Discarded by M. Hunter (fantasy books to read .txt) 📗

I will need to psych myself into breaking that news. I’m not ready for that today, but I have so many thoughts whizzing around my head that I just crave the chance to see Mum and reflect on a time when life just didn’t seem as complicated.

I usually pet the overweight ginger cat at the door before entering, and once I’m through I mention Ginger to the girl behind the desk, but she grimly shakes her head.

‘Got run over she did,’ she tells me. ‘Between you and me, some kid found her sprawled in the road just outside the entrance, squashed flat; all very messy.’

I grimace as I sign the visitor book. I don’t recognise the girl, so she must be new here, but I’m sure the Home Manager, Pam Ratchett, wouldn’t appreciate such candour with visitors. The girl is smartly dressed but can’t be long graduated from college, and by the look of boredom on her face, and the half-completed Sudoku puzzle on the page before her, I don’t think she’s found her vocation just yet.

‘I’m here to see Winnie Hunter,’ I announce, waiting to hear if she’ll give me an update on whether it’s a good day or not, but she simply nods, and points towards the corridor of private rooms.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ she asks, her eyes reverting to the puzzle.

Luckily for her I do, and I’m in no mood to launch into an argument about manners and her not checking in what capacity I’m here to see one of the residents. Making my way along the corridor, I take my time, allowing my nostrils to acclimatise to the pungent aroma that clings to every surface here. It’s yet another reason why the staff here must be angels; I don’t think I could stomach the smell for eight hours a day as they do.

Knocking at Mum’s door, I’m surprised when she yanks it open and glowers at me. ‘Oh, it’s you – that’s all I need!’

I can’t remember the last time I saw Mum up and out of her hard-backed chair or bed, but she leaves the door to close by itself as she turns and stomps back inside. I wasn’t expecting her to roll out the red carpet, but this lack of welcome is unusually cold. Catching the door before it closes, I head in, immediately seeing the shards of broken glass on the carpet on the far side of the room, the fragments mingled with dead flowers.

‘Oh no, Mum, what happened to your favourite vase?’ I ask, moving across and looking for something I can use to safely pick up the pieces.

‘Bloody flowers give me hay fever, you know that! It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell these bloody nurses I hate flowers, they still put the bloody things in here!’

She is pacing backwards and forwards on the carpet between the television set and the door, and this aggression is making me nervous. I suppose it could be that she’s frustrated with herself for dropping the vase and her deteriorating mind is lashing out, but she hasn’t seemed this agitated in I don’t know how long.

In that moment, I’m suddenly back in our old house and I can see her pacing in a similar way – head bent forward, hands twisted behind her back – as she stares at a map of Dorset, trying to determine where they might have been holding Anna. The memory fades as quickly as it arrived, and I have to accept that although she’s recognised me, today is not a good day.

‘I didn’t know you suffer with hay fever, Mum,’ I admit, conscious that I’m the one who’d brought the flowers in last Tuesday.

‘What do you mean? Of course you know! I’ve suffered with it all my bleeding life.’

The pacing continues at quite a rate and I’m eager to calm her down and bring some tranquillity back to the room. ‘I tell you what,’ I try calmly, hoping she’ll reflect my pitch, ‘why don’t I get this tidied up and then maybe you and I could go for a walk somewhere?’

‘I don’t want a bloody walk,’ she snaps back, without looking up.

In fairness, our walking options would be relatively limited anyway. Whilst I’m allowed to sign her out for day trips and exercise, the home isn’t particularly close to any sites of beauty or parkland, and having taken her on a walk around the local housing estates shortly after she first arrived here, I don’t blame her for not wanting to go out. It’s also drizzling, and my coat is soaked through following the walk from the restaurant.

Finding an old magazine in the wastepaper basket, I fish it out, separate the pages from the staples, and tentatively drop each piece of glass into the makeshift parcel before placing it back in the carrier bag inside the basket.

‘I’ll need to get someone to dispose of that carefully,’ I tell her, standing and brushing loose hair and dust from my skirt where I’ve been kneeling.

‘Do what you like. You always do anyway.’

This really isn’t like Mum at all. Clearly she’s got a bee in her bonnet about something and unless I can get to the bottom of it, neither of us is going to appreciate my visit. Moving across to her, I stop her relentless marching and take her hands in mine.

‘Can you tell me what’s upset you so much?’ She tries to snatch her hands away, but I hold them firm. ‘Please, Mum, I can’t help unless you tell me what’s happened. Is it just the vase breaking that’s upset you? If so, I can buy you a replacement vase. Accidents happen, and—’

‘It wasn’t a bloody accident,’ she growls. ‘I threw the bloody thing at the wall so they can’t bring any more flowers in here when I’m not looking!’

‘Mum, I brought you those flowers on Tuesday, remember? I didn’t realise you suffered with hay fever, otherwise I wouldn’t have got them for you. I was