Extract from Lichen, a novel
by Ann Burnett
I don’t know what she’s fussing about. I’m perfectly well. I’ve had my morning tea and I’m waiting for Janis to get me up and give me my breakfast. But she wants me to stay in bed. She says she’ll bring my breakfast through to me and I can have it sitting up in bed. I don’t want my breakfast in bed. It makes me spill things and I hate getting crumbs all over me. No, I’m getting up.
‘Janis!’ I call. ‘Janis!
No answer. Ninian is coming today and I want to be up and dressed for him so I push the bedclothes down and swing my legs to the side. But my arm has gone to sleep and I can’t get purchase on the bed to move myself upright. I lie there like a beached walrus.
‘Janis!’ Where is she? I try to push myself up but I end up with my face on the pillow. I have to struggle to turn my head and take a breath. When I call out again she hears me.
‘Mother, what are you doing?’ She lifts my legs and in a moment I’m back where I started and she’s pulling the downie up over my chest.
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I’m getting up. Ninian’s coming.’
‘No he’s not,’ she says. ‘I’ll bring in your breakfast.’ She’s out of the room before I can reply.
Of course, I didn’t tell her I phoned Ninian. She doesn’t know he’s coming. She’ll have to make something nice for him to eat. He likes his food. I know that because he ate everything at that hotel we went to.
Janis brings in a tray with my porridge on it. She puts it down on the bedside table but there’s no room and my bottle of water pills fall on to the floor.
‘See?’ I say. ‘I’d be better getting up.’
‘Stay where you are today and we’ll see how you are tomorrow.’
‘I’m not staying in bed today. Ninian’s coming.’
She looks at me. ‘He’s not coming,’ she says. ‘He was here yesterday.’
‘When? Why didn’t I see him? He wasn’t here. I only phoned him last night.’
‘Mother,’ she says, ‘This is Sunday. He came yesterday, Saturday, and Beth and Marion called in too. Remember?’
I don’t know what she’s talking about at first. This can’t be Sunday. She was out last night with her pals and that was Friday when I phoned Ninian. So this must be Saturday. ‘It’s Saturday,’ I say.
Janis looks at me funnily. ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘It’s Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday and Ninian came in the afternoon when you were having your nap, remember?’
I stare at her.
‘And then Marion and Beth came and I made coffee for them and tea for you. You must remember.’
I don’t. I stare at the bedcover instead and stroke it with my hand.
‘You weren’t feeling too good after they left so Ninian helped me get you into bed and then he drove back to Edinburgh.’
Janis frowns slightly as she speaks. I wonder if she’s the one who’s mixed up.
‘I don’t remember any of that,’ I say. ‘It can’t be Sunday.’
Just then the paper comes through the letterbox and Janis goes down the hall to pick it up. She comes back in and puts the Sunday Post on my lap. I look down at it in disbelief.
‘It’s Sunday, Mum.’
I let her punch the pillows behind me so I can sit up comfortably and then she plonks the tray on my knees. ‘Eat it while it’s hot,’ she says. ‘I’ll bring your tea when you’re ready.’
I reach for the spoon with my right hand but it doesn’t want to pick it up. It moves but not where I want it to go. It feels like an appendage that grew in the night and doesn’t belong to me. I will it to reach over and pick up the spoon but it can’t lift itself above the tray and pokes around underneath.
Suddenly I feel frightened. My wheelchair I use when I’m tired, when my legs can’t walk any more but they still function as legs. This is different. I can’t control a part of me. I pick up the spoon with my left hand and dip it into the porridge. It feels strange but at least it works if a bit clumsily. I make myself sup my porridge but I don’t taste it. Perhaps I’m just tired or I’ve been lying on my arm overnight and it’s taking a wee while to come to. Perhaps after my porridge it will be back to normal.
The Sunday Post’s headline shouts at me. CONDEMNED it says.
Saturday, where did it go? I feel as if I’ve crossed some mental International Date Line and lost a day. I strain to remember. I go over Janis’s words and try to make myself see Ninian arriving and those two friends. I can’t remember their names. One is taller than the other and a bit stouter. Margaret, no that’s me, Joan Margaret McLeod. It begins with an M. I run through all the names I can think of. Marjory, Mary, Marilyn, Monica…. No, it won’t come. Ninian was here. He helped put me back into bed. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture it. But I can’t remember it.
Janis comes in with my tea and some toast.
‘Well done,’ she says. ‘A nice clean plate.’
‘I’m not a child,’ I say. ‘I enjoyed it so I ate it.’
‘Here’s your tea and toast. I had to put jam on it as the marmalade’s finished.’
‘Write it down on the Tesco list,’ I say. ‘We can get more on Tuesday.’
She takes away the porridge plate and I move the handle of the cup around so that my left hand can pick it up. I’ll not try my right hand till later. Give it a rest. It will be fine and I’ll have a laugh over my fears. But where was Saturday? I run the scenario through my head till I am almost convinced I remember, or at least I can’t distinguish between what Janis said and what I do remember. Why can’t I remember? Where did Saturday go?
I eat my toast, lifting it up to my mouth with my left hand. I notice my nails are needing cut. Janis can do that for me later. I manage my tea and when I’ve finished, I push the tray aside and lift up the newspaper. The date is still the same. It is Sunday. I make myself read the front page and then try to turn to the next page. But I can’t hold it and turn at the same time and my right hand is still lying there like a dead animal on the road. I don’t look at it and instead, put the paper down and turn the page one-handed. I read through stories of stolen pensions and lost dogs and long waits for operations until I feel my eyes closing.
© Ann Burnett 2006