The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

‘I think that is quite enough!’ The nurse unpeels my mother’s claw-like fingers from my wrist and stands between us. ‘You mustn’t upset her.’

‘I didn’t. I’m not.’

‘I realise how difficult this is for you.’ The nurse’s cheeks have gone bright pink. ‘But you must remember that your mother is still in a serious condition.’

‘She’s trying to tell me something!’

The nurse’s voice softens. ‘Your mother has suffered a brain trauma. She might not fully understand what she’s saying.’

‘But—’

‘Perhaps it might be best if you have a little break.’ The nurse ushers me towards the exit. ‘A cup of tea? A stroll around the grounds?’ It’s an order, not a request. I’m getting used to these now. ‘I’m sure a bit of fresh air will do you the world of good.’

Outside, the sun shines, with the promise of a warm summer to come. I stumble my way to the car and sit with my head resting on the steering wheel. What was my mother trying to tell me? Was Michael really planning on leaving? Did she mean he was going to leave Edgecombe and return home to me, or had he decided to stay with my mother permanently because of his increasingly antagonistic relationship with Adam? I feel heartbroken and betrayed. Why hadn’t he spoken to me about all this?

Adam arrives after lunch as promised and spends most of the afternoon speaking to specialists and reviewing my mother’s treatment plans. It’s too early for an occupational therapist’s home visit – my mother can’t even walk yet – but there’s a physiotherapist’s assessment planned for later in the week.

We eventually find ourselves sitting in the ground floor café sipping tea.

‘Well, that was useful,’ says Adam.

I put on my best, most cheerful smile, but I’m still haunted by my mother’s words a few hours before. Michael’s moving home. Maybe it wasn’t Adam’s fault at all – maybe it was me. Maybe I was overprotective; too fussy, domineering.

I am fragmented, conflicted; my mind keeps moving towards unbearable thoughts and places.

Adam checks his watch. ‘I guess I’d better be heading back. Early start tomorrow.’ I don’t want him to leave. He looks up at me and smiles. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

I do my usual. ‘Of course.’

My throat is tight; my chest a deadweight. I speed out of the hospital desperate for home. Not the home I’ve lived in with my husband for the past twelve years – a place my son clearly felt out of place and unhappy – but back to the home I shared with Michael for the first few chaotic, yet happy years of his life: my mother’s house in Cornwall.

I know I shouldn’t – it’s only half past one – but I down a coffee mug full of white wine in three large gulps and head upstairs. I go through the suitcases one by one, then the bags, and finally every drawer in my mother’s bedroom, wondering if there is anything else of Michael’s that she’s hidden from me.

After nearly two hours of searching I find nothing. Tired and dejected, I refill my mug and tidy up. This is still my mother’s house after all. I lift the lid on her document box and push aside the papers, files, and folders to try to find space for the Bible. My mother wouldn’t even look at it in the hospital – so why did she still keep it carefully stored away? Maybe some things, no matter how painful, are connected to us in ways we really can’t escape.

‘What a load of crap,’ I mutter. I’m drunk now, and having trouble fitting the Bible back in amongst all the other debris in the box. I come across the mobile phone and pick it up. It’s smaller than a contemporary model and fits comfortably in the palm of my hand. What was she doing with a mobile phone? As I balance the solid black block in my hand, her words from a few hours before begin transmuting themselves into something new. Michael’s moving home. My mother’s words were garbled, unclear, affected by stroke, drugs, trauma. What she said wasn’t what she meant. The realisation is a slow burn across my frontal lobe, bursting and fizzing like popping candy on the tongue. Not Michael’s moving home, but Michael’s mobile phone. I utter a small involuntary groan. This isn’t my mother’s mobile phone at all. It was Michael’s.

I study the object in my hand more closely. It’s a cheap pay-as-you-go model – Nokia 105. A phone that I’d never known had existed. I feel shaky; sick. It’s as if the past is being torn open and bleeding all over me. I press the power button idly – there won’t be any charge left in the battery, surely?

Yet, after a pause, the screen flickers into life. The Nokia logo appears and swiftly shifts to the log on screen. Shocked that this is still possible after all this time, I take a deep breath and stare at the glowing screen.

Security code:

Without thinking I tap in 2 0 0 0; the year Michael was born.

Code error

I try again. 1 9 8 4, the year I was born.

Code error

I feel my heart pounding, a trickle of sweat rolling down my spine. One more wrong code and the SIM will be locked.

‘Come on!’ I shout, hammering my fist against my forehead. On my mother’s bedside table sits a long-abandoned teacup; biscuit crumbs dust the saucer’s faded cornflower patina. I am struck by an image of my mother sitting on her bed, sipping her tea, and sifting her way through Michael’s things like a customer at a car boot sale.

Security code:

I enter the numbers 1 9 4 9, the year my mother was born. The home screen appears, and I find myself pressing the contacts icon. There is only one entry – ‘D’. Without stopping to think, I hold it down and wait for the number to dial.

The screen splutters and goes black.

‘What?’ I tap the