The Visit by Clare Martin, a gin and tonic, for old times' sake

It’s the leaving that’s hard.

Arriving’s okay. Warmth, loud music from the TV lounge, the twittering of caged birds and murmured conversation. A lingering smell of gravy, a hint of polish. The sharp undertone of bleach

Quiet and heavy – a blanket that warms, comforts and restricts.

I’m greeted with a smile and a cheerful hello from everyone I pass, as a carer takes me through. We exchange quick, elliptical remarks, filling me in on today’s state of play.

And then she’s there, at the end of the corridor – smile wavering, eyes spurting hot tears of mingled relief and happiness.

‘Oooh hoo!’, her fingers waggle at me.

We hug – my arms trying to encompass every bit of her, conveying love, reassurance, and so-happy-to-see-you.

On a good day, I swiftly turn tears to a watery chuckle with a bit of nonsensical chatter. A silly song. Something and nothing.

On a bad day, we stand swaying together awhile, me murmuring consolation into her soft, flyaway hair until she’s ready to have her arm tucked into mine and take a gentle stroll around the unit.

Correction. Her home.

We find a place to sit and talk – me willing myself to relax, sit back in my chair, and chat about the weather, the birds, the flowers, the children.

All the while, my inner self is perched on the edge of my seat, eyes scanning her face, straining to catch every last drop of her words, willing there to be meaning beneath the rote phrases. To see in her eyes some sense of self, some fleeting wisp of memory.

Those eyes. Still bright blue.

How piercing they were when she detected me in wrong-doing. How warm and loving when my actions filled her with pride.

Now behind the gaze lies blankness, as though she is staring into somewhere misty and far off. A puzzle she cannot untangle.

Time passes – more nonsense, interspersed with quick checks of her physical state. And always, always, trying to make her laugh.

It’s the leaving that’s hard. It kills a little bit of me, every time.

Towards the end of the afternoon, I make ‘got to leave soon’ noises. My gut twists as I talk of journey times, weather, hours of daylight left, where the kids are and how I have to get home to them soon.

Does she - always the carer, the organiser, the worrier – understand? Or do my words mean nothing?

I’m preparing myself for departure.

I stand and we link arms again and stroll along the corridors, admiring the pictures on the wall, talking to the budgies, greeting the people we pass.

‘Got to go now, Mum.’

Another all-embracing hug – trying to give through my whole body, my mind, my heart, anything to arm her for the coming days.

The bad days, the confused days, the past-is-here-and-now days, the pain-filled memory days.

I slide slowly towards the front door.

Look back.

There she stands, rudderless, adrift in a sea of warmth and kind, compassionate care. Yet still adrift - blue eyes un-focusing in a look of loss and leaving.

About the author 

 Clare Martin is a writer with a background in radio journalism. Based in Sussex, England, she specialises in flash fiction and short stories. Writing about what lies under the surface of ordinary life, she draws inspiration from overheard conversations and the tales we tell ourselves. 

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