Swifty Taylor and the Missing Child – Episode 3
The Chained Pen
My mother had been finding it increasingly difficult to care for herself, so we mutually agreed that she should move into a retirement village. Moving in with me was never an option, as there were days when I was scarcely able to care for myself. It was a wrench for us both and it remained unspoken that, like a chess player calling “checkmate”, this would be the last move she would ever make. I visited her on a weekly basis at the very minimum, but I knew that no matter how many times I called in, it would never be enough. For her especially, but I guess for me also.
The facility was named ‘Lakeview’. The irony was that the adjacent lake was more a rancid swamp from which a noxious odour would occasionally be diffused. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that it was all part of a plan by the managers to organize for a form of nitrous oxide to keep the elderly residents in a permanent state of semi-sedation. I checked in at reception and said “G’day” to the woman at the desk. She wore a permanent scowl on a face that was an enemy to sympathy, a face that would probably break in two if she attempted anything resembling a smile. I signed the visitors book with a pen that was so securely chained that it must have once made a break for it.
A long hallway meandered through the building, rooms and areas connecting to it like a giant artery. The air was still, but I could just discern the unmistakable whiff of quiet surrender. I entered my mother’s room and found her sitting by the window, peering out toward the swamp. Every month she had spent in here had added a year to her life, like the facility had been stealing pieces right out of her but not bothering to put them back. From somewhere in her lounge room, the unmistakeable sound of Miles Davis was filtering through to where she was sitting. At least this place had not diminished her love of jazz.
“Swifty, my dear,” she said in a soft voice that was tenderness wrapped in lashings of sandpaper. “Take a seat next to your mother.” I pulled up a chair that complained more than either of us when I sat in it. I looked at her hands. They were once so dexterous, moving lightly across the keys of her upright piano. But now they sat still in her lap, awaiting an opportunity to again be brought to life. An opportunity that would never arrive. Her eyes remained sharp, and she fixed them upon me. “You’re looking a little thin. Are you eating properly?” I replied slowly: “I get by”. She laughed softly. “I guess you always did,” she replied. “You were never a difficult boy. Just different.” I looked at her with a smirk: “That makes two of us, mum.” She couldn’t help but laugh at that.
The light from the window touched her hair like it was trying to remind me of some story I should be telling her. Instead, I resorted to one of my standard, safe questions. “Have you made any new friends?” Her face brightened. “There’s a new woman. Ingrid.” Mum tapped at her temple with her forefinger. “Lovely lady, but she is suffering a little from dementia.” That last word buzzed in the air between us, like an annoying mosquito that neither of us could, nor wanted to, catch. As if she had been summoned like a genie from a bottle at the mention of her name, a woman much more infirm than my mother appeared at the door. “Swifty, this is Ingrid. Ingrid, this is my son, Swifty.” The woman shuffled into the room, took my hand and shook it delicately. A large nurse drifted past the doorway, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking in protest against the linoleum.
Ingrid sat down with a sigh that said everything about life was just that little bit too much of an effort. Somewhere in the distance, a television had been turned on, and the sounds of canned laughter filtered down the corridor. The old lady broke into the awkwardness of our unfamiliarity. “Your mother says you are a detective,” Ingrid said. I didn’t protest, so she continued on. “I’m grieving, you know. My little grandson died last year.” I glanced at my mother, who shrugged like she had no idea where the conversation was headed. “My daughter, Izzy – it was terrible for her. Her son got sick and he went to god.” She touched the crucifix which hung limply around her neck. I offered my condolences.
I could hear the nurse’s shoes squeaking back toward us. He stopped at the doorway. “Mrs Harris? It’s time for your medication.” My ears pricked up. Harris? It was a common name, but this couldn’t be a coincidence. She stood and then shuffled away. I turned to my mother. “Mum, does Ingrid Harris’ daughter ever visit her?” Again my mother shrugged. “Next time you visit I will fix you some lunch.” Her words were both an invitation and a demand. “I’m glad that you came,” she croaked, almost as an afterthought. But nonetheless, I was happy she’d said it. “Yes, so am I, mum.” They were the most honest words I had said today.
When I left her room, the hallway felt longer than I remembered. The ‘Swampview’ receptionist wasn’t at her desk, so I flicked back through the pages of the visitors book, and there it was. “Isabella Harris”, the signature barely legible. It seemed as if she visited every Thursday morning. I recalled an old nursery rhyme that my mother sang to me long ago. I pondered: “Was it Thursday’s child who had far to go?”
The pen was still chained to the desk. I wondered if it still harboured the desire to break out were it ever given the chance? I didn’t bother signing out. And if they had a problem with that, they could remind me when I visited next Thursday.
You can read more from Smokie HERE
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You are a ‘good boy’ Swifty, visiting your mum in the nursing home.
,, and it provided a most serendipitous moment for the tale to unfold……
Until next week.