in a bit of an if-you-can’t-beat-them-join-them situation. As such I feel a certain camaraderie with the old folks. Like me, they grumble into their seats, glancing suspiciously at the handbooks laid out at each station before giving Gayle their reluctant attention. Like me, they are hopeful to learn, but even more hopeful that the whole process will be easy to discount as too complex, too difficult, beyond their abilities.

So we are all disappointed to find Gayle’s voice soothing and simple, her teaching manner easy to digest. At the end of the two hours, I believe I could guide one of my classmates through a number of troubleshooting situations quite easily.

Carmel is waiting for me as I exit the class, and I am forced to report that the class was more straightforward than expected. When pushed, I also tell her I might consider running the class after another session or two under Gayle’s guidance.

From the coy smile on Carmel’s face, she takes it as a win.

---

That afternoon, when I go to see Mum, Teresa is there as usual, with her machine. Mum has been getting better each time I see her. She strings two or three words together without a pause now. “How are you?” “Aren’t you cold?” “Can I have … more water?” She’s not reading novels as Teresa had suggested, but she’s definitely making improvements.

“Hello,” I say from the doorway.

Teresa looks up. “Fern!”

Mum doesn’t look like she’s having a good day. Her hair isn’t done. She’s wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt and has just socks on her feet. And her face is tearstained.

“I think Nina’s had enough for one day,” Teresa says to me as I walk in.

“What’s wrong, Mum?”

Mum shakes her head and dabs at her cheek with a tissue. Teresa makes a motion with her head that I have learned means that I should move out into the hallway so we can have a little chat, which I do.

When Teresa joins me, she lowers her voice. “I need to warn you about something.”

Teresa pauses, as if expecting me to say something. She hasn’t asked a question, but I give her a nod as a compromise.

“Your mother has been saying things, these past few weeks,” she says.

“Yes, I know.”

“Yes. But she’s been saying some strange things. And I don’t want you to worry. Confabulation is common with patients with an acquired brain injury.”

“Confab—”

“Confabulation is the spontaneous production of false memories which never occurred. Sometimes it’s memories of actual events that are displaced in space or time.”

I am intrigued. “You mean she’s making up stories?”

“In a sense. Except she doesn’t know it. Confabulation isn’t lying. Your mother believes she’s telling the truth. With many patients there is some truth, mixed with fantasy. It’s like her brain is playing tricks on her.”

“What is she saying?”

“Different things. She talks about your sister a lot. She says loving things and then … other things.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’s quite ridiculous. Sometimes she says she is trying to kill her.”

“But Rose hasn’t seen Mum for more than ten years.”

Teresa laughs. “It sounds stupid, but in the moment, she believes it. The best thing is to not make a fuss and just try to keep her calm.”

“What else does she say?”

“Lately she’s been talking about a little boy called Billy.”

I feel myself stiffen. “What did she say about him?”

“She’s brought it up a number of times. She says that Billy drowned. Or apparently drowned. But it was actually murder.” She laughs sadly before I have the chance to react. I glance back through the door at Mum.

“She was getting herself quite upset,” Teresa says needlessly.

“What should I do?”

“The best way to handle it, in my experience, is to act as though what she is saying is true and you are taking it seriously. Most likely, she will then forget about it and move on.”

“Okay.”

Teresa smiles. “Don’t worry, Fern. I know it sounds strange, but honestly, confabulation is very common. In a few minutes, she’ll have forgotten the lot.”

I look back at Mum, still dabbing her eyes. But what if it’s not confabulation? I wonder. What do we do then?

---

That night, Rose and I make spaghetti Bolognese. I wear the goggles Wally gave me while I chop the onion, and I don’t cry a single tear. Rose rolls her eyes at me, but I don’t care. I like wearing them.

“I saw Mum today,” I say to Rose as I dice.

“Hmm?” Rose pauses from grating a carrot and fiddles with her rose bracelet.

“Mum. She was talking in sentences,” I say. “Actual sentences. She’s been having electromagnetic therapy. It’s the new speech therapist she’s been seeing.”

Rose stops fiddling with the bracelet and looks up. “What is she saying?”

“She can repeat things that Teresa says—”

“Who?”

“Her speech therapist.” I feel a whisper of irritation. “You would know if you’d visited her.”

Rose blinks. For a moment I think she’s going to argue with me but instead she says, “So she’s repeating things?”

“Yes and she can ask for a drink, say she’s hot, that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” Rose turns her back to me, slicing the top of a zucchini.

“Teresa also said she mentioned Billy, Rose. And murder.”

Rose keeps her back to me, but she becomes still.

“I’m worried, Rose. What if someone suspects something?”

Now Rose turns. “Well, what did Teresa say? Did she seem concerned?”

I shrug. “She says confabulation is common among patients with acquired brain injuries.”

“Confabulation?” Rose’s bracelet falls off her wrist and clatters against the floor. She swears under her breath.

“She thinks Mum’s brain created a story. She says it’s common for people with acquired brain injuries.”

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Rose exhales. “Of all the things Mum could talk about with her newfound speech. She really does have a gift for ruining our lives.” Rose bends over and picks up the bracelet.

I hesitate. “Rose?”

“Mmm?”

“Was she really a bad mum?”

Rose looks at me. “You know she was.”

When I don’t respond, she looks aghast.

“Fern, she neglected us terribly. She dragged awful boyfriends in and out of our lives. For god’s sake, she overdosed on pills, leaving us without even one parent who could care for us!”

“You’re right.”

“Hallelujah.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Rose groans. “I get the sense that she’s sorry for what she did. I think she loves us, Rose.”

Rose throws up her hands. “Agree to disagree, then. I know that you want to have a relationship with her, Fern, but trust me, she’s not a good person. There are things you don’t understand.”

Rose waits for a response from me, so after a few seconds, I nod. After all, there must be things I don’t understand. Because as I look back over my memories of Mum, at least 90 percent of them are good.