Page 4 of The Pieces of Us

It’s no surprise that Minnie’s still asleep by the time Ruby’s left for school. I’m trying to appreciate the quiet, lingering over a cup of coffee at the kitchen table and avoiding my to-do list, when my phone buzzes.

How’s your new house guest?

It’s Lisa. We met on the first day of primary school and our friendship was cemented before lunchtime when she poked Scott Ellis in the ribs with her ruler after he yanked my ponytail – an incident we now refer to as Rulergate.

Lisa was caught in the act, Scott feigned innocence, and the ruler was then used by Mrs Waltham on Lisa’s knuckles.

Since then, we’ve gone through life together.

She was with me when I met Ruby’s dad Tomás in a Tenerife beach bar.

She was with me when I stared down at two lines on the pregnancy test, back in Glasgow, our holiday tans long gone.

And she was with me when I cried. I was nineteen and Tomás was supposed to be no more than a holiday fling and one of those single-girl stories Lisa and I would laugh about well into our senior years.

He was not supposed to be the father of my child.

Nor was he a factor in my decision to have the baby.

It was only after my mind was made up that Lisa took charge, calling the budget hotel we’d stayed in to get the phone number for the bar Tomás worked in.

By that time he was on holiday himself, flirting his way around Barcelona for five days.

He called when he was back, all mi amor and mi reina and mi corazón , his tongue rolling seductively over the ‘r’s, his words making no promises.

It’s the only thing we’ve ever been able to rely on him for.

Promise nothing, and then nobody can be disappointed when you don’t deliver.

Lisa was also by my side when Minnie was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at fifty-three years old.

She was there, in the hospital room when I got the news, holding my hand while the doctor said the words that confirmed what I already knew but still turned my life upside down.

Initially Mum and I had laughed it off when she wandered into the wrong room or described a mug as the thingy with the handle .

She was far too young to have Alzheimer’s.

Her memory issues were a running joke for a long time, but I stopped laughing when she got lost walking to the post office and ended up at Harry Ramsden’s, trying to top up her gas card.

‘That lot used to be much friendlier,’ she said loudly when I arrived to take her home.

‘Well, you got some chips out of it,’ I told her, ushering her into the car.

She looked affronted. ‘I’m not having chips! I’ll spoil my dinner.’ I didn’t mention the ring of tomato sauce around her mouth.

I text Lisa back: She woke me up at 1 a.m. to make her a cheese toastie.

Well, your toasties are pretty special

I think something’s up with Ruby too. Can’t work out what … She’s talking about not going to college.

It’s a big change for her, having her gran there. Give it time, Cat x

I’ll call you tonight?

Great. I’ve got a shitload of uni work to do. Will be glad of the interruption x

While I went straight from school to one short-lived job after another, Lisa started working on reception at Arnold Clark when she was eighteen.

She spent and saved wisely, and is now studying psychology through the Open University.

Pursuing her dream while I watch from the sidelines, too overwhelmed by life to begin to wonder what my own dream might be.

I’m trying to persuade Minnie to eat her eggs when Lena arrives.

I’m happier to see her than ever. ‘You’re an angel,’ I tell her regularly.

Her presence never fails to calm me down – it’s a combination of her pristine white tunic and trousers, the faint smell of antiseptic that reminds me of our old school medical room, her strong, capable hands, her candid, beautiful face.

Lena Kowalski has helped to keep Minnie safe in her own home for the last few years and will do the same in mine now, when I’m not here.

Hearing other people’s frustrating experiences with support services, their ever-changing roster of part-time carers who seem to move through a revolving door, often disappearing without forewarning, makes me even more grateful for Lena.

She always shows up for Minnie, usually fifteen minutes earlier than her official starting time.

Today she’s only here for a couple of hours to familiarize herself with Minnie’s new home.

‘How are you, s?oneczko ?’ Lena asks, taking off her jacket.

‘I’ve been better,’ Minnie grumbles. ‘I wanted Cheerios for breakfast but this one made me eat eggs.’

Lena and I exchange a smile.

‘Eggs are the best thing for you.’ Lena taps her head. ‘Excellent for your brain.’

‘I wish you’d all stop going on about my brain. Broken records, the lot of you.’

Lena bends over, puts her face close to Minnie’s. ‘Please can you show me your new bedroom? I’m excited to see it.’

‘It’s small,’ Minnie says flatly.

‘So are you,’ Lena tells her. ‘Come on.’

I don’t go with them to Minnie’s bedroom. Nor do I go with them into the living room to play cards and listen to the radio. I do housework, then I go shopping, moving up and down the aisles on autopilot, filling my basket with things I know Minnie will eat.

I’m back in the car with the key in the ignition when I realize I’ve forgotten butter.

I think about my daughter, who loves buttery soldiers, who seems to be going through something – something she’s not willing or able or ready to share with me.

I sit in my car in the Aldi car park and let myself cry for a few minutes, then dry my eyes and go back for the butter.

After Lena leaves, I focus on ticking the essential boxes – dinner, medication, bath, more medication, bed – and deal with any curveballs thrown my way.

Like Minnie scattering the pack of cards across the living-room floor because Ruby doesn’t understand the rules of the game, or beating her fists against her thighs because she doesn’t understand why she can’t go home, or turning her back to me and refusing to say goodnight when she gets into bed.

I check on Minnie at 10 p.m. She’s asleep, her tiny hands clutching the top of the floral duvet cover that wouldn’t be her first choice.

My next stop is Ruby’s room, where I take her phone out of her hand and remove one of the pillows beneath her head; she doesn’t stir.

I look at the Build-A-Bear trio on her bed, the tangle of charger cables on the floor. Still just a child in so many ways.

I resist the temptation to climb into my own bed, to squeeze my eyes shut until sleep takes over. The unread emails and unopened envelopes on the kitchen table are screaming at me. I ignore them for a while longer, pour myself two fingers of Scotch and call Lisa.

‘I’m exhausted,’ I warn her. ‘I might actually fall asleep in twenty seconds.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ she says. ‘Fill me in before you do.’

I condense the last thirty-six hours into a few minutes, ending with Minnie’s bedtime brush-off.

‘You know she doesn’t mean it, Cat. You know that.’

‘I do know that,’ I say, for my own benefit as much as Lisa’s.

‘It still sucks, though. And I’m here for you to offload. You don’t have to put on your positive pants for me.’

I laugh. ‘Is that a new therapy term you’ve learned?’

‘Nope. It’s strictly between us.’

‘Positive pants. I like it.’ I take a sip of whisky.

‘I’m here whenever you need me.’

‘I know.’

‘How’s Ruby?’

‘She’s OK. Maybe I’m overthinking it and she’s just being sixteen. It was so much easier when she was wee. I’d go back to the days of her being attached to me 24/7 over this emotional minefield in a flash. Potty training and teething weren’t so bad, after all.’ I let out an enormous yawn.

‘Get some sleep, sweetheart. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.’

I pour the rest of the Scotch down my throat and welcome the sting.

‘We should put Gran forward for that TV show about hoarders.’ Ruby tosses another empty yoghurt pot into the bin bag in the middle of the room.

It’s been almost a week since Minnie moved in and we can’t put this gargantuan clear-out off any longer.

Her house needs to go on the market. A house that always seemed tidy, but now that we’ve started opening doors and drawers and lifting lids and stretching into difficult-to-reach places, we’re uncovering the true confused reality of.

‘I remember when you had to take yoghurt pots into nursery to plant seeds in. You brought them home with wee pea shoots in the soil. We put them on Gran’s kitchen window sill and you’d stare at them like it would make them grow faster.

’ I want to share more of these memories with Ruby, among the useless yoghurt pots and everything else my mother has collected over the years.

But it’s not the time. My daughter is cross-faced and restless, opening drawers and shutting them again, tutting loudly at nothing in particular.

‘I don’t think Gran was collecting yoghurt pots for seeds.’

‘No. I don’t think she could keep anything alive now. She used to be pretty good in the garden, though. When I was a kid, she’d always have muddy knees on her trousers. The garden was bursting with colour.’

‘Rose-tinted glasses,’ Ruby mutters.

‘What a cynic you are,’ I tease, hoping to lighten the mood.

‘I’m going to make tea.’ She kicks the bin bag on her way past.