The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Page 7

  Google search: Can hypnosis cause hallucinations?

  Blimey, a few minutes in and I’m convinced that Alexia Finch has probably caused permanent damage. I try to remember that, by far, the best way to scare the shit out of yourself is to self diagnose via Google but still, I decide that the ‘Other Joe Incident’ was definitely triggered by my hypnotic state.

  So there.

  I remember I have another appointment booked with Finch on Tuesday. I’m going to call her later and tell her that she’s mucked with my brain for the first and last time.

  I head back to the kitchen and face my calendar. It’s one of those tall ones, with pictures of Banksy street art on the top and boxes below. I like Banksy, he walks the streets in the small hours, like me. There’s an entry written in large red characters, in handwriting that I don’t recognise. Drinks at mine. Go on, you might enjoy it! 19th Dec.

  No. I don’t think so Martin. God. Loads of happy people, asking what you do for a living and what your plans are for Christmas. Ugh. I grab a pen and am about to erase the appointment with Finch when I notice another entry. This one is in my handwriting and in today’s box.

  THURSDAY 4th DEC. ‘Visit Mum.’

  Oh shit sticks.

  6.

  My mid-terrace house is situated in Leckhampton, a desirable area apparently – but, more importantly to me – a twenty minute walk from the best coffee in town. It’s a crisp December morning. I stride quickly, trying to outrun my thoughts, breath pluming behind me in white clouds.

  I arrive at my favourite café at precisely 8:30 a.m. It’s called ‘Montepellier Mocha’ and I’m shocked by how packed it is today. It’s a popular place but this is ridiculous. It’s crammed full of people, some grabbing their breakfast before work, others with the look of runners, topping up before a marathon. Christmas tunes blast out from expensive looking speakers and the walls and windows are adorned with shiny, garish decorations. I haven’t noticed these before but they’re shouting for my attention now. I take a deep breath. Ugh. Other people and Christmas. Together that makes a tough cocktail for me. I pause just outside the doorway, raise my head and swallow hard. For anyone with pain in their past, this is a hard time of year. Christmas feels like a giant billboard, reminding me of those missing from my family scene. The whole concept is for kids really, the ones who don’t get death yet, don’t feel its invisible jaws. I see Liv, tidying plates and cups in a far corner. She seats a young couple, spots me and immediately gestures to a small table nearby. I approach. Liv is in her late twenties, petite and not conventionally pretty but one of those girls with something about her, an allure of sorts. Her hair is long and dyed black, her skin pale, her cheeks lightly freckled. Her features seem to belong in a different era and if it wasn’t for the dark mascara – she’s a bit of a Goth – she would have an ‘English Rose’ thing going for her.

  ‘Hey, Joe.’ She greets me with a smile and then continues clearing away rubbish. I’m almost positive she’s never heard of Jimi Hendrix or if she has, doesn’t know the song. The Lyrics to Hey Joe begin playing in my mind. I get to the part in the song when he sings about seeing his old lady and stop abruptly. Liv looks up again, I manage to return her smile and she nods. I often don’t know what to say. The good thing with Liv is that she’s used to it and doesn’t expect much of me.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask her.

  She pauses, as if giving the question serious consideration and then breaks into a wide and infectious smile, ‘Oh, you know, shit.’ She glances over at her boss who is already eyeing us with his usual brand of disdain and suspicion. ‘All things considered, I guess I’m doing okay at the moment.’ She raises her eyebrows and plays the party-line, ‘I’m afraid I have to ask if you would like a special sandwich. It’s the law or something. We’ve got turkey and cranberry on special.’ Dimples appear in the centre of her round cheeks and her eyes sparkle, ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, it’s gross.’

  ‘Ah, the Christmas specials, gotta love those.’ I sit down. ‘Just my usual please, that’ll do me.’

  She disappears behind a long queue of people and I sigh. I miss her. I wish I could ask her more, show her that I care, but I’m not making that mistake again. A while back I got too close, the viewing came and what I saw left me with no choice. Liv didn’t deserve what was happening to her, so, I helped her out – just the once – and since then I’ve had to maintain my distance. I still enjoy her company, I just have to be careful. I never told her what I did and I can tell she’s confused by me, by my sudden coldness and distance, but Liv is kind, she doesn’t push it. I’m grateful for that.

  She returns and places my breakfast down, ‘Here you go,’ she says cheerfully, ‘two croissants, blackberry jam, real butter and a flat-white, just how you like it. That’s five fifty please.’

  I nod and rummage awkwardly for change. I can’t believe I didn’t check the money situation before I arrived. I’m down to my last dregs. Shit. I’m skint, I stare at the change in my hand.

  ‘Call it two fifty,’ Liv offers, with a considerate smile, ‘staff discount.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I hand her the coins. ‘Sorry.’

  She shakes her head and dumps them straight into a pouch around her middle without counting. ‘I’m curious,’ she says, changing the subject.

  ‘You are?’ I’m wondering if she thinks I’ve robbed some poor kid’s piggy bank.

  ‘Yeah.’ She narrows her stare. ‘What are you writing in there?’

  My notebook is filled with records to be added to my dream vinyl collection. I search for the right words considering I’m broke and receiving her charity. ‘It’s a,’ a long pause, ‘it’s aaaaaaah, a to do list.’

  She smiles and those famous dimples appear, ‘I see. It’s a bit early for New Year’s resolutions isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  She looks around, purses her lips and then whispers, ‘How’s your mum doing?’

  Her eyes search mine. I wasn’t expecting this and I’m a little taken aback, but I know she means well. ‘I’m going to see her later,’ I reply. ‘She’s worse every time now.’

  ‘Listen,’ Liv says quietly and carefully, ‘I know people always say this, but if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I say.

  ‘I mean it Joe, honestly, if you need someone to help out, or I don’t know, shop for you or –’

  ‘That’s really kind Liv.’ My words come easier with her than anyone else, even Vinny. She means what she says. She lost her father a few years back, a similar path and trajectory as Mum.

  She shrugs, ‘Well, I hope it goes okay, you know, as well as it can. Will I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Same time, same place.’

  Liv walks away but then turns back, ‘You know, you are the only person who ever asks me how I am?’

  I raise my eyebrows and we connect for a moment of calm understudying in the relentless, bustling atmosphere of capitalism. She flashes another brief smile and then continues the task of keeping the place running and above the endless sea of mess and cardboard. She’s a good person, but I’m close to the edge here. I’m wishing I could talk to her more, that we could still be friends and that’s dangerous.

  The song Hey Joe is back in my head and with that my heart sinks, plummets through me like an anchor. I sit alone and drink my coffee, wishing that time would just stop for a while and leave me be.

  7.

  I wanted to share my favourite Alzheimer’s joke with you, but I can’t remember it for the life of me.

  That was a joke.

  Get it?

  Okay, how about this one?

  Doctor: “I have good news and bad news...”

  The patient says, “Lay it on me, Doc. What’s the bad news?”

  Doctor: “You have Alzheimer’s disease.”

  “Christ, what’s the good news?”

  “At least you can go home and forget about it.”

  “Forget about what
?”

  8.

  From the outside Beech Trees Nursing Home looks pleasant enough, a low level, fairly modern building, set back from the main road. As I walk its sweeping driveway it begins to rain, a wetting December mist that’s somehow laced with ice. I shiver and lower my head. It doesn’t help that I’m walking so slowly. I’m reminded of a film I watched as a kid. The Omen. In it, the kid – he’s the son of the devil, I think – ends up being taken by his parents to a church. As they approach he begins to writhe and complain and by the time they are walking the stone path to the church’s entrance he is howling and screaming.

  Through a large ground floor window I see Christmas decorations, a wall mounted television and a number of the residents seated in those tall chairs these kind of places always have. I don’t want to look at their faces. I can’t. I grimace, suck in a long cold breath and push open the front doors, the son of Judy Bridgeman, here to see her ghost.

  It’s quiet, just the sound of the television and studio laughter seeping from the main hall. I recognise the receptionist, a large woman seated behind a long curved desk. She greets me warmly and tells me that Mum is in her room and doing okay today. The staff at Beech Trees are angels. I mean it. They do an amazing job, one that I couldn’t imagine doing, not in a million years. There are precious few people in this world who are able to cope and even flourish under really difficult circumstances. Beech Trees seems to have attracted its fair share of them. I thank her and head down the corridor, which smells of bleach and polish and squeaks underfoot.

  Part of me wants to just turn around and walk away but, of course, I don’t. Duty dictates I see this through. I often think about Shane Rammage at times like this, and realise that his prolonged bullying may have actually taught me something. There are times in life when you have to suck it up, you have to get on with it and do what’s right. My Mother was a beautiful, kind and important person. She ran our family, steered us when we went off course and coped with her fair share of tragedy. It was my decision to put her in here; not an easy one, but necessary, and that means I come and see her, I talk to her and I don’t complain. It’s the right thing to do, even if it does hurt like hell and scares the crap out of me.

  I enter her room. It’s only mid afternoon but with the arrival of rain, the day is done, gloomy and depressing. I see Mum, seated next to her bed and she’s dressed, which is a good sign. I call her name, she turns and I see her eyes like embers glowing in the half-light. She fiddles with something and then a sidelight illuminates her. Mum smiles and my spirits are instantly lifted. Growing up, her smiles were always gold, now they are the rarest of diamonds and when I see one I want to cry with joy.

  She looks happy, her skin aglow. She’s wearing a party hat, the paper kind you get from a cracker and I guess there’s been some kind of early Christmas party. The hat is positioned at a jaunty angle and her hair is poking out from beneath, thin wisps of white that nearly reach her shoulders. Seeing her sat there, wearing the hat, takes me back in time to our family home. I remember as a kid how much she, and Amy particularly, looked forward to Christmas, to all our relatives and family friends descending. The Bridgeman house was the centre of our universe then. I can still see my Grandparents arriving, coats, gloves and big hats, the cold coming in with them, suitcases and presents in hand. My Uncle David was wealthy before we were and always came with big wrapped boxes, his latest girlfriend in a heady cloud of perfume. Suddenly our house was filled with excitement and people. I know it’s hard to believe, but once upon a time, in a life far, far away, a younger Joe enjoyed all of this.

  ‘Joe,’ my Mother says. ‘It’s so nice to see you.’

  It’s a massive relief. It can sometimes take her half an hour to get my name, and even then it’s as if she still doesn’t know me. But today is one of her good days and that is another diamond.

  ‘Hi Mum, how are you?’

  She pulls her mouth down and shrugs, ‘The food here is terrible, but I can’t really remember what I had for breakfast so it’s not all bad.’

  This is probably a good time to mention that my Mother always did have a rapier wit and – before we lost Amy anyway – a fantastic sense of humour. But, like most of the best comedians, that wit can turn inward. For a long time Mum lost her humour, but in the last few years – as her illness bedded in – it returned, almost as though an internal pendulum had shifted. It’s ironic I suppose, that the qualities that might have consumed her are what appear to be saving her now. On bad days, she is all but absent but on the good ones, she jokes about her forgetfulness and her disease and it’s just impossible not to smile.

  She continues, ‘The fact that I can’t remember what day it is or what I watched on T.V. last night makes this place bearable.’ She shrugs, ‘That said, I’m probably watching the program over and over, laughing at the same jokes.’

  It goes on like this for a while and I enjoy it because this is a version of my Mum that almost reminds me of how it was. She runs out of steam though, always does, and then we sit quietly, the rain hissing against the windows, the distant sound of buzzers and conversations. I’m feeling guilty about my reaction as I walked the driveway. Vascular Dementia. Stick on a pile of wood with Cancer and Motor Neurone Disease and we can have ourselves a good old bonfire. The sooner someone figures all this out, the better.

  She closes her eyes and I study her. Her eyelids are dark, her skin pale and veined with thin blue lines, but she’s still beautiful. I don’t think anything will take that from her. When she opens her eyes again she flashes a weak smile and, although the connection we make is beautiful, I see darkness. ‘You look sad Mum,’ I say carefully.

  ‘Amy’s not back,’ her confusion is obvious. ‘She’s not come home and I’m getting worried. You know how your Dad worries.’ Her eyes wander as though she’s woken from a dream and is trying to figure out where she is. My Mum is still here, she’s talkative and present but she’s suddenly out of sync by over two decades. I remain convinced to this day that losing Amy was the trigger for Mum’s illness. This is based on nothing scientific, just a gut feeling and a belief that a long fuse was lit that day, one that continued to smoulder just below the surface for years. I almost tell her that Amy is gone but I’m a fast learner. Instead I change the subject and her eyes brighten. ‘I brought you a gift,’ I say, handing her a badly wrapped parcel. Boys get away with bad wrapping because we’re boys and it’s the thought that counts. Mum shakes her head as if scolding a younger version of me, and then unwraps the present. It’s perfume, Channel No.5, her favourite.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, passing it back to me. I place it on a side table and notice some cards, which I pick up and read in turn. They are from Uncles, Aunts and other relatives, some that I don’t remember or perhaps even know. Nine cards in total. Nine more than I would get. When I sit back down Mum’s expression has darkened further and she is frowning. ‘Joe seems withdrawn,’ she tells me. ‘He’s not looking like his old self, seems worried about something.’ I nod and swallow and fight the urge to cry as she continues her assessment, ‘Thomas, I’m not convinced that moving him to a new school was the right thing to do, I know that money is tight but we…’ She trails off and then eyes me with suspicion.

  Hearing my Father’s name is hard, almost as hard as remembering the situation she is describing. This particular time she is recalling is one of many threads that frayed and eventually unravelled the rope of our family.

  ‘Thomas, what’s wrong?’ Her voice is scared and cold, like she’s asking but doesn’t really want an answer.

  ‘Mum, it’s me - Joe.’

  She pulls back and curls her top lip. ‘Well, I know that!’ She exclaims.

  I nod again and reach for her hand. To my relief she allows it and lets me take hers. I can’t stand to see her looking so confused; and that hat, that stupid fucking hat that makes her look like a young but worn out version of herself. ‘Mum,’ I say gently, ‘would you mind if I borrowed your hat for a bit?’<
br />
  She doesn’t smile but takes it off easily and hands it to me. She grips my hand tightly. ‘Joe,’ she whispers, ‘listen to me. Something has happened, your Father, something terrible.’

  ‘Mum it’s okay, it’s –’

  ‘No it isn’t!’ She snaps at me, ‘It’s not okay! You listen to me. Something has happened, I know it.’ She looks over her shoulder suspiciously, ‘Amy is missing and I’m worried him, about your Father.’

  The years are converging inside her fragile mind. I calm her down and tell her that I will go out and look for Dad, that I will find him and make sure he comes to see her. I watch her like a hawk, I tell her anything I can think of to calm her down, and if she reacts positively I tell her more like that. It’s shit and it’s probably wrong but, in this moment, I will say anything I can to settle her. I need to leave, I need to be gone from here, but it’s not what you think. Just like Liv, if I connect with Mum too deeply and for too long it could trigger a viewing. If I don’t leave soon I will view her past tonight in my dreams and the awful things that happened there, and that’s the worst torture of all.

  Eventually, thankfully, she sleeps and I manage to slip away. I walk home without crying, but the minute the door shuts behind me and I’m back in the place where we once lived together the tears arrive. I let them come, I sob and howl and cry. It’s my Mum for God’s sake. She’s all I have left and she’s not really even here at all.

  9.

  ‘Listen, Joe,’ Mr Wild says, sternly, ‘if someone is bothering you then you need to tell me.’ He waits, folds his arms and stares at me. ‘Is someone bullying you?’

  Mr Wild. When I first heard his name I have to confess to a brief period of optimism. In reality though, our new headmaster - bought in specifically to sort out Stratford-Upon-Avon High - just couldn’t live up to his name. I suspect that in his previous school – a private one, like the kind I once enjoyed – he was a decent headmaster with strong principles. Here though, at this school, he is just slightly more interesting cannon fodder.