Mums Heart
Lucy… my chest… Lucy, my blood pressure… The frail, trembling voice of Mrs. Margaret Sutherland echoed dreamlike through the phone, as if one pressed the receiver right against the ear and the world itself filtered down to nothing but her plaintive call…
Lucy abandoned her half-eaten bacon sandwich, falling to the plate with a wet slap. Seven-thirty, sharp. Not a minute off her spectral schedule.
Im coming, Mrs. Sutherland!
She seized the white tin of medicines, always ready on the kitchen counter, and hurried across the road, slippers oddly heavy on her feet. Two houses down the mother-in-law kept the distance just right, like a fox watching a rabbit.
Margaret Sutherland lay atop her puffy pillows, backlit by an English sun too pale for comfort, a hand splayed across her chest, eyes rolling like a tragic West End actress.
The tablets… quickly… Im feverish all over… Its dreadful…
Lucy held out a water glass. The mother-in-law sipped and drew her lips into a thin, sharp line.
This waters not fresh, is it? Have you given me tap water?
Its boiled, Mrs. Sutherland, just as always.
Its boiled, she says… You know what sort of attack I had last night? Frightful! I thought, well, this is it… my last encore…
Lucy perched on the very corner of the bed, fingers pressed against the womans pulse. Steady. Strong. Like a champion rower.
Shall I ring for the ambulance?
Absolutely not! Mrs. Sutherland threw off the sheets, sudden energy surging from nowhere. No ambulance! I know what those butchers are like!
By midday, Lucy was already back, standing with bucket and mop at the ready. Wednesday. Second deep-clean of the week, written in fates own ledger.
Under the settee, be thorough Margaret directed from her armchair, thumbing through a puzzle magazine. Last time there was dust a clump! With my allergies, its disgraceful.
Lucy slipped under the settee, knees groaning, back creaking. She worked full-time as an accountant, though that seemed utterly erased from Margarets universe.
And the skirting boards! Make sure theyre spotless. Some daughter-in-law… cant manage basic tidying, let alone proper wifely duties!
Lucy wiped the boards. Then the windows. Then the chandelier from an epoch of perpetual drizzle. Margaret Sutherland followed, trailing a disapproving finger over every surface.
Streaks. Here. Redo them.
Later, at home, Lucy fished out last nights soup from behind a bottle of milk. James arrived home weary, yet oddly tan with satisfaction.
Mum called, Luce. Think we ought to see her Saturday. Shes really not well this time.
James, we were going to take that trip to the countryside
Countryside? Come on. My mums heart, you know
Lucy understood. Shed understood for two years. Two years of postponed holidays, every plan evaporated by a single phone call and a dramatic lament.
James, she sat facing him, we need a proper talk. Its serious.
What about?
About your mum.
His brow gathered like storm clouds over the Thames. This was the switch: from cheerful teddy bear to unscalable London brickwork.
Again?
Not again, James. I clean her place three times a week. I cook her diet lunches. I dash over at the drop of a hat, and she
Shes ill, Lucy. She has heart trouble!
Her heart is indestructible. James, have you seen how she leaps up when she wants something? How she races about checking my cleaning?
You exaggerate.
Im exhausted.
James turned away.
Mum did so much for me. I cant abandon her. Its my duty.
Lucy looked at the man shed married and saw, instead, a son hollowed out by expectation. Where was the boy whod taken her to open-air concerts, who dreamed of Japan and wild Cornish cliffs? Long gone, replaced by a guilt-ridden servant to his mothers summons.
Thoughts of leaving crept in more often: at night with James snoring beside her; in the mornings, as the phone startled her awake; each afternoon, hands scrubbing someone elses kitchen floor rather than living her own life.
Every day began the same. Margaret demanded broth. Then poached fish. Then pureed soup. The diet menu shifted, but one thing remained: Lucy always cooked.
Mum appreciates your care, James would say.
Does she? Shes never said thank you.
Well she finds it hard to show emotion.
Lucy barked a brittle laugh. Showing emotion wasnt difficult at all. Discontent? Effortless. Grievance? A breeze. Injured pride? A joy.
James, I really cannot continue she tried again, another dull evening, after the latest skirmish over unsalted soup.
Lucy, Mums ill
Where are the doctors notes? Wheres the diagnosis? Show me a single medical record!
James hesitated.
Mum doesnt trust doctors.
How convenient. An illness too grand for the GP, but not enough to see them.
So, whats your plan?
Full examination. At a proper clinic. Lets discover what her hearts really up to.
James relayed the offer. Margarets reply swept back instantly as if on a winter wind.
Examination?! She clutched her chest, pure melodrama incarnate. No, I wont survive those tests! Lucy ought to learn to make a decent stew before dictating how an invalid lives!
Lucy saw the truth at last: fear, not frailty, kept Margaret housebound. Time to end the illusion.
She signed up Margaret Sutherland for the clinic herself. No warnings. No debate.
Im not going anywhere! Margaret clung to the doorway as Lucy arrived at sunrise. Youre trying to finish me off! James! James, stop her!
James lingered in the hallway, pallid and lost.
Mum, maybe you should have a proper check? For peace of mind
Peace?! Theyll torture me with those machines my heart wont take it!
Lucy simply took her arm.
Mrs. Sutherland, the cars waiting. You either come willingly or I call for the ambulance and explain your daily attacks. Theyll hospitalise you.
The terror was real, washed of artifice. It flickered in her iron-blue eyes.
Margaret lamented all the way to the clinic, clutching her chest, cursing fate, condemning the world. Lucy drove on, silent, jaw tight, catching Margarets wild glances in the rear view like foxes glaring through undergrowth.
The tests lasted four hours. ECGs. Heart scans. Bloodwork. Pressure here, monitoring there so many modern, whirring rituals.
Eventually the doctor, bespectacled and grave as a silent film, returned.
Mrs. Sutherland, I have wonderful news. Your heart is excellent. Blood pressure normal. Vessels clear. Youre in remarkably fine health for your age. Frankly, most young people wish for readings like yours.
Lucy looked over slowly. Margaret sat shrunken, crimson against the lobby chair.
Thats impossible! I get attacks every morning!
Likely psychosomatic, shrugged the doctor. Id suggest a therapist.
They returned home in a grey, iron silence.
Once inside, Lucy turned, unable to stop any longer:
Two years, Mrs. Sutherland. Two years racing over at every false alarm. Cooking, cleaning, cancelling trips. And as for you for shame! Youve lied.
I havent lied! I really do feel dreadful! The doctors understand nothing!
Thats enough! Jamess voice stabbed the air, startling both women. Mum, enough. I saw the results. Black and white: youre healthy.
Now Margaret wept no grand pantomime, but deep, ugly sobs, mascara streaking her cheeks.
Jamie, I you married and forgot your mum! I only wanted you to visit more…
Was it necessary to turn my wife into a skivvy? To ruin my marriage for company?
I didnt mean for that
Really? James stood close, face hard as a storm-battered wall. You knew exactly what you were doing. Every call at dawn. Every attack before our holiday plans. This isnt illness. Its pure selfishness.
Margaret shrank back, the mask slipping, leaving only a frightened, ruined woman, exposed at last.
Lucy and James left her alone with broken dreams. In the car, James said nothing for miles and then quietly, gently, took Lucys hand.
Forgive me. I should have seen it all sooner.
You should have, agreed Lucy.
I was so foolish. Blinded by being Mummys good boy.
Lucy let it rest. He understood, finally.
The phone stopped ringing. No morning groans, no emergency demands for soup. Margaret Sutherland seemed to evaporate into silence, and Lucy, for the first time in two years, tasted freedom.
James rang his mum the next week. The conversation was brief: we love you, but things are different now. No more games, no imaginary illnesses. If you want a chat, be honest.
Margaret muttered about ungrateful children, but didnt resist.
Their marriage thawed, slow as a ponds ice melting in the faint English spring first a trickle, then clearer currents each week. Lucy and James finally took that long-postponed trip: wandered Brightons pebbled seafront, shared cones of melting ice cream, filled the air again with laughter like old times, before the haunting.
You know, James murmured, holding her close, I spent so long worrying about hurting Mum, I nearly lost you.
Nearly, Lucy replied, burrowing nearer. But not quite.
She smiled, nestling into his arms. Ahead lay everything: plans, perhaps children, the gentle hum of family life without daily drama or weeping calls. Freedom. Hard-won, real freedom.
Margaret Sutherland remained, healthy as ever but with her old sorceries spent. And Lucy and James were together, truly this time the mist lifting, the dream folding quietly into morning.
