Another change of pace - a story I had published in the Seniors Magazine some time ago...

My time has come

As she gave the girl her credit card, Belle couldn’t help noticing her own hands - covered in sunspots and shaking slightly.  The veins were prominent and the fingers long.  Long fingers meant things. What was it?  She’d always had an artistic streak, her mother had told her so.  Now, sometimes she wasn’t quite so sure what those hands were for.

The girl behind the counter, with her black dyed hair and tattoo peeping from her long-sleeved uniform, looked harried, as though her mind was elsewhere. 

“Pin?”

Belle blinked quickly and punched in the numbers. She ventured:

“Nice day isn’t it?”

The girl mumbled something and turned to the next customer.  Belle believed it was always nice to be nice.  Maybe she had boyfriend problems – she didn’t look old enough to have children.  When Belle returned to her car, she realised she suddenly felt exhausted, gave up her plans for a drive and headed for home.

 She looked out at the garden.  The daffodils were just coming into their own - they looked lovely in spite of their faces bending downwards after the rain.   So many more weeds.  She sighed.   Now each time she got up from the comfy stool, her knees creaked.  Now she even hesitated to take the path down the side of the house, for it was always covered in a little moss, which sneaked up on you in the mountain winters.  Now the wet dropping leaves became a hazard to be avoided at all costs, lest she fall and break a hip or something.  In autumn the ashes, the oaks, the liquid ambers were morphing from green to yellow, russet to bright red.  Once it got colder, the confident wind blew soft flurries of snow down the main street.  Then the galleries and coffee shops did a roaring trade, as people escaped from the cold quite regularly to eat, drink hot chocolate, buy art and shop for that special gift.

When they’d first moved here, it was to get away from the city and enjoy the crisp clean air, although more often in the winter it was smoke laden, from all the wood fires burning across the valley.   Derek had taken early retirement and spent his days birdwatching while Belle ran a little boutique filled with lovely scents and beautiful imported knitwear. An idyllic life all mapped out for them.  

That August it was snatched from them as suddenly as the searing pain across Derek’s chest.   Fear and bewilderment crossed his face as the paramedics tried to stabilise him – two of them worked on him for twenty minutes before they gave up and quietly manoeuvred him in on the stretcher.  Belle was rooted to the spot.   The older one took her arm gently.

“Do you want to come, love?”

 She rode with Derek in the ambulance.  He was still warm when she touched his forehead.  Absentmindedly, she pushed back an unravelled thread on the collar of his fine wool sweater. Numbly she stared out at the black shapes of the trees flying past.

When her son, Colin, came up for the funeral, Belle was grateful for his brisk but tender efficiency.  He took charge of her finances and did the things around the house.  Her daughter-in-law, Moira, a short bulldog of a woman, was her usual aggressive, carping self,  making little digs that always made her feel old and inadequate.  Belle thought wryly that she was supposed to be the matriarch, yet Moira seemed to have all the power.  Somehow Colin was completely unaware of any discord at all.  Belle often bit her lip.  She certainly didn’t want to upset her son.  

After they left, she was alone once more. A huge weight lifted from her shoulders when she finally sold the shop.  Now at last she would be able to do something artistic, something for herself alone.

She tried watercolours, but there was too much unpredictability.  She couldn’t control the water sufficiently - it kept pooling in all the wrong places.  She went on to print making, but that was too arduous.  Where before she had regularly taken a brisk walk before dinner, with or without Derek, now it was an effort.    Belle started caring less about food too.  It was often enough just to have a bowl of soup or a sandwich.  When the weight started falling off, at first she was pleased.  It was nice to be able to fit into clothes she hadn’t worn in years.  But then, she started feeling unaccountably tired, and some days she couldn’t put one foot in front of the other.  

Her doctor suggested a change of scene – maybe visit her son?  The thought of Moira’s turned down mouth and all-seeing eyes following her everywhere filled her with dread.  She chided her for forgetting things all the time, as if Belle were her child.  

“Hello, Belle, it’s so good to see you.  Come in, let me get Colin to take this upstairs for you.  Colin?” she trilled. “Mother is here.”  She gave her the perfunctory peck on the cheek.  

“Is this all you brought?”  she said brightly, in that smarmy way she had, knowing that she didn’t really want her to stay.  She was probably even now plotting a way, through Colin of course, of making sure that this might be the last time she would be visiting them. She couldn’t help noticing some brochures for retirement homes on the hall table.

Belle knew that Moira would like to see her slotted away in one of those places.   That would be like the end of her life as she knew it. The thought was unbearable.  

She remembered clearly the time her friend Doris succumbed to family pressure and went into Morningside Glen.  Although the cold pale green walls were clean enough and the carpeted hallways and fresh flowers even hinted at opulence,  there was an overpowering feeling of being enclosed, being unable to breathe freely.   Wisps shuffling along in their old cardigans and slippers, pushing those Zimmer frames ahead of them. The musty slightly mothbally odour of old clothes.  She hoped that she didn’t smell like that. The dead eyes.  The resigned hunch of their shoulders.  The unrelenting cheerfulness of the activity supervisors as they tried to coax tired limbs to mild exercise and worn out brains to board games was so depressing,

 One day she’d had lunch with Doris in the communal dining room.  She’d pushed overcooked carrots and rissoles with gloopy brown gravy around her plate.  The residents couldn’t chew steak anyway.  Belle made her exit after the predictable dessert of tinned peaches and custard, citing a doctor’s appointment in the city. 

           ***.

 The more she thought about the time ahead the more she was convinced there was only one way out. Unless she acted now the days and months ahead would be rocky.  One long road, leading nowhere.                                                                                                                                                           

Belle picked up the book that had been sitting on her table for weeks.  A Calm Exit.  She opened it to the first page and the dedication.  For all those who deserve a quiet and dignified death without complications.  Make sure your wishes are followed.  As she turned the pages, she became more and more convinced -  this was the right solution.  

A little face appeared at the window.  Could she be dreaming?  Then a tap, tap, tapping.  Her brain snapped to attention.  She rose from the table.  

“Mrs Leighton, Mrs. Leighton...are you there?  Look at my new kite.”

It was the slight seven year old from down the road.  He always looked needy, seeking someone’s approval, someone’s attention.  Lost.  Hanging around, engaging her in conversation if she was out the front.  She wondered what sort of parents he had.  Might he be one of those latchkey kids?  The kids who seemed to bring themselves up.  At least, Belle could say she never neglected her child.  She had had the luxury of being at home when he was young and was positively thrilled when school holidays came around and she could take him to the Easter Show, make craft angels with him at Christmas. She smiled when she thought about the soccer games, with the under sixes all running in the same direction after the ball.  

But the tiredness now seemed to come from her very marrow.  It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

“Look...”  He started to run up the incline of their street, dragging the cheap flimsy fluoro  paper thing with him.   When he got to the top, flushed and excited, he was screaming at her to watch.  He ran back down and the thing was suddenly airborne, trailing behind him.  His little face was ecstatic.  

“Look, look....I’m flying!”

“I can see that...” she laughed suddenly, and it just bubbled out of her - it sounded strange, this laugh.  As though it were coming from someone else.  How long had it been since she had experienced real joy?  She continued watching him and he looked so happy.   When he finally came and put his arms around her, the shock made her recoil.  It felt almost alien, someone hugging her like that.  She picked up his kite.

“Don’t you think you should be getting home now, Aiden?”

He brushed the mucous from his dripping nose in a way that looked almost tough.

“Nah, Mum won’t be home for ages.  I go home whenever.”

Belle frowned. She looked anxiously down the street.  The sun had suddenly gone behind the clouds.  It was almost dark now. There was no-one around.  How worried she used to be if Colin was even fifteen minutes late from school.  What was the matter with these people?  Why did they even have children?

“Are you sure?  What time does she get home from work?  It’s getting dark. “

“I got a key.  I just let meself in.  Don’t worry, Mrs. Leighton.”

“I think you should come home with me.  Then I can ring your mum and let her know where you are.”

“Okay.”

He took her hand, almost too willingly, she thought.  What about stranger danger?  She’d been so paranoid about someone snatching her son from her, she’d often been over-protective, vetting his school friends, restricting his playtime, making sure he was never out of her sight.  Maybe she’d been too emotionally needy herself.  

After she’d heated up some soup and he was slurping it at the table, she picked up the phone 

“Hello?  Look, it’s Belle Leighton from number 44.  I just wanted to let you know that Aiden is with me.  It was getting dark....Sorry, what was your name?”

“Oh.  Sorry. It’s Rochelle.  Could you...?” It was a small breathy voice that sounded oddly familiar.  

“I’ll bring him over right now.”

The little fellow was oblivious, watching the cartoons.  He’d eaten every last morsel and was riveted to the set.  Now Belle was worried.  What if his mother reported her to DOCS or something?  Surely it wasn’t wrong to bring the little boy in out of the cold.  But maybe his mother saw her quite differently – as some sort of threat.  Or maybe she was just a single mother under a lot of pressure.  

“Listen, Aiden, your mother wants you home right now.  We’d better go.”

She buttoned her coat.  He was still sitting there.

“Aiden?”

“Can’t I just stay here?  It’s so warm.  I like it here.”

“Sorry, but you’ve got to go home.”

The tiny figure that came to the door had large eyes with dark circles under them.  It was the girl from the petrol station. She didn’t seem grateful that Belle had brought her son home.  She seemed embarrassed.  Belle could see from the doorway that the place was a mess.  Aiden slipped past her and turned the old television on.  Realising she wouldn’t be invited inside, Belle offered a smile and said,

“Well, I won’t hold you up then.  I just wanted to make sure that he was alright. “

“Thanks for bringing him home. “

She was already closing the door.  Belle left then, and as she walked slowly back to her house, she wondered whether it might be interfering if she kept an eye on the little guy.   Just to make sure he was alright.  Surely there could be no harm in that?

                                                                        ***

The hallway mirror gave her a glimpse of herself she hadn’t seen in a while – she looked the same, fair hair that would never quite straighten into a bob, kind blue eyes and tired lined skin.  That night she fell asleep in front of the television.    

 The next morning she walked slowly around every room, and thought about not being able to recognise her surroundings anymore.  Not remembering the day she and Derek had had a mock fight putting up the pale flock wallpaper.  How they both had glue all over them and had had to wash it off in a bubble bath later.  How Colin’s room still had a burn on the carpet when he’d pulled over the lamp.  They were lucky he hadn’t set the place on fire.    It was her job to navigate the family and all that that entailed – entertaining visitors and keeping everyone well-fed.   The kitchen cupboards had seen better days, but her trusty old Mixmaster had whirred its way through literally thousands of sponges and teacakes.

She had always taken for granted she’d live to a ripe old age with Derek - they’d be doddering about the house together making cups of tea, pretending to fight over the lifestyle and sport sections in the Herald.  He used to always get the sport and she would make a face, pretending disappointment. The tears welled up then.

There was a timid knock at the door.  That could mean only one thing.  It must be Aiden.  He mustn’t see her crying.  “I’m coming.....”  she said, as she, dashing into the bathroom, splashed her face with cold water and dabbed on some lipstick. 

But it was Rochelle.

“I hate to ask…but…could you possibly look after Aiden today?  I’ve got to do a late shift. If….um, if I don’t have a “responsible caregiver” (she said the words as if they’d been programmed into her) they’ll take him off me again….could you?”

Belle tried to hide her delight behind a responsible mature lady façade.

“That would be fine.”

                                                                  ***

Something shifted.  Belle got up early every morning and took Aiden to school.  She still made detailed to-do lists and was careful to eat right and stay active, now she had someone else to consider. She began to look forward to Aiden’s visits.  She made afternoon tea treats which he gobbled up.  Rochelle began to rely on her more and more. 

Belle planted more bulbs for the spring.  Narcissus this time.   Narcissus for the Greek god who saw his own reflection and fell in love with it but when she picked the first heavily scented flowers that September morning, she thought not only of love but gratitude.