‘The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness’
- Sylvia Plath, The Moon and the Yew Tree




The numbness is catching. I have been walking in a cold shadow all day.  And now, seated next to my mother, I do not feel a change.  The Home’s fluorescent lights emit no warmth, and if they did the anaesthetised patients would absorb none of it.  She looks at me with tenderness, because she has forgotten who we are.
‘You look about my daughter’s age,’ she pauses and her expression dissolves.  ‘But she never visits me.’
I guide her out of the communal living room.  I shower with her – because she can’t support herself – and I change soiled clothes she either hasn’t noticed or won’t admit to.  They have nurses here, carers, but even now with her indignity and helplessness, I still feel a heavy weight of guilt.  It’s a lead suit, fashioned by her tough hands, and I have worn it since birth.
Exhausted, my guilt turns to frustration, as it so often does, and I have to leave this place.  I have to go to my home and be the happy mother.
‘See you tomorrow, Mum.’  I smile as brightly as I imagine I once had – much younger, wanting her to tell me how much she loves me.  I search her countenance for a sign of recognition; a deepened wrinkle by the mouth, a quickened breath, or perhaps (though I never wish hard anymore) a trace of love.





He kissed me after school today.  He did more than that!  I have a hickey on my neck. Mum can’t find out.  She’s home late, as usual, ‘cause she has to look after her mum at the old people’s home.  She doesn’t look at me on her way from the front door to her bedroom.  I say ‘Hi’ and she says ‘Hi, honey.  Good day?’ but I can see she’s not smiling. So, I guess she and Nan had a fight.  I miss Nan.  She used to live just down the road from us till she got dementia.  And when it got really bad they took her into care.  Our house is so quiet now.  Except for the fighting, when Mum freaks out and has a go at me for no reason at all.  So that’s how it is: either silence, or its all hell broken loose.  

I meet him at the school gates; we’re going to his place this afternoon.  Like a date.  He’s two grades up from me. It’s really cool. And all the other year 8 girls are jealous of me.  When we get to his house - which I thought would be huge but really it’s just a regular size – he shows me his bedroom.  He’s got a stereo, an electric guitar, and tonnes of CDs, double bed and band posters on the wall.
‘I really like your Korn poster,’ I tell him.  ‘Can we listen to them?’
‘Yeah, later,’ he says, taking my hand so I sit by him on the bed.  ‘I’d really like to kiss you again though.’
He smiles in the sweetest way that makes his eyes look model-blue, and I can’t believe I get to kiss Trent from year 10 in his room.  I’m a bit nervous ‘cause yesterday was my first – well, first proper kiss – and I can’t remember exactly what to do, but I let him because he likes me.  He starts off gently, like little pecks, then he sticks his tongue in. When I think I’ve got the hang of it, he stops suddenly.
‘Take your top off.’





My house is an enemy landscape and I am deep within its territory.  The unoccupied rooms are not empty, filled to the brim with a silence that unnerves me.  In this house silence is a conspirator’s shroud, covering secrets and malignant truths.  I’m not visiting my mother tonight.  I will not, I cannot. My exhaustion runs past duty, through all reserves for compassion; there is simply nothing I can give.  

It’s past eight and Alison is still out.  She hasn’t called, which is not unusual in the world of raising teens, but I should be worried.  I am her mother and I should be worried.  Instead I turn the Bordeaux glass by its stem; twisting my wrist slightly, appreciating the bowl’s curve, glad to be occupied by rare indulgence.  I am not a heavy drinker, but I savour the wine’s numbing comfort.  
When the bottle is drained I float about the living spaces, examining knick-knacks and ornaments with pretend-foreign eyes, till I’m in the doorway of my bedroom.  I study the room’s contents, clues to the woman inhabitant; but I cannot remain detached.  The superfluousness, and the poignancy of the king-size bed strike me hard, with momentarily sobering impact.  Lowering myself in shock to the plush carpeted-floor, I crawl to the edge of the bed.  I can’t bear to look, to stand over the scene where I held him; loved him so many nights.  My face buries into folds of the valance; my fingers trace over ivy patterns of the silk embroidered quilt-cover, summoning memories of him from the braille.

*

She’s been and gone.  There’s a note on the table:  You were asleep when I got home, didn’t wanna wake you.  I’m getting a lift to school. Bye  – Ally
The morning is still icy and crisp; the house chilled by frosted windows.  I run a bath to warm my cooled blood from sleeping drunk and uncovered all night.  As the tub fills I wash my face and examine the damage in the mirror.  I can’t tell which lines are new, which wrinkles are deeper, or if a blemish was not there last week.  How old should I look?  How many years has he been gone?  I don’t speak that language of time anymore; only knowing the loneliness, boundlessness of pain.  A minute is the same as a year when I don’t have him.  The black-garnet wine has left a red stain at the corner of my lips.  I rub at it, thinking over the night before.  I am not a heavy drinker; I am not a bad mother, a bad daughter.  It’s the duty, guilt, and the constancy of their need.  Always needing so much.  I read somewhere that the Latin word for ‘mother’ translates to a simile of ‘martyr’.  Motherhood, daughterhood; it’s all intrinsically sacrifice, in one way or another there is something to be given up.    

*

Alison arrives home and dumps her backpack by the door.
‘It’s almost nine,’ I say sharply.  ‘You should’ve called; told me where you were.’
‘You’re always late anyway,’ she mutters, kicking off her school shoes.  
My jaw tightens and muscles tense as I predict another screaming-match.  It’s been difficult lately with her erratic behaviour, secrecy and aggression.  I want her to understand; I need her to know how much I sacrifice to be there for her grandmother. As she turns away I notice a circular bruise on her neck.
‘It’s nothing,’ she lies, anxiously tossing her ponytail over one shoulder.  ‘An accident straightening my hair.’
I contain the urge to raise my voice.  I suspected she’d been seeing a boy.  Getting home late and not calling, evasive conversation; it’s all… it’s what I did at her age.  In a sudden surge of panic I want to tell her it’s okay; give her the advice I wish my mother gave me.  I want her to confide in me, I want to be redeemed.  But I’m petrified of what on earth I’m meant to say to her.
‘I’m going to be on the phone,’ she says, taking the cordless from its wall-mount. ‘I’ll be in my room.’
‘Ally, just hold on, I want to talk to you.’  
She turns back impatiently, with her arms crossed to say, ‘what now?’  Then her face softens as she senses the strain in my voice.  
‘Just…don’t do anything stupid,’ I blurt out, and immediately regret.  Her eyes narrow and she leans towards me with contempt.
‘I’m not you, Mother!’ she hisses through clenched teeth.
‘Ally!’ I plead, following her down the hall to her room.  She slams the door before I can reach her, shutting me out.  
That’s it.   I’ve blown it.  
I fall to the floor and want to cry, my mouth o-gape and fingernails digging into cheeks.  My eyes burn with the expectation of tears, but all I call do is mouth the words into desolate hands, ‘what have I done to her… what have I done.’





Journal Entry, 14th August

Today in Literature we learned about Sylvia Plath, the American poet who killed herself by sticking her head in the oven and turning the gas on.  I don’t really like poetry but I like it when Mrs Bier reads, she makes everything sound so sad.  For homework we have to pick a poem from the handout and write one in the same style.  I’d like to write a poem like this one called The Moon and The Yew Tree, but I wouldn’t be any good at it.   Trent doesn’t like poetry; he says it’s lame and for losers.  Sometimes he can be pretty mean, like yesterday at his house and I didn’t really want to do any stuff with him and he got pissed off with me.  But that’s just his personality, I know he really likes me.





My mother is deteriorating rapidly.  The nurses say I can’t help shower her anymore; it’s not suitable with her condition.  It’s funny though, now that she’s so far away from the world, my motives have changed.  I’ve been here for longer than usual tonight; just sitting with her, watching game shows on TV.  I don’t feel guilty, I just want to be with her, and even if she barely showed me, I just want to show her love…
‘Alison,’ she says suddenly, breaking her catatonic stare across the lounge.  ‘When are you going to cut that god-awful mousy hair?’
‘Mum!’ I cry, almost laughing, almost breaking apart.  ‘Mum, it’s me; I’m your daughter.  Alison’s your granddaughter.’  I take her frail hand in mine, massaging the delicate bones with my thumb.  I know she doesn’t register my presence; but the child in me reaches desperately for her.
‘You listen to me, Alison,’ she says to the carer, now bent down beside her.  ‘Men only want one thing in this world.  Why buy the cow when the milk is free? Look at your mother! Oh, she fell right into that trap…’
She’s excited now, in the rhythm of speech, but the carer has called a nurse to quieten her.  
‘She mustn’t exert herself,’ the young woman tells me.  ‘But this is a good sign, she’s talking again, this is very good.’
I can only watch now.  She’s stolen the words from me.  
‘You’ve been here for hours,’ the carer says, turning away from Mum.  ‘Your mother will be fine.  You should go home, tell your family the news.’  Her lips form a kind, economical smile, as she ushers me into the foyer.  ‘We’ll let you know if anything changes.’
I stand outside the Aged Care Facility, watching cars drive past on the busy main road.  I think about Mum, what she was like as a girl, as a young woman with a baby - with me.  She never said she loved me.  
Sitting down on the nature-strip, I consider my own pregnancy; those frightening months of undiscovered territory and then, days after Ally’s birth, my husband leaving.  Leaving me alone again.  
But he left her too.  He left Alison and I never thought she might have suffered.  I get up from my spot on the grass and head toward the parking lot.  I have to mend the fissure that keeps Alison and me apart.   I can’t keep doing what the women in my family have always done.