When the daylight has faded

The visit (#wet)

I open the curtains to a grey sky. When I am sure that the smile I have plastered onto my face will stick, I turn.

"Hi, Mum! How are you today?" I nearly choke on the false cheer dripping from my voice like the liquid medication dripping into my mother's veins.

My mother's gaze finds my eyes.

"How do you think I am, you moron? You abandoned me. You come twice a week like clockwork. But not because of me!" Her eyes blaze fire.

"Mum!" I protest feebly.

"What? You thought I didn't know? I'm old, not stupid! You come to alleviate your bad conscience. You'll sit down in a minute, hold my hand for an hour and entertain me with stories from your exciting, busy week. Then you'll get up, give me a peck on the cheek and disappear, back into your life that, without me, is now carefree and easy!"

"Please, Mum!" I sit down next to her bed.

"You'll step outside this room later and literally wash your hands of this horror house and me in the toilets before jumping into your car, thoughts already on tonight's dinner."

I take her hand, just like she predicted, but I can't think of anything else to do that might give her comfort.

Her hand twitches due to her Parkinson's disease but to me it feels as if she wants to pull it out of my grasp.

"Your hair looks lovely today, Mum. The hairdresser must have been. That was nice, wasn't it?" I can't stop myself from using my high-pitched I'm-talking-to-a-little-kid voice.

"Oh, another thing to make you sleep at night! I know that it is you who pays the hairdresser to come. It's not included in the already astronomical price you prefer paying for my care to having me with you. So, yes, my hair looks nice but my pyjama hasn't been changed in days and my nappy is wet. As usual. They change it twice a day. That's it! A baboon would be jealous if he saw my bottom!"

I lift her blanket and touch her nappy. It feels full. Why hasn't it been changed? Should I kick up a fuss or would that make them neglect my mother even more when I'm not there?

"I don't know what to do, Mum. But I can't give you what you need at home!" I feel tears running down my face.

"They don't give me what I need, either!" Her eyes are narrowed to slits now, flashes of hatred shooting out between the gaps.

Behind me, the door creaks open.

I hastily wipe the tears away.

"Sorry to interrupt. Here's her dinner. You can feed it her." A tray is slammed onto a tiny table. "The Alzheimer's is getting worse. She hasn't said a single meaningful word in days. When you're done feeding her, you can leave. She doesn't know who you are anyway." Then the door closes from the outside.

With the plate clean, I give my mother a peck on the cheek, wash my hands in the toilets and jump into my car, trying to think of a quick dinner that I can feed my family tonight.