Swan Song
written by: Andrea Walker
Driving to the interview, radio murmuring in the background, I’m too stressed to listen, reaching to turn it off, I hear ‘Our’ song – “Swan.” My stomach lurches, hearing the lyrics. “Like a swan, I only love once,” I am transported back to childhood, as memories resurface. I’ve worked so hard to forget them, forget her. Changing gear, I realise my hand is wet. Touching my face, it’s because I’m crying.
I’ve avoided thinking of her for the longest time. I was so young when she used to sing about ‘only loving once,’ it seems ironic now. She’d place my young feet on top of hers and dance me around the lounge. Desperately, I’d try to keep my feet in place, as she held me, but they’d slide off, as I tried to pre-empt her next move, we’d giggle, then resume our dance. I felt invincible, in those moments, childish joy, a mother’s love. She hadn’t loved us though; it was all a fantasy.
I remember, my father would stride over to the radio, switch it off angrily, and demand what time tea would be ready, like she wasn’t allowed to have fun. She’d reluctantly set me down and rush out, chastened, our previous happiness, dissipated. This realisation now, is painful. Now, more memories float up. How he’d criticise everything she did, said, even, wore. He judged her always, and always she was found wanting.
I can’t do this!
Not today…
With extraordinary effort, I mentally shake my head. I need this promotion, and she won’t be the reason I lose it, or the reason I gain it. I’ve lost too much because of her and gained nothing in the process.
Arriving home later, I surprise my wife, Chloe, with roses. “Why?” she asks, confused. I look at her intently, I note how she’s made the effort to wear makeup, a nice dress. She’s cooked my favourite meal, despite her stressful job in advertising, what with that, and raising our five-year-old son, who has a will of steel. “He’s his father’s son, alright,” she’ll laugh. And I, am my father’s son. I don’t appreciate what I have. I don’t appreciate her, or our son, enough. The flowers seem paltry.
Over dinner, I’m thoughtful. “Spill?” she says gently. “How did today go?” I push aside my melancholy to reply. “It went well,” I smile, but it’s futile. She sees through me. “But?” she persists. Taking a huge breath, I say “I think… it’s time.” I nod, as I speak, “I’m so glad,” she says, rushing to hug me, I cling to her, letting the sobs I’ve swallowed down all day, finally, have an out. Later, confirmation. I’m now a partner in my law firm. The victory feels hollow because ‘She’s’ no idea. She doesn’t realise; just how successful I’ve become. “I’m so proud of you,” Chloe says, I know, she doesn’t just mean the promotion.
I reach for the old box under our bed, later. I pull out its contents. Letters, papers, cards, photos spill onto the duvet. I see, police reports, where I’ve reported harassment, for her contacting me. I grow hot, with shame, remembering how I’d then chicken out and my father’s anger, when I refused to prosecute her. Always, she kept on communicating. Little notes, cards, reaffirming her love and pride, in me. I hid them all here, in this old box.
Sometimes, when the anger exploded, I’d rip something up, then tape it together again, later, regretfully. I realise, this box, filled with her love, has been my mainstay, subconsciously, since the last time I saw her. I’ve literally lain on top of it. She’s been with me all along. Why couldn’t I see? The person I rejected for so long was the person who loved me most? I’ve been blind. Recently, there’s been no mail and it’s worried me. I’ve missed it.
I loved my mother. When she finally left my father, after twenty years under his control, she left me, too. “She doesn’t love us anymore,” he’d said. “Forget her!” And I tried; I really did. I got so angry, that whenever she came by the house, to take me out, I’d hide. My father would shout at her to go away, that I didn’t want to see her. She’d stand there, forlornly. I’d stare at her, with a burning hatred, the curtains half-closed, so I could spy on her, and she could glimpse me. I’d always have an unfathomable pain in my chest. She’d shout, “I love you, Danny,” then retrace her steps, as my father scoffed and stood staring, long after she’d turned the corner, out of sight.
“She hates us,” he’d reaffirm, offering to take me for a beer, because I was eighteen by then. The years had slipped by, and I’d become a man, which was ironic, as he, continued, to call me ‘My boy.’ Sometimes, I’d catch her walking past college. I’d laugh cruelly, as my friends squirmed, then I’d carry my heart home, in my boots.
My father still asked about her, constantly. I denied all knowledge. It seemed easier. Without her to bully, he’d turned on me. The pressure to succeed, was claustrophobic. He chose my law degree, making it clear, he’d support me financially, but I was on my own if I chose anything else. So, when I became, first a solicitor, then a barrister, he was ecstatic. “See!” he’d spluttered, “Your success is down to me,” he’d pat his chest, self-congratulating. Shoving me in the back, he’d say “My boy,” in a possessive, gut-wrenching way, so that I felt fear and stress, grief, and loss, all rolled into a ball, inside me.
Waking the next morning, I know what I must do. Kissing Chloe goodbye and hugging Jacob, I walk thoughtfully to my car. “Be open to what she has to say,” Chloe advises, waving. Jacob‘s perched on her hip, she’s a great mother. Jacob has my mother’s eyes, my eyes. I’ve her nose, her hair colour. Every time I look in the mirror, she stares back at me. She looks at me now, in the rear-view mirror. I manoeuvre into the traffic. I drive to her last address; it takes forever, and it takes no time at all. Suddenly, I’ve arrived. Tentatively, I ring the doorbell. It opens, I brace myself.
Heart beating, I see, it’s her husband, he recognises me and ushers me in. He looks weary and sad. “Is she here?” I ask, wanting to know, yet not wanting to know, the answer. He stays silent, and once we’re seated in their pleasant lounge, minutes later, black coffee in hand, I finally look at him. Black coffee keeps me alert, as the frequent dreams she wanders through, leave me blurry. I don’t tell him that.
I sip my coffee instead. He seems kind. He’s my stepdad, and he’s a stranger. Did they even have a church wedding? I’ve no idea; I tore the invite up before it even hit the welcome mat. I see a photograph of them, stood on church steps, she looks radiant, he looks proud. I’m glad, she got her big day, marrying my father, it had been a drab affair. Always, I realise now, she’d given in to his demands. Been forced to leave me, with him.
Glen explains that she’s got dementia and recently moved into a care home. My heart lurches. I look at their photos, one with a dog, that is obviously long dead. I’ve been estranged, a whole dog’s life. I feel sick, at what I’ve missed, at what she’s missed in my life.
My marriage!
Jacob!
Another photo, my heart catches in my throat, it’s our wedding day, it’s hazy and off centre. I can barely see us, the happy couple, we’re too far away. He reddens, “We hid behind a tree,” he admits. “She just wanted to see you …” he tails off, tearful. I am awash with guilt. I didn’t enjoy the day particularly, I was sad. I realise now, because my mum wasn’t there, to see it. I turn to him, I nod, as tears drip down my face. Glen sits beside me, puts his arm around me. My father would never think to do this. She chose well. He is my stepdad! What have I done?
My father, on our wedding day. Peacocking, showing off the new wife he’d suddenly married, the month before. Only now I see, he needed to scoop the attention first. I let him get on with it and just concentrated on Chloe. Staring at this pathetic wedding photo now, Glen suddenly crumbles and explains, brokenly, that she was escaping, almost daily. “She would go searching for you.” I’m dumbstruck. “LOOKING FOR ME?” I start to sob.
I leave, with an arrangement to see her the following afternoon.
Arriving home, I open the door and hear him. He’s talking, loudly. Why didn’t I notice, just how loud he can be? I enter the kitchen. “My boy,” he says, wrapping me in a vicelike, bear hug. “Congratulations, my bo,y” he says again, releasing me, so I stumble backwards. “Told you he’d walk it,” he turns to his tired, forlorn wife. I’ve never bothered to get to know her. She’s pleasant enough, but she’s not my mother, I realise with a pang.
I take a deep breath. “I went to see Annie,” I state. Daring to call her ‘Mum,’ or ‘Mother,’ only ever incurs his wrath. His face reddens, he hisses, “You’ve been…. where?” I repeat, “I went to see my… Mother.” “You dared to defy me – BOY?” he’s apoplectic with rage, standing, legs akimbo. “She’s got Dementia,” I blurt out. The realisation of her prognosis explodes in my head. I need him to sympathise, just once, so it validates why I completely rejected her, so long ago.
He starts to laugh, “Well, I always said she was crazy!” he splutters. He’s jabbing a finger into my chest. I grab his hand, screw it into a fist, inside my own. I say, “I think you’d better leave.” His wife pulls at his arm, he shrugs her off, so she falls towards a chair. “Get off me, woman, I decide if – and when, I’m ready to go,” he barks. I silently lead Chloe into our garden, to Jacob, playing in his sandpit. Returning inside, minutes later, my father has left the building.
I enter the care home with trepidation. I’m breathless, and my feet are in quicksand. I’m drowning!
Glen leads me to the day lounge. A plethora of people sit there, of all ages, dementia grips them all, it’s all so graphic and shocking. I spot her, a large pink armchair engulfs her. She’s older, frailer, smaller. Kneeling, I meet the gaze of vacant eyes. “Hello, doctor,” she says. I’m crushed. I stand up, defeated. “She doesn’t recognise me,” I cry, “It’s too late, I’ve lost her.” The thought fills me with panic.
Suddenly!
I’ve an idea!
Finding ‘Our’ song on my phone, I guide her to the middle of the room. I pray that she remembers. Hearing the song, she starts to sway. I place her small feet on top of mine. Our roles have reversed, but then again, not. “Like a swan I only love once,” I sing. We are dancing, I hold her safe in my arms, just as she did me.
Then, she looks up to my face. When her smile breaks through the confusion, it’s golden. “My Danny, you came,” she says. “Yes, Mu,m” I say. “I only ever loved you,” she whispers.
I’m crying!
We’re dancing!
I’m in heaven!
And I’m in hell!
I don’t know how long we have left. I don’t even know, the next time I visit, if she’ll remember me. But in this moment, right here, right now, we are mother and son again. Reunited. Like a swan, I only ever loved her, I know that now… and here she is, meet my mother!
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