Page 3 of The Pieces of Us

‘Elsa,’ Minnie agrees. She starts humming under her breath, and it’s undoubtedly, wonderfully ‘Let It Go’ .

She’s always loved animated films and would happily spend an afternoon watching Cinderella back when Ruby was entrenched in her princess phase.

Minnie still loves to lose herself in a make-believe world that’s safer than the one she’s found herself in.

And while my daughter claims to have outgrown Disney a long time ago, she enjoyed going to the cinema to see Frozen just as much as her gran did.

‘Feminist vibes,’ Ruby shrugged as we left the warmth of the Odeon for a chill that Elsa herself would have baulked at.

If I asked Minnie about that cinema trip from only a few weeks ago, she’d probably look at me like I’d asked her to tell me the square root of seven hundred and fifty-two.

But her singing tells me that some part of her brain does remember.

Ruby and I keep busy, hanging up clothes, plugging in the night light, while Minnie sings the chorus on loop – or her version of it, at least. Only when she’s quiet again do I turn to her and unzip her coat, peel it off her thin arms, hang it up in the wardrobe. ‘There we are.’

She looks at the coat, then at me, then around the room. Her eyes rest on the bed. ‘I hate that cover,’ she says. ‘I liked the old one better. It was much more fun.’

‘The old one?’

‘Yes. The bright one. It was red and yellow and blue and green.’

It takes me a moment to make the connection: the cover on the bed Ruby slept in when we lived at Minnie’s.

During my pregnancy I moved back into the house I grew up in, and Minnie was there for me – and then both of us – every step of the way.

It’s hard to remember the day-to-day specifics from those life-turned-upside-down, sleep-deprived days – I just know that Minnie was my one certainty.

All my early parenting milestones took place in that house.

The first time Ruby crawled was from Minnie’s arms into mine, across the rug on the living-room floor.

The first wobbly steps Ruby took were in the same place, on Christmas Day, six months later.

I dressed my daughter for her first day of school in the bedroom we shared there, taking my time to create the neatest knot with her striped tie before taking her into the kitchen, a lump in my throat, for Minnie’s agile fingers to effortlessly braid her hair into two long thick perfect plaits down her back.

We all walked to school together that morning, Ruby holding our hands – the link between us.

When Ruby and I moved into this flat, we said goodbye to the house, thinking that Minnie would stay there forever, preserving the memories that spanned decades.

The thought of selling it isn’t something I’ve let myself dwell on.

Ruby’s duvet cover had large coloured checks. ‘You remember that one?’ I ask Minnie.

‘Of course I do,’ she scoffs. ‘Why did you change it?’

I changed it ten years ago, but I don’t tell her that. ‘I thought you’d like the flowers better,’ I say. ‘I don’t have the other one any more, but I can try to get something like it if you want.’

‘Oh, please do,’ she says, rolling her eyes.

‘I prefer the old one too, Gran,’ Ruby says. ‘But you know what Mum’s like about flowers. Obsessed.’ She rolls her eyes for dramatic effect.

‘Hardly,’ I tell her. ‘I just work in a flower shop.’

‘I don’t know if I like it here,’ Minnie says loudly. ‘Can you take me home?’

‘This is your home,’ I say softly. I’ve tried to prepare myself for this reaction from her, but there’s nothing I can do about the bubble of sadness expanding in my chest. ‘We’re going to look after you. Keep you safe.’

‘I don’t need looking after.’ She hugs her handbag against her belly.

I look from her to Ruby. Two apprehensive faces. I find my daughter’s hand behind my mother’s back and give it a squeeze. ‘OK. Let’s have a cup of tea and talk it over.’

‘I’ll make it.’ Minnie sits her handbag on the floor of the wardrobe and stalks out of the room. ‘Your tea is like dishwater.’

It doesn’t take long to persuade Minnie to let me make the tea. Meanwhile, Ruby shows her the laminated signs we’ve put up around the kitchen: BIN. brEAD. PUT MILK BACK IN THE FRIDGE. TURN HOB OFF! HOT WATER. COLD WATER.

When Minnie’s settled with her mug in front of the TV, I get the rest of her things out of the car.

I made sure to pack her essentials, but she insisted on filling the rest of the bags and boxes herself.

I’ve got no idea what she put in them, but it doesn’t matter – everything she owns has to come here or be disposed of eventually.

It was more important that she was a willing participant.

She’d lived in her house for thirty-seven years and I had visions of her barricading herself in the bathroom when it was time to leave.

Ruby appears just as I’m hanging up the last of her clothes. ‘She’s asleep.’

‘I’m not surprised. This must be exhausting for her.’

‘And you,’ she says, touching my arm. It’s brief but enough to make my eyes fill. I draw my daughter’s body towards mine and rest my chin on her shoulder, but she pulls away before I can appreciate the moment.

‘I’ll help,’ she says. ‘Where is everything going?’

‘Wherever you can fit it. We need more storage in here. I’ll get some of those underbed thingies, put a couple of shelves up.’

‘This is all pretty random,’ Ruby says, raking through a box.

She creates a neat stack of paperback books against the wall, puts a jewellery box on the bedside table.

‘Ooh, these are cute. I don’t think I’ve seen them before.

’ She opens a wooden nesting doll and takes out a smaller one.

I watch her repeat the action until she has a row of five dolls on the floor.

‘I haven’t either.’ I pick up the largest doll and run my finger over the smooth painted surface. ‘Matryoshka dolls. These are different, though, from the traditional design. You know – the Russian ones with the red roses?’

‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ she says, laughing, ‘but these look … Irish?’

‘Definitely Irish,’ I agree. The dolls are painted in green, orange and gold, with small shamrocks and Celtic knots incorporated into their headscarves and skirts, careful lines creating expressive faces. Even the smallest doll has realistic-looking eyes with thick lashes.

Ruby lines the dolls up on the small window sill. ‘Let’s put them there for now. Gran can move them if she likes.’

I laugh. ‘That’s a given.’

I know Minnie always goes to bed early but she’s not happy when I turn the television off at 8 p.m., even though she’s been asleep on the sofa for twenty minutes. ‘I’m not a child,’ she tells me crabbily.

‘I know that,’ I reply. ‘But it’s bedtime.’

‘You’re so bossy,’ she says, but she stands up and wanders out of the living room.

‘I’ve put your nightie on your bed. Let me know if you need any help?’

‘I’m not a child,’ she says again, before closing the bedroom door in my face.

I smile. I’ll take her acting like a grumpy teenager every day if it means she’s able to get herself ready for bed. The longer she can hold on to the last vestiges of independence, the better. And I have experience of living with adolescent mood swings.

After a few minutes, I knock on her door. ‘Are you OK in there? You need to brush your teeth, remember.’

She opens the door. She has her nightie on backwards, but she doesn’t care and neither do I.

‘Teeth?’ I ask brightly. ‘All your toiletries are in the bathroom. And I bought you a new toothbrush.’

‘What would I do without you?’ she says, and this time there’s no trace of grumpiness.

It’s 2 a.m. and I’m wide awake. Minnie woke me up an hour ago asking for a cheese toastie. (‘I haven’t had dinner,’ she said defensively, her eyes wide. ‘I just need a wee snack.’)

My new reality hits me like a slap in the face.

I lie on my side and curl my body into itself, drawing my knees up to my chest. I made the cheese toastie and Minnie wolfed it down, like she hadn’t had chicken casserole followed by apple crumble and custard at 6 p.m. I’m hoping post-midnight snack time doesn’t become a habit, but for now I need to do everything I can to help her settle in.

She told me repeatedly she was going home soon, and early advice from her doctor ran through my head, as it does on a regular basis: Don’t tell her she’s wrong about something.

Don’t correct her. Don’t argue with her. It’s for her good but also yours .

So this is what I do for the most part. But now and then I dig my heels in, despite knowing better.

‘You’re your mother’s daughter,’ Minnie used to say to me, and it wasn’t until I was a young adult that I understood what she meant.

My most infuriating qualities are inherited from her.

Both headstrong and fiercely independent, this created an ongoing battle of wills when I was growing up.

But, looking back, I can recognize the comfort it gave me to see a reflection of myself.

When Minnie became ill, the parts of her personality that irritated me the most – because I shared them – started to disappear.

I’d give anything to lock horns with her now, to push us both to our limits to see who’d give in first. And then to laugh about it later, because once upon a time another thing we shared was enough self-awareness to know when we were being ridiculous.

But we’re no longer on an equal footing.

I’m her carer. And so tonight in the kitchen, over her cheese toastie, I simply nodded each time she told me she was going home soon.

I watch the numbers on my alarm clock change. At 2.11 a.m., my bedroom door opens. But it’s not my mother looking for her next snack. It’s Ruby, her pyjama-clad body backlit by the lamp I left on in the hall for Minnie.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Sweetheart, it’s after two. Why are you still up?’

She shrugs. ‘Can’t sleep.’

We look at each other. I wonder what she needs from me in this moment. It’s been years since she’s come to me during the night.

‘Do you want to jump in?’

Another shrug. ‘Sure.’

She lies beside me, her hands clasped against her belly. In the dim light, I can just make out the curves and points of her profile. The little-girl plumpness of her cheeks has long gone; her lips now form a distinctly grown-up pout.

‘What’s up, love?’

‘Dunno.’

We lie side by side, staring at the ceiling.

‘Was Gran crying earlier? I heard you both in the kitchen.’

‘Oh, she just wanted something to eat. It’ll take her a wee while to get used to living here.’

‘Will she ever get used to it?’

‘Of course she will.’ I slide closer to her. ‘Hey, do you remember when you used to wake up with nightmares? I’d make you hot chocolate and buttery soldiers.’

‘Gran’s not a kid, though.’

‘She kind of is, love.’ I take a deep breath, thinking about how quickly my mum has deteriorated over the last twelve months, how long the stretches now are between her lucid moments. How short those moments are, when they finally come.

‘What’s going to happen, Mum?’

‘I have no idea. Come here.’ I open my arms, and my daughter rolls into them. I rest my chin on her head, stare at the clock. 2.15 a.m. ‘Ruby?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you want hot chocolate and buttery soldiers?’

‘Yes please.’

We work together in our tiny kitchen. I heat milk, Ruby scoops cocoa powder into two mugs.

She drops bread into the toaster, I set out plates and knives.

She lifts the lid off the butter dish and pushes it towards me.

There’s just enough left – I make a mental note to add it to my shopping list tomorrow.

After we stir and spread, we sit at the folding table, moving my piles of abandoned paperwork to one side.

Minnie’s benefits, my benefits, care assessment forms, hospital leaflets, legal documents.

From now on life is going to be one long form-filling exercise.

‘I love buttery toast,’ Ruby says between mouthfuls.

She may have sharp cheekbones and a Cupid’s bow lip, but in the harsh light of the kitchen she’s still my baby girl. Her face, more familiar to me than my own, is troubled.

‘Is anything else bothering you? I know it’ll take a while to get used to having Gran here, but you can let me worry about that. Is school OK?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘How’s your college application coming along?’

‘It’s fine. I’ve still got two months until the deadline.’

I raise my eyebrows at her over my mug. ‘Don’t leave it to the last minute.’

‘Don’t nag,’ she snaps back.

‘This is an important time for you, Ruby.’

‘Well, I’m not sure I want to go to college any more.’ She says it casually, in that infuriating teenage way.

‘What? Since when?’

She has a toast crumb on her chin. I reach across the table to brush it off – a force of habit. She recoils from my touch; her rejection stings like a slap.

‘I was just … you’ve got a crumb.’ I bring my finger up to my own chin.

‘I don’t care,’ she mutters.

‘Ruby, since when aren’t you sure about college?’

‘Oh, you know.’ She shrugs.

‘No, Ruby, I don’t know. This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

If it wasn’t for the crumb, I might not have noticed her chin quiver. The imperceptible movement triggers something in my gut. I tighten the belt of my dressing gown without taking my eyes off my daughter.

Her eyes, on the other hand, are on everything but me.

‘Ruby,’ I say sharply, and it’s now that I feel something bigger in the room, something approaching us, like the first rumblings of a storm. I soften my voice. ‘Rubes. What’s going on? Please talk to me, sweetheart.’

‘Nothing,’ she says.

She’s lying; I feel it in my bones.

‘Do you want more toast?’ Anything to keep my hands busy. Maybe she’ll talk to me if my attention is elsewhere.

‘I should get back to bed,’ she says. ‘School tomorrow … today .’

‘OK, love.’ I try to relax my face, knowing from experience that if I push her, she’ll retreat further. I pile the plates and mugs in the sink, give the countertop crumbs a half-hearted wipe. When I turn round, she’s gone.