The Dance

by Caroline Mc Mullan-O’Donnell

I hear the soft shuust, shuust, shuust of her feet as she shuffles along the tiled floor. ‘Lift your feet mum’ I call in exasperation. ‘The nurse told you to lift, lift, lift those feet of yours or you’re at risk of tripping again.’ I get a sanctimonious smile in return. 

‘Have you taken your medication today mum?’ 

‘Oh no I forgot, well I think I forgot, I don’t know . . . yes, I did . . . I think.’

She shuust, shuusts again over to her tower of pill boxes and blister packs and shuffles the contents, counting the kaleidoscope of coloured pills into her hand before finally determining that today’s quota has indeed been consumed. I can only hope, when I know she has on occasion thought the day was Sunday when in fact it was a Wednesday. No matter. She is happy with her decision and so the shuust, shuust begins again as she shuffles with purpose towards the dim interior of the sitting room.    

‘Shall I turn a light on mum, or better still, why don’t you stay in the kitchen where the light is better; you can sit by the window and at least see what’s going on outside?’

‘No thank you, I prefer to sit in here, besides I’m not interested in anything that’s going on outside.’

Her retort is short but final and I try to keep the frustration out of my voice and off my face as I shadow her in her manoeuvrings to settle her frailty within the folds of her comfy chair. Once there she flicks through the pages of her Word Search Book looking for today’s newest offering. I watch as she slowly settles the pen between her fragile fingers and sets about guiding the ballpoint around some newly found words. She works in silence and practically retreats into a world of her own. I have to wonder if she even realises I am still in the room.

I study my mother as she sits in silent concentration. She is happily ignorant to the falling fragments of my heart as I mourn the once vibrant, rambunctious, fit and able-bodied woman of my childhood and early adulthood. She was a force to be reckoned with and never one to hide behind niceties when it came to giving you a piece of her mind. Blunt, fierce and straight to the point, that was her manner regardless of the person, place or time. 

I grimace as I think of the times we would cringe with unholy embarrassment as she gave her scathing commentary on the ‘get-up of some young wan’ strutting down the middle aisle of the supermarket. We would hiss from the corner of our mouths in the most strangled whisper ‘Mum! Inside voice outside voice for God’s sake . . . please.’  We would get ‘The Look’ in return and the familiar and oft repeated observation ‘Well she shouldn’t dress like that if she doesn’t want people commenting now, should she?’ We had to bite our tongues on more than one occasion; after all, there was no fighting her skewed logic.

‘So have you thought any more about what you’re going to wear to Lidia’s wedding mum?’ 

‘Who?’ She looks at me with a distracted air then a glint lights the corner of her eyes and she purses her lips. ‘What is she doing getting married again? Sure, isn’t she a bit long in the tooth for that palaver?’

‘Lidia is only thirty-two, Mum. You’re probably thinking of Lillian . . . and she’s dead.’ I struggle to stop the annoyance creeping into my voice so I change the subject again. ‘Have you seen the new episode of I’m a Celebrity Mum, they’re all in South Africa this time instead of Australia.’

‘What’s Lillian doing in South Africa? No, no I think you’re mistaken; didn’t Lillian die some years back? Sure, she couldn’t be in South Africa.’

‘How about a coffee?’ I retreat to the kitchen and scream silently out the window to the crows sitting on the back fence at the end of the garden as I fill the kettle and count to ten. Flicking the switch I stand, hands gripping the counter with my eyes closed and pray to the powers greater than I for patience; just a little patience and understanding. 

I now know the meaning behind the expression ‘Heart Sore’ as my heart beats a staggered rhythm. Every beat embeds another splinter of my fragmented heart deep within my soul. I expect to see bruising from these splinters as each new piece causes a physical pain that I cannot explain to anyone who doesn’t have the time to listen.  

‘I should have some cake to go with the coffee; it’s in the press over your head.’ She announces from over my shoulder.

‘Jesus mum, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Don’t creep up on me like that.’ My hand was on my chest as my heart fluttered like a scattering flock of pigeons. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘That’s because I wasn’t shuffling the way you keep telling me I am.’ She smiles at me as she leans past me to reach for the bread knife. ‘Did I frighten you?’ She hands me the knife and gives me a look that almost says ‘Gottcha!’

With coffee and cake in hand we fall into a companionable silence. The word search is finished and resigned to the book bag for another day and the television takes its turn. It’s on to The Chase and Bradley’s wicked sense of humour matched only in style and substance by his audience of one sitting in her comfy chair. 

I leave her with her myriad of answers and tidy away the remnants of our afternoon refreshments and from within the depths of my soul I grow an ache that threatens to suffocate me as I gaze around this room that is so familiar to the younger me yet so alien to my adult mind. The subtle changes that shout so unceremoniously of its aged resident in handles and latches and clocks with faces so bright and digits so large they hurt my eyes that I have for the briefest of moments the urge to smash and rip and destroy all evidence of a changed belonging.  

My hand finds the faded china teapot that hasn’t tasted tea in an easy decade but still sits proudly upon the back stove, its delicate dome beneath my fingers a cool and friendly comfort. Her collection of misshapen toast racks from a more formal time grace the window ledges and I marvel at their sparkle in the late evening’s dying sun. No dust or smuts here, no tell-tale marks or hint of neglect. My mother’s pride and joy; I never understood the fascination myself but then again, there’s a lot about me my mother doesn’t understand or is fascinated by either. I suppose that makes us quits. 

I hear the shuust, shuust, shuust of her slippers on the tiles behind me and I collect my thoughts and turn to face the question I know is coming. I don’t need to look at the clock with its bright face to know the time. It’s not so much a question either, more a statement of intent. 

  ‘Isn’t it time you were heading off now?’ She asks as she shuffles her shuffle past me. She’s not really expecting an answer as we have played this game many times before. In not so polite parlance she’s really saying, ‘Bugger off I’m tired of your company, I want to be alone now.'

I sigh and collect my things and grunt my excuses for leaving. It gives her a satisfied belief and a deniability that I have chosen to leave rather than the reality of me being evicted by my own mother. 

‘Ok so, I’ll see you tomorrow mum.’ I reach out to hug her ever shrinking frame and pray again for strength to remember the woman who matched me muscle for muscle and inch for inch. 

‘Oh, will you be here tomorrow too?’ She looks a tad bewildered before a twinkle ignites the flame of mischief in her eyes and she nods at some remembered question. ‘I think we’ll go shopping for something to wear for Lidia’s wedding so.’  

‘Perfect.’ I say, quietly groaning inside at the flashback to our last shopping trip. But hey-ho tomorrow is another day. ‘I’ll be here by ten o’clock and we can make a day of it mum. We might even do lunch somewhere fancy.’

‘I won’t be spending that much money, will I?’ She looks aghast. ‘After all this isn’t Lidia’s first go-round’ She tutts as she shuust, shuust, shuffle shuust back to the sitting room. And so, her itinerary for the evening begins without intruders such as me.

Under the soft glow of lamplight, she will read the latest novel while keeping an ear and one eye on Bradley then it’s on to dinner-for-one in her formal dining room before retiring in front of the box for her diet of assorted detectives anything from Vera to Midsummer Murders to Strike. As long as the storyline is good, she’s happy. Then at eleven thirty on the dot it’s off to bed. 

Ah but that would be the end of it if not for the fact that today is Friday and Friday night, she allows herself a tot or two of a very fine whiskey of the Jameson variety. ‘It’s my treat to myself after a long tiresome week’ she will be heard to say by way of explanation. ‘I don’t need an excuse, just a reason will do.’

As I open my own front door I delight in the aroma of garlic and chilli in the air and the knowledge that someone has started, if not completed, the evening’s dinner preparations for me. I hear above me the muted scuffles and murmurs of my family scattered about the house and I call out to announce my return. I am answered by the collective thundering of feet on the stairs as one by one they come to share their day and enquire after mine all the while barrelling past and through to the kitchen and the promise of food. I smile at the comfort the noise and familiar chaos give me as I set my bag down and unburden myself of my outdoor garb and kick off my shoes then follow my family to the feast. 

Later in the darkening hours as the house settles to silence, I reflect on the cycle that is a family’s ever-expanding presence. The fears that accompany new arrivals, the anguish change and adaptations bring, the familiar and not so familiar feelings and discoveries that envelop a family without us even noticing until the day a piece of the puzzle has gotten lost under the pile of worry, pain and love. 

I think of my mother who has lived a life so well and full and toast her with a tipple of my own before I extinguish the lights one by one and bid the day goodnight. I stand alone in the shadowy hall and listen for the hint of reproach as I, in my woolly socked feet, slide across the polished wooden floor in my own variation of her shuust, shuust, shuust dance and quietly cheer at how utterly glorious it feels, and for a wonderful moment my fractured heart is whole again.