Choose Between Your Mother or Me
The telephone rang at half past ten at night, just as Elizabeth lay beneath her duvet, a stray strand of hair caught in the crease of her book. From the next room, she could hear Victors voice, muffled, chatting over some business news channeluncanny, how familiar it all was.
She glanced at the screen. An unknown number, a Wiltshire codetheir old hometown.
Hullo? said Elizabeth, her voice catching awkwardly. A tightness, as brittle as the old pine fences back home, pressed beneath her ribs.
This is Mrs. Simmons. From across the road, dear. You wont know me, perhaps. Theres been a bit of trouble Your motherMs. Anne Stevensonshe fell this morning, poor soul. I found her just now, still on the floor. Couldnt even speak, her face half fallen
Elizabeth was already out of bed, one foot seeking her slippers, her mind unspooling into the night.
Shes at the hospital?
They took her an hour ago. Ambulance came, the paramedics said it was a stroke, or so it seemed. I searched all over for your number in her mobile, and
Thank you, Mrs. Simmons. Thank you, truly.
She set the receiver down and simply stood for a moment, phone held like something precious and fragile between her hands. Then she went to Victor.
He was enthroned in his favourite armchair, silk dressing gown tied neat at the waist, a glass of sparkling water perched beside him. Fifty-six, handsomely kept, the merest suggestion of grey at his templesa man carved from the smooth, cool marble of success.
Mums ill, Victor. Shes had a stroke. Theyve taken her to Marlborough General.
He turned, lowered the volume on the remote.
When?
Today. Her neighbour found her on the floor. Shes been alone there since morning all day.
Victor set his glass on the coffee table.
Well. What now?
Elizabeth looked at him, searching for something that wouldnt come.
We have to go. I have to go, first thing in the morning.
Go on, then. I wont stop you.
Victor, we need to talk, properly. My mothers seventy-eight. If this is a real stroke, she cant stay in that old house alone. We have to thinkwhat do we do?
Victor took up the remote again, turning the volume up a fraction as if to underscore his indifference.
Liz, weve been through this. Over and over.
That was all theory. But its happened now.
And whats changed? Ive made my position clear. We cant take her in. The house isnt set up for it.
Elizabeth slowly lowered herself to the opposite sofa.
Victor, we have four bedrooms.
Four bedrooms, two of which I plan to renovate. Weve talked about this. I want a proper study. You wanted a dressing room yourself. Am I supposed to turf her out in the hallway?
We can give her one. Renovation can wait.
Renovation wont wait. His tone was level, without irritationworse than shouting, in a way. The builders booked for March. Deposit paid. You know that.
Victor, this is about a sick person. My mother.
Liz. He finally looked her squarely in the eyes. Im sorry. Honestly, I am. But try to understand. An elderly, unfamiliar person in our home, ill, maybe incontinence, maybe no speecham I allowed to say I cant cope with that?
Shes not unfamiliar. Shes my mother.
To me, shes almost a stranger. Ive seen her four times in ten years. Shes never cared to make conversation.
Because you
Lets not count the faults now. Im talking about reality. I work, I have serious projects. I need peace at home. I cant live in a hospital. Its my house as well as yours.
Elizabeth was silent for a long time. Outside, the street noise of the London night hummedenduring, indifferent.
Could we hire someone? Over there. A proper carer, someone reliable. We can afford that.
We can. So hire one, then.
But Id be going out there. Often.
As much as you like. Go.
Victor, do you understand? Ill need to be there all the time. Its a three-hour drive.
I understand. Go. Nobodys stopping you.
That nobodys stopping you struck Elizabeth as oddly weightless, too easylike soil crumbling away beneath her feet, slow and silent.
She got up, returned to the bedroom, lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.
By morning, she drove to Wiltshire alone.
The district hospital greeted her with the acrid tang of disinfectant, regulation paint peeling off the corridor walls. Anne Stevenson was in a six-bed bay by the window, the right of her face slack, right arm limp on the sheet. She looked at Elizabeth and said nothing, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Mum. Elizabeth took her hand, papery and cold. Mum, Im here. Youre not alone.
Her mother tried to reply, but only a garbled whisper escaped, words washing away like footprints in rain.
Dont try. Talk later. Im here. Im staying.
A weary, matter-of-fact doctor explained in doctors tones: a massive ischaemic stroke, rightside paralysis, slurred speech. Recovery uncertain, but not impossible. At least six months of physiotherapy, speech therapy, constant care.
She cant live alone, said the doctor gravely. Are you an only child?
Yes.
Elizabeth stayed by her mother all that dayfed her thin porridge from a spoon, spoke gently, mostly monologues about nothing. Her mother listened, eyes sharp with understanding, though speech would not come.
That evening she called Victor.
How is she? he asked.
Badly. She cant move her right side. Cant really talk. She cant be alone.
Silence fell.
I see.
Victor, I need to say. Im staying here.
How long?
I dont know. As long as it takes. I cant leave yet.
His voice changed, ever so slightly strained.
Liz, you have work. You have a life here.
Ill speak to my boss, try to work remotely. Ill manage. Mum cant be left.
You saidabout carers.
Nobody replaces a daughter. You know that.
He paused.
You know this is for the long haul?
Yes.
And youre prepared to live in that house?
I am.
Another long silence.
All right, he said at lastnot warmly, not objecting, simply stating. Ring if you need anything.
She put her phone away, staring into Wiltshires dim streets. Lamplight glowed every other block. An old woman scuffed down the pavement, tartan trolley in tow. Somewhere nearby, the raw bite of woodsmoke drifted in the air.
Her mothers cottage sat at the end of Orchard Lane, timber darkened by drizzly years, porch slumping, narrow windows inset with worn lace. Elizabeth unlocked the door with a key shed always carried, though rarely used.
It was cold inside. The fire hadnt been lit in two days. She brought in logs, wrestled the old stove to life, fumbling. Her hands remembered the movementsghosts of childhoodthough clumsy now, out of practice. Eighteen years shed called this place home.
She wandered through the silent rooms. The kitchen, mosaic tiles cracked. A thin corridor. Two bedrooms: her mothers, and her own childhood cot, little-changed. Everything spotless, threadbare, precisebecause there was not much, and you remembered every item.
That night she messaged Victor: Im living here for now. Not sure for how long. Will pop home for things.
He answered, twenty minutes later: Understood. Your choice.
And that was it. That was marriage, perhaps.
The first few days blurred into one endless, heavy stretch. Dawn to dusk in the hospitalspinning her mother, exercising her paralysed arm as the nurse had shown, feeding slowly, never showing how tired she was. Her mother, a clever woman, retired maths teacher, struggled now to reclaim wordseach syllable like a jewel lost in the grass.
Liz, her mother managed one morning, clearer than usual, a tiny triumph. It was the second week. Liz. Go home.
I am home, Mum.
No. A faint gesture. Home. Victor.
Mum, please, not now.
Victor not happy?
Elizabeth straightened the bedclothes.
Its fine, Mum. Try not to worry.
Her mother watched her so long and intently that Elizabeth turned away.
After three weeks, the hospital discharged themwith prescriptions, exercises, a list for a speech therapist. Elizabeth hired a car, a young neighbour helped carry her mother inside, wrapped her in blankets, made some soup. So began a different life.
Caring for someone bedridden is not something people discuss. It meant turning her mother every two hours, buckets and sheets through each night, physiotherapy at dawn, careful feeding, pills timed to the hourseven types in the morning, five at night. Speech therapy three afternoons a week, her mother battling with her own stubbornness and wit.
Elizabeth worked remotely as a bookkeeper for a small firm. Her boss was understanding, allowing her fewer hours. The money trickled in; Victor occasionally sent over some pounds, nothing much and never discussed. She didnt ask.
They barely spoke by phone.
One bleak November morning, as Elizabeth tried to fix a loose porch step for her mother, soon to attempt walking with a frame, a man from next door appeared.
Shed glimpsed him before: sturdy, medium height, workmans jacket, open honest faceperhaps mid-fifties, much like herself.
Youre not holding it right, he said. Nail at an angle, see, otherwise itll pop right back out.
She looked up.
Nigel, he said, nodding across the road. Youre Anne Stevensons daughter?
Yes. Elizabeth.
How is she?
Improving, slowly.
He nodded, took the hammer from her hands, crouched, and in five minutes did what shed fumbled at for half an hour.
If you need help with anything, just ask, he said, rising. No trouble, Im round the corner.
I hate to impose
Its not an imposition. He shrugged, simply, as if it was obvious. Anne helped my mother years back. I havent forgotten.
He left.
Elizabeth watched him go, realising imposing had become the least of her worries. It was something elseto live in a bright city flat, knowing your mother lies alone on a creaky bedfar from you.
November bit hard. The old stove began to fail; smoke callously filled the rooms one evening. Elizabeth coughed and panicked, not knowing what had gone wrong.
She knocked on Nigels door at half past eight, with apologies and a flush of shame.
He came without fuss, climbed the roof with his torch, cleared the blockage, explained it ought to be checked each autumn. He refused payment so matter-of-factly that she let it go.
Cup of tea? she offered.
If its no bother.
They sipped tea and supermarket digestives at the tiny kitchen table, her mother asleep next door, wind rattling the apple tree.
You always lived here? Elizabeth asked quietly.
All my life. Five years out in Reading, but then came back.
Why?
He paused. This place feels mine. The city never did. Some like finding somewhere new, but not me.
Elizabeth wrapped her mug with both hands. Now the kitchen was warm, the stove humming.
I spent my life away, in the city. Always meant to visit, but funny, how you only realise when you come back.
Nigel offered no comfort, just nodded.
Youre here now, thats what matters.
In December her mother could sit up in bed. A victory, huge. The speech therapist, a brisk woman called Sally, praised Anne so genuinely that she smiledwell, with the left side of her mouth.
Words returned slowly. Some never did. Yet simple phrases resurfaced.
Youve lost weight, Anne said one afternoon.
I havent, Mum.
You have. A long, searching look. Does Victor ring?
Sometimes.
Will he visit?
Im not sure, Mum.
Long pause.
He wont, Anne said. Not bitterjust certain, with the clarity of old age.
Victor did not come. He phoned once a week, asked how is she?, listened to the brief answer and said hang in there. Once he mentioned that the decorators were making good progress. Once hed had a lovely work dinner. Elizabeth listened, feeling the invisible thing, not anger, but distance, growing between themlike two people living parallel, and only remembering to wave.
In January, Elizabeths friend Rosemary visited, bearing cake and an eagerness to be useful. Rosemary meant well, but the conversation faltered.
Liz, isnt this getting out of hand? Rosemary asked across the small table. A month or two, fine. But really, how long will this go on for? You cant ruin yourself over it.
What else should I do, Rosie?
Hire a proper carer. Or a care homesome of them are excellent.
Mums terrified of care homes.
She doesnt understand what youre going through.
She does, said Elizabeth quietly. Shes lucid. She understands everything.
Rosemary fell silent.
And Victor? Still not coming?
No.
So is this it for you two?
I honestly dont know.
Liz. Youre a smart woman. Leaving your husband for thishes the breadwinner, you have a flat, stability
Elizabeth studied her.
Rosie. My mother lay on the floor for a whole day. Shes seventy-eight. I wont talk about breadwinners.
Rosemary left that same evening, slightly affronted. They made up by text later, but something had shifted.
Elizabeth noticed the older neighbours treated her differently nowwithout pity, rather a kind of gruff respect. Mrs. Simmons would sometimes leave her pickled onions or cabbage pie at the door, without a word. Another, Mrs. Clark, stayed with Anne for hours so Elizabeth could collect medicine. Were peers, your mum and I, well manage, shed say.
Women of Elizabeths own agethose whod known her as Victors city wifewere more curious, eyes bright with someone elses misfortune. A former classmate questioned her pointedly about Victor, why he wouldnt come, what on earth life was like now. There was something unpleasant in it, a hunger for gossip.
We manage, Elizabeth answered and said nothing more.
Nigel helped, as naturally as if it had always been thus. He fixed the fence when winters snow crushed it down. He brought a load of logs on his mates old tractor, piled them beside the shed. When Elizabeth came down with the flu, he fetched food, kept the fire in, even helped change Annes sheets oncecalmly, as if entirely ordinary.
Nigel, I dont know how to thank you, said Elizabeth, once back on her feet.
Dont mention it, he replied. Its what neighbours do.
Not all do.
He nodded. True enough.
They sat a while. Her mother dozed. Outside, February slumped grey against the windowpanes.
Do you have family? Elizabeth asked.
Had. Wife diedeight years gone. Daughter in London, rings now and then. He spoke as a fact, not complaint. I live alone. Used to it.
Dont you get lonely?
He shrugged at the fading light. Sometimes. Not as often as youd think, if you keep busy.
She wondered about Victor, alone in the big London flat, remote in hand every evening. Was he lonely too?
She called him that night.
Victor, can we talk?
Whats wrong?
Nothing. I just mean really talk, for once.
A pause.
Go ahead.
How are you?
Fine. The renovations nearly done. Got a promising new project. He paused. You thinking of coming back?
Im not. I dont want to.
A long, long pause.
Not at all?
No.
He didnt shout or blame, just asked:
Is it because of your mother, or because of me?
Elizabeth thought for three seconds.
Because of myself, I think.
He breathed on the line.
All right, he said. Do you want a divorce?
Yes.
All right. So be it.
And that so be it, steady as a business deal, closed the chapter.
Spring came. Her mother managed a few steps, at first with a frame, then out to the tiny kitchen, then to the porch. Slow, tough workshe wept once, rare for herbut always moved forward.
Sally the speech therapist was delighted, said such progress wasnt common.
Its motivation, she told Elizabeth. Your mums got a reason to try. Thats half the battle.
Elizabeth suspected it was more her mothers character than herself, but it was a comforting fiction.
By May, warm evenings found her and Nigel on the bench by the gate. Her mother could now put herself to bed; Elizabeth had an hour free as the sun fell.
Ever think of moving back to the city? Nigel asked.
No. She spoke quietly but surely. Twenty years I chased city life, the right job, the right flat. Now Im here, its odd, but I dont want to leave.
Not odd, Nigel said, watching sun slip across red-tiled roofs. Takes a while to end up where you really fit.
Im not always happy, she confessed. Sometimes its so hard.
Thats not the same, he said thoughtfully. Happy isnt easy. Happy is right.
Elizabeth looked sideways at himsimple, muddy nails, lines by the eyes. He didnt speak much, but what he said lingered long after.
Nigel, she asked, You know Victor and I are divorcing?
Ive heard. Small village.
Do you judge me?
He turned to her.
For what?
Leaving. Walking out.
Leaving He weighed the word. A family means sticking togetherthrough the rubbish, through the good bits. Just two people in a flatthats not family.
She said nothing. She didnt need to.
The divorce went through offstagesolicitors, quiet signatures, no scenes. Victor kept the flat, offered her some money; she accepted. She needed it to patch Annes house: sagging floorboards, leaking roof, dodgy electrics.
Nigel and two friends helped through the summer, working weekends to repair and replace, accepting only the cost of supplies.
Why? Elizabeth asked.
Neighbours, said Nigel honestly.
Not just that.
He looked at her.
No. Not just that.
Anne Stevenson watched all this from the porch each evening, stick in hand. Her face hadnt evened outvoice slurred still, but seventy percent recovery, better than expected. Shed watch Elizabeth and Nigel, silent but bright-eyed.
One day she said, Hes a good man.
Yes, Mum.
You know that?
I do.
She nodded, fell quiet.
Victor rang one July eveningfirst time since the divorce was final.
Hows everything? he asked. His voice was different, less polished.
Were well. Mum walks now. The house is sorted.
Glad to hear it. Pause. I… I dont think I did the right thing last autumn.
Elizabeth didnt lie with its all fine.
Probably not, she said.
You angry?
No. Not anymore.
Are you happy?
She looked out, where her mother sat in the garden reading, or perhaps just watching the roses set their hips. The geranium sat on the windowsill. In the early dusk, a starling sang on the fence.
I dont know if happy is it, she said. But being here feels right.
Right, said Victor. And she knew he did, finally, understand something hed not seen before.
They parted quietly.
Elizabeth boiled the kettle: chipped handle, as ever. Geraniums, the old scent. Through the window, mingled the heat of sun on timber and summer grass.
A knockNigel with raspberries, warm from his patch.
Evening, Anne. First batch of the year for you.
Thank you, Nigel. Come in, said her mother.
Elizabeth heard them talking togethervoices, laughterpaused in the doorway, mugs in hand, struck by the simple, vital joy in the close kitchen, the yellow of the evening, the smell of tea and jam. Somewhere, Victor sat in a plush flat, new sofa, flash televisionchoosing the right furniture and, perhaps, the wrong life.
Elizabeth had chosen differently.
Or was still choosing, every single day, just a little more.
She carried the mugs into the soft, goldy light.
Nigel, will you join us for tea?
Love to, he said.
Her mother looked at her, and the left side of her mouth curled upa nearly-whole smile.
Sit down, both of you, Anne Stevenson said.
And they did.
Shadows lengthened over the lane. The evening bird sang. The raspberries yielded up the summer. There was nothing more to say, and nothing more needed.
