The Visit

                                            The Visit
                                            Malenkov

As we take our seats, you just sit there broken and quiet in the psychiatric ward. No nod, no smile, no “hello son”. Cold coffee, uneaten food, a half spent cigarette in the ash tray. The veins in your ankles are blue and raised and your dressing gown has tomato stains on the front.
    I mumble a “Hello mum”, kiss you, and shudder as I suppress the urge to recoil. Your cold cheek flashes the image of a rotting corpse on a slab in the morgue.
    None of you move. A bird craws and whispering voices can be heard; outside two people get in a car. A clock ticks a steady beat. Patients slump in frozen poses. By the veranda, a man sits, hair patchy and oily, whispering and rocking his head. A lady with large almond eyes stares at a spot on the ceiling, her head swivelling in the direction of our voices. Then the gaze cranes again to the ceiling. My brother, Jack, draws a chair closer to you, and I shift seats to move away from facing you.
    We came to see you after a two-hour bus trip, after six hours of school on a swarmy August day. I told my friend I couldn’t play tennis today. "I have other things on." My face flushes when I think other kids might know you’re here. Outside on the wide green grounds, faded leaves sweep into the slope of a valley, sucked into the shadowy tree line of sycamores and ferns. The sky, bright when we set out, is overcast with heavy with sacks of rain.
    You sit like a mangy cat I once saw, thrown in a ditch after a driver rammed it on a windy, wet night. There was a sticky liquid on its fur. That was before you were brought here.

                                            * * *

    You were sitting in the kitchen when I told you.
    “The driver was a man," you stated emphatically.
    I looked at you, puzzled.
    “All men screw you and leave you for dead."
    That was when you dated that Irish navie who you said would “take us away from Gran’s house.” We never did see the flat you said he promised to buy, and he never came again and you began to cry a lot.

                                            * * *

I could be on the tennis court now.
    Year after year, you just sit here. No shopping, no laundry, no looking after the house. I do that. That ticking gets louder; it makes me restless, so I say, "Tom couldn't come again."
    Jack smirks. No, I think. Your baby didn’t have time; he's out hot-wiring Escorts.
    But we came. Jack too – only after I scolded him.
    "She's your damn mother, too." I said.
    "She sent us away - remember?" Jack said.
    Jack came in the end, and we sat on the tube talking about nothing in particular. Tom, our little brother, took it hard when you were admitted again. Most times, all I see is Tom’s closed bedroom door. Sometimes he’ll grunt “hello” or “good bye” as we pass each other in the hall of a morning, or as we return from school of an evening.

                                            * * *

A chat-show lady on the TV asks a film star about her holiday as a leaf blows in the common room and nudges against the feet of a man with grey thinning hair. Beyond the windows, a couple sit on the bench outside the patio window; a man strokes the hair of a young girl who just sits still and straight like all the others. A young man in white overalls, stethoscope in pocket, wheels a trolley in and picks up dinner dishes. As he picks up your knife, it slips and he stoops to pick it up.

                                            * * *

The night they took you away, an autumn hurricane almost shook the windows out. Gran was downstairs, as always stiff and unbent in her arm chair, a small furry Pomeranian dog curled in her lap. Beside her stood her walking frame that she used to huff and puff herself up those few times she moved about. That night was different.

    Piercing barks and Gran's urgent voice rose up to my bedroom.
    "Nick." Gran called.
    I put down the book I was reading in bed and crept downstairs.
    Gran's voice rang. "Nick, quickly please."
    Halfway down the stairs, I crouched and saw you standing in front of Gran, the dog snarling.
    You held a kitchen knife upright in a tightly clasped hand. "Bitch! You took my kids from me." Saliva flecked from your mouth.
    Gran sobbed and stretched her shawl like a cornered deer.
    The Pomeranian lunged again and Gran struggled to hold it down, with flabby fleshy arms.
    I took a step. “Mother”. Could you really stab your own mother? Can I seize the knife?
    "Mum," I stepped. "Calm down."
    Another step.
    Can I reach you without you panicking?
    "She did it all." Your lips stretched tight, cheek muscles twitching.
    I lowered my voice, "Did what?" A step closer.
    Your hand waved the knife. "She sent me to that hospital." You stepped towards Gran.
    The dog strained against Gran's arm, barking, ears flat against its head.
    Gran clutched the dog, sobbing. "Nick."
    "Mother?" A step.
    "Get away from me." Your voice sounded shrill and you stepped back, eyes glassy marbles darting about.
    "Easy," I said in a soft, soft voice, and lunged before I could think.
    You howled, the dog jumped from Gran's lap, and I felt my trouser pulled. Gran shouted, "Come here!"
    I had your knife hand. Your grip was strong and you wouldn’t let go.
    "You’re hurting me!" You swivelled and crouched, trying to twist free your hands but my hands locked your fingers against the blade and a red droplet runs down your thumb.
    My breath was ragged. I didn’t know what you’d do when I let you go, so I held on.
    You howled.
Then your brow cleared, and your shoulders slumped, hands slipping down beside your arms.
    The dog , back up on Gran's lap, licking her wrist. "Good girl," said Gran stroking the dog.
    You sobbed, and shuffled upstairs.
    Gran's voice quivered. “Thank you, Nick."
    Gran sighed and her shoulders shuddered. “What did I do to get this? After all I did for her." Gran's shoulders swayed with long shuddering breaths.

Later, I'm in my bedroom reading when I heard the ambulance crew enter the hall downstairs. Gran spoke in hushed sobbing tones. "I don’t know what came over her."
    "It's all right, love. We'll take her back."
    I heard the two men, their breath ragged, jerking a wheelchair in the hallway below.
    Gran called out. "Mind the vase."
    I heard a muffled thud and the wail of metal scraping on the banisters. "Careful, Ron." A man’s voice said and then the voices faded, the front door banged shut and an engine spluttered away down the road. Quiet again, I picked up my book, took out the bookmark and read.

                                            * * *

Jack sighs, looks around and picks up a paddle. "Let's play table tennis,” he says. I follow him to the middle of the room. The TV jingles with the tune of a chocolate bar commercial. The old man looks up at the TV, then hugs himself again. Since they admitted you again, me and Jack returned to the home with fifteen other rejects and orphans. They locked me in the angry room again yesterday. For two hours. Homes don’t tolerate dissent. They send us on these boring trips and the food tastes like mud.
    Jack hits a win. "Twenty thirty."
    The Indian lady adjusts her frock.

                                            * * *

The day before the exams, I heard the creak of carpet outside my bedroom. My eyes burned and I just turned out the light. By the side of my bed sat a stack of books. A silhouette framed the doorway and then light sears my eyes. Your thin figure stood in the door, the light cord in your hand. I sat up in bed, blinking and noticed there was no knife in your hand.
    "You never care about me. You never bring me a coffee. Nothing. I could rot, for all you care."
    "I have an exam, for God's sake. Tomorrow."
    "I'm in this fucking house the whole day," you scream.
    You turned and left, and I finally got to sleep. Now and again, I opened one eye, wondering if I saw a silhouette. I made no sound, hoping you wouldn’t come in.
    Next day I returned from the library at eight thirty in the evening.I entered my bedroom and whistle as I took in the sight that greets my eyes. My wash mirror hung on its side, one edge tipped in the wash basin, my trousers, shorts, pants, socks strewn over the floorboards like a rubbish tip. The wardrobe lay on one side at an angle, its thin wood and jaded veneer splintered and jammed against the headboard of my cramped bed and the window. Inside the wardrobe, a clothes rail lay on the bottom with the bundle of clothes. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. With an air of smugness on your face, you sailed downstairs to the kitchen like an unmanned ghost ship and I heard the kettle boiling for a coffee.

    I crept into your room and threw perfumes on the floor, photographs on a bed, overturned the bed and propped the mattress against a chest of drawers, took the draws out and dumped panties, bras and towels on the floor. To finish off, I opened the wardrobe and piled dresses and coats on the pyramid of clothes. I paused and considered the finishing touches.
    Then I took brushes, a makeup and jewellery box, opened the clasps and dumped them too on the mountain in the middle of the bedroom. Then I went back downstairs, and passed you on the way out to the front door.
    "Enjoy your coffee."
    When I returned you came in the lounge where I sat with Gran. Your voice was low.
    "Don’t you ever do that again. I'm your mother."
    I stood and shouted. "Trash my room again, and I'll trash yours."

                                            * * *

    Jack hits another win. "Twenty forty."
    The chocolate commercial finishes its jingle. The chat show host asks the woman about her sex life.
    You sat once in the kitchen and said to me, "You look just like your father."
    "Really?"
    "That’s why I never loved you."
    Another time, I came back from junior school.
    "Let me in, mum."
    The wardrobe scraped on bedroom carpet. And I heard a chain lock clink and the door opened. I came in to find you lying in your bed, arms straight out - like you were laid out in a coffin. The smell of urine and the fog of cigarettes made me gag.
I stood by your bed. "Here, mum. I made you coffee, and toast with marmalade."
    I placed the tray on the bedside table.
    Your face screwed in a scowl. “You made me nothing before you went to school."
    I saw your coffee jerk, then my cheek burned, and I wiped brown oily coffee off my face. I didn't cry, and I didn’t visit you with coffee after that.

                                            * * *

“Let's go". Jack says.
    "She doesn’t care anyway."
    "Parents screw you up," Jack said on the way over.
    I laughed it off like a joke.
    "With a mother like ours, who needs enemies?"
    "I'll be away from all this. To university," I said.
    "Lucky for some."
    I have the acceptance letter in my drawer upstairs.
    "One month and I'm off."
    Each night, I inspect that letter, hold it up to the light, checking the University seal, the signature, as if it weren’t true, or a blemish might blow away my change of escape. I’ll get my own place, and things will be quiet and good.
    Outside, a man and woman stroll arm-in-arm on the grounds and sun pierces the clouds, which soften into tufts of cotton on a light wind.
    Your eyes are wet and I resist the impulse to hand you a tissue. The Indian lady, who sits in the chair, wraps her shawl about her, a far away look in her eyes, dead still.

                                            * * *

I saw Ms. Gupta, roaming up and down our road a month back. Dragging a suitcase. Didn’t look like she knew where she was going.
    "Her husband threw her out," Gran whispered.
    A year or so ago, you let Ms. Gupta in.
    "Whatever will the neighbours think," Gran said.
    Ms. Gupta had wet hair and clothes from the rain, like a cat brought in dead. Her black hair was bundled about her face and you sat with her in the kitchen, talking, trying to reach her. She just sat there staring, and I stood half inside the kitchen doorway to the side, knowing I could watch without being seen.
    "Poor dear," you said.
      Ms. Gupta’s head was bowed and shaking, deep lines in her face. You gave her tea and sat with her as she emptied out in stifled tears. Before she went, you pressed two large notes in her hand, curled her fingers around the notes so she wouldn't drop them.
    "Take this, dear", you said with a Good Samaritan’s smile.

                                            * * *

The nurse enters again with a dinner trolley.
    He opens a Styrofoam carton and puts it in front of you on the table. "Janine, dinner."
    He places plastic cutlery on the table and walks away.
    Your hand mechanically picks up the fork. In the cartoon are mashed potatoes and sausages streaked with oily gravy. In another partition, treacle pudding. The smell of sausages makes my mouth salivate.

                                            * * *

Romford High Road and the Tramp sways on the railings by the pavement outside McDonalds.
    His syringes clacked in a tin. "Pennie for a cuppa?"
    His voice was scrappy, left vapour in the air, and people passed him by.
    "Let's eat?” You said. "I'm hungry."
    You took my brothers and me inside.
    "Four Big Macs, chips and cokes to go," you told the girl munching chewing gum at the counter.
    Three minutes later, I took the bags and handed you yours as we walked outside. I unwrapped my burger and chomped the mayo, cucumber-filled bap, washing it down with sips of coke. You walked over to the tramp and stopped. Your trim suit rustled, well ironed and a swish of cashmere. Male heads swivel towards your mousy sixties curls, and brilliant blue eyes.
    "Mother, what you doing?"
    You hunched down on one knee, "I'll be a second." And you unwrapped the burger, keeping your hand on the paper as you handed it to the Tramp with a smile.
    He stood, grasping the rails, and his arms flailed an empty gin bottle spinning into the gutter. Grimy fingers grasped the burger. "God bless you, Ma’am".

                                            * * *

A choke comes up and I bite it down. My breath is light and ragged.
    "You coming or what?" Jack stands by the door, his coat on.
    Jack looks at me, his eye brow crocked, so I yawn, and rub the salt out my eyes, and get my jacket. On the way out, I turn and see your face; for a moment, there’s a little lost girl, a leaf that might crumple up. Then I leave.
    Outside, the leaves rustle with a fresh wind and a swallow streaks across the parking-lot, chasing a dragon fly. The couple come in from their walk. As I step outside the visitor's entrance, I pause.
    "Nick." Jack looks back at me, a scowl on his face.
    I put my bag down on the gravel path." I forgot something."
    "Be quick."
    I go back, and sunbeams frame the room in a soft light, casting you in a fading shadow. I take a step, place a hand on your shoulder, and kiss your cheek. It's warm, wet.
    "Take care, mother."
For a moment, I'm smell fresh roast beef on a Sunday, baked apple pie, and meringues filled with vanilla ice cream and freshly picked plums from the garden.
    Then the orderly lounges in again, pushing a medical trolley with swabs and needles.
    "Nick!" Jack enters, stabbing a forefinger at his watch. "The train's coming", he nods and sighs loudly. "Come on!"
I stand and emerge from the shadows of the visitors’ room where the air is still, thick and quiet.
Outside, a cool breeze blows against my cheek, the air is fresh and I think of that letter at home in my drawer.

                                            END