Even in a madhouse, my mother’s beauty was a sight to see. She had deep cocoa brown eyes, a pointed chin, and a nose that was small and feminine. I had not inherited her looks—my own eyes were set straight beneath dark arched brows, my nose was unapologetically normal, and under bright light I had a faint patter of freckles on my upper cheekbones, which I did not cover with powder. My hair was dark and wild where hers was honey-colored and soft as cashmere. I must have received my looks from my father, though I would never know. Mother had never told me who my father was; if she knew the answer anymore, she was not saying.
It had been just the two of us, my mother and me, for all of my childhood, moving from place to place in the shabbier parts of London. Mother worked whatever sporadic jobs she could to support us: waitress, artist’s model, bit player at the theater, ticket girl at the cinema when the first one opened near our shared flat. I kept house, did the cooking, took care of the practicalities, and tried to go to school. We’d cobbled together food and shelter, somehow, for the first eighteen years of my life. When she was lucid, it was hard, but it was manageable. When she wasn’t—which was more and more frequently as time went on—I existed in a sort of blind panic, unable to think or breathe, pulling myself from one minute to the next, one hour to the next, waiting for some inevitable, terrible outcome, yet fighting it.
I never knew when she’d vanish in the middle of the night. I never knew when I’d come home to find her crumpled on the floor, sobbing that she didn’t want to live anymore. I never knew when a strange man would come knocking on the door, claiming that Mother had been bothering him and she had to stop before he called the police, or when she’d spend days in bed, unable to get up, even to go to her paying job before she was dismissed. I never knew when she was lying to me—she’d find a photograph of a stranger and tell me it was my father, or she’d tell me of the days she’d traveled with the circus, dancing for the audiences in tights and a pretty tiara.
The police actually had come to the door a handful of times, always after one of Mother’s spells. Vagrancy was one of her sins, wandering the streets and laughing quietly to herself. Petty theft was another—once she was in a state, she could not tell the difference between what was hers and what was not, and would pick up items and walk away with them, certain they belonged to her. And sometimes she fixated on a man, followed him and looked in his windows, convinced he was her imaginary lover or the man who would take her away.
She was always sorry, so sorry, when her mind returned. I’m not fit for you, she’d say, stroking my hair and holding me. I’ll do better, my good, sweet girl. And she would, for a time—she’d work industriously, help with the cooking and the cleaning, encourage me to study, laugh with me over the day’s absurdities. And then I’d wake in the night to find her gone, and it was happening all over again. And again.
At eighteen, I’d scraped up the money to take a typing course. I worked hard at it, and I excelled. Soon I’d be earning my own money, and things would get better. But I came home from class one day to find the police in our flat once again. Mother had been caught trying to take a fur stole from a ladies’ garment store, claiming she needed it for a trip to Russia. The stole was worth a lot of money, and the store wanted to press charges. She had to go away, the policeman explained to me, not without pity in his eyes, or face prosecution.
It was the thing I had feared all these years, the outcome that had stolen my breath and my sleep over countless nights. Exhausted and numb, I gave in—but still, I fought for her. I got a job and used the money to give her the best care I could. Always, always, I fought.
And now she sat across from me, years later, the blank look on her face saying that she did not recognize me at all.
“Did you finish Ivanhoe?” I asked her. “They were reading it to you when I visited last.”
Mother looked back out the window, where a gardener was working on the grounds. As she turned her head, I could see the red marks of scratches on her neck, just above her collar. “I have told him repeatedly that the roses are too dry,” she complained. “He never listens. I may have to dismiss him. It’s so hard to find good help, don’t you think?”
“Mother, have you been scratching yourself?”
Her voice turned icy, and still she looked out the window. “I have no idea what you mean.”
I sighed and leaned back in my seat, checked my watch. I’d have to ask the staff about the scratches—they were supposed to be watching her more closely. Had she made them herself, or had she been in an altercation with another patient? I pondered for a moment over which was most likely, but I couldn’t decide.
I looked up again to find Mother staring at me, her gaze wide and clear.
“Joanna,” she said.
I froze in surprise. It had been years since she’d said my name.
“Hello, Mother,” I replied cautiously. “It’s me.”
“I worry about you,” Mother said, pressing her fingertips to her porcelain temple and frowning. “All the time, all the time, I worry.”
I frowned. Did she mean now, or was she remembering some worry in the past? “You needn’t. I’m quite all right.”