I never imagined my old age would smell of disinfectant and lukewarm soup. Id pictured myself at seventy, lips painted red, dancing the waltz on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the pensioners at the club, sipping tea with scones while chatting about politics or cricket. But no. Reality placed me in a care home called Golden Horizonsa poetic name for a place with more locked doors than a prison.
My son brought me here on a Tuesday, just after lunch.
Mum, youll be better off here, he said, in that sheepish tone he uses when hes about to do something dreadful. Youll have company, medical care, activities
Oh, splendid, I replied. Then hand over your credit card while youre at it, and Ill book myself a recreational cruise.
He didnt answer. He gave me a quick kissthe sort you give when youre leaving before guilt catches upand off he went. I stared at the white ceiling, the scent of bleach clinging to my skin, thinking if this was whats best for me, Id rather have the worst.
The first days were a disaster. I couldnt sleepone roommate, Margaret, snores like a lorry engine, and the other, Edith, hides everyones socks to see if theyll notice, as if its some psychological experiment. But I adapted. The old are underestimated; they dont realise how flexible we become when theres no choice. I do chair yoga (though I look like a crumpled paper crane), play bingo three times a week, and befriended a lovely chap named Mr. Albert, who proposes to me daily.
Madam, you and I would make a fine pair, he says, offering a plastic daisy.
Of course, Albert, but first, remember my name, I always reply.
He laughs. So do I. Truth be told, Im happier than I expected.
Then one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. He wore that suspicious grin Ive known since he was fivethe Mum, I need something smile.
Muuuum! he drawled, like he used to when eyeing a new toy.
Out with itwhatve you broken now? I asked, arms folded.
Nothing, Mum. Its just Im getting married.
I raised an eyebrow.
Really? What a surprise! I didnt know there was anyone so brave.
He laughed nervously. I didnt.
Well, Mum, weddings are expensive thought you might lend a hand.
A hand? You moved me here because you claimed there wasnt room! Now you want me to fund your banquet?
He gave me the look of a scolded puppy. I gave him the look of a mother whos seen too many puppies and knows they always chew the wrong shoe.
Let me get this straight, I continued. You park me here, surrounded by pensioners who bicker over the telly remote, and now you want my money for smoked salmon at your wedding?
Its not smoked salmon, Mumits a proper venue.
Proper my foot. Why not marry here? Ill lend you my bingo ladies as bridesmaids, and well have old Albert officiate. He even knows how to say I do!
He turned as red as a ripe tomato.
Mum, Im serious.
So am I, I said. If you want a party, make it potluckevery guest brings a dish, and everyones happy.
He clutched his head.
I cant believe you wont help.
Oh, Ive helped plenty, dear. I gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when your first sweetheart broke your heart, even co-signed your car loan. My contract as your investor-mother expired.
He fell silent. The nurse passing by winked at me. I reckon every mother in the home wouldve applauded.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But I gave him something better: advice worth more than a cheque.
Listen well, son. To marry, you need three things: love, patience, and a willingness to share your life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowerscan be bought on credit. And those instalments wont be paid by me.
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and left with his head bowed. I watched from the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still had something to givenot money, but wisdom.
That evening, Mr. Albert proposed again.
What dyou say, love? Shall we wed and host the do in the dining hall?
Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night, I replied.
We both laughed.
As the care home quietened, filled with the scent of soup and nostalgia, I thought perhaps I wasnt so badly off here. Im still useful, still teaching, still alive. And when my sons wedding day comesif Im invited, mindIll wear my reddest dress, my shiniest cane, and toast with my bingo friends. Because though he left me in this place, I still have something he lacks: experience and a sense of humour.
