Image: Canva.
This short piece of fiction is the winner of the 2023 KYD School Writing Prize—read the judges’ report from Leanne Hall and Suzy Garcia.
October 2001. I was five years old; Natalia was nine. We were staying at the Hudsons’ farmhouse for the weekend. You were laughing on the deck with Audrey, sharing a bottle of wine in the four o’clock sunlight. You leaned towards her and showed her your new bracelet; I adored that bracelet, gold with tiny red rubies that glinted in the spring sunshine.
Elliot suddenly came bounding up the steps, explaining in between gasps that I had slipped on the ladder of his treehouse and cut my knee. Natalia and I emerged around the corner; I was clutching fiercely to her arm as I limped along in tears. Leaping up in concern, you were always so quick to react, you whisked me inside to clean my bloodied knee. My breaths were shaky as I retold the story of my tumble, and you kissed my wounds where a small scar would later appear. After a pink bandaid and a cookie, I swiftly recovered and raced out to rejoin the troop. You returned to your seat next to Audrey, laughing and shaking your head, letting the curls we share fall softly around your face.
*
The blaring sound of my alarm abruptly ends my sleep. I drag my weary body into the bathroom and let the warm water of the shower ease the ache of my muscles. I wash away the lingering fatigue.
Creeping back into the room, I try not to make a sound, and change into the clothes I’ve laid out. I consult my reflection, try—and fail to—liven up my appearance. The bags under my eyes have felt cavernous recently, and I’m aware of the lines etched into my still-youthful skin. I let out a chuckle in spite of myself, thinking how frivolous my concerns are. My skin is infinitely less important than the fragility of an ageing mind. Gazing into the mirror, my reflection is vastly different to the face I knew just months earlier, now bearing the evidence of sleepless nights and difficult decisions. I wonder if these imperfections age me beyond my years; the creases on my skin seem to be my most striking feature now, but perhaps I’m overly self-critical.
My skin is infinitely less important than the fragility of an ageing mind.
A quick bite of breakfast, bag packed, and I’m out the door, driving through the quiet streets as the neighbourhood slowly wakes up. It’s days like this that I wonder if I should reassess my living situation. The constant cycle of early mornings and late nights is taxing, somehow my eyes droop as I squint through the windscreen. Natalia and I decided it would ultimately be best to maintain the level of familiarity found in our family home.
Last night was the first night I’d slept in my own bed in two weeks; we let go of the night nurse after she allowed you to wander to the lake after dark twice in one week. We simply can’t afford that kind of negligence at this point. The doctor prescribed you a small dose of risperidone, insisting it was necessary. But the pain in my heart when she listed the risks. Increased cerebrovascular adversity. It was agonising. Making such decisions for your own mother is incredibly jarring, but so is finding her doing circles outside in tears because she doesn’t recognise the town where she spent most of her life.
*
I had food poisoning two weeks before my eleventh birthday and it was the most unwell I have ever been. We thought it was from chicken I’d eaten for lunch; it had an odd colouration, you said. I was up all night; sweating, chills, nausea, and everything in between. I was so sick I could barely stand up. So you carried me to the bathroom to wash my hair and cool my sickly, fevered body. You lay with me as I shivered under the bedsheets and dabbed me with a washcloth when I overheated once again. For eleven hours you tended to me, reassuring me that I would be okay. I knew in that moment, although not consciously, that you would always be there for me, that you would put my needs over your own, and that I could always, always rely on you. I can only hope to do the same for you now.
*
When I reach the familiar steps of my childhood home, I find that the night ran smoothly. You’re waking up as I peer into the room and you’re happy to see me. I’m filled with relief. Facial and personal recognition is always such a comfort; I have hope that today may be better, just slightly, than every other rough day this week. I bring your breakfast in and pour some tea. You see the teabag and tell me you like this tea—another good sign—I tell you I know, and you smile. I ask about the night, and you say it was fine, though you woke up in the middle of it. I ask what happened, but you’re not sure. That’s fine—short-term memory loss, especially during the night, is not a concern. I tell you Natalia is coming to visit today, and you pause, unsure.
‘You remember Natalia?’
*
My first day of high school was much anticipated in our household, although in the negative on my end. I was petrified to leave the comfort of my year-six classroom and join my sister in ‘the big school’. Natalia, sixteen and now very disinterested in her twelve-year-old sister, offered little sympathy. I woke up and swallowed myself in my bedsheets until you gently unwound my cocoon and coaxed me out.
I dressed and came to the kitchen where Natalia was receiving a lecture on supporting my transition into high school. I heard her complain about the social consequences of being seen with your little sister, a sentence that was quickly cut short when I appeared in the doorway. You smiled knowingly and pushed a plate of blueberry pancakes towards me—my favourite comfort food—then asked Natalia if she wanted a coffee. Natalia was always one step ahead of me, and I longed to be included in your conversations about boys she was allowed to see and parties she attended.
Making such decisions for your own mother is incredibly jarring.
Everyone always marvelled how Natalia was the image of her mother, with the same quick wit and loud laugh that drew people in. You were joined at the hip as she navigated the beginning of adulthood. I’m still in awe at your ability to pay such close attention to us, always taking the time to listen and learn as we grew, our needs changing. I prepared to leave and you handed me some packed lunch in which I would find a little note telling me you loved me.
*
I set about preparing your medications: memantine to slow the neurotoxicity, citalopram to reduce agitation, and, of course, risperidone. I bring the pills and a glass of water to your seat by the window, where you’re gazing at a picture of Natalia and me.
‘Is everything okay, Mum?’ The Dementia Expert seminar on speech and memory encouraged use of familiar terms in attempt to trigger recognition from deteriorating neural pathways.
‘Who are these girls?’ you ask, confusion etched into your face.
‘That photo is from 2001,’ I explain, reaching for ruby bracelet on your wrist, and launch back into the story. ‘It was summer, and we were at the Hudsons’…’
My voice wavers as I relive the warmth and safety of my childhood. Clutching your frail hand, I search the confusion in your eyes for any trace of familiarity. My heart breaks as I’m struck, yet again, by the reality of how much of our life is slipping away.
*
Claudia will be speaking at the Wheeler Centre Teen Gala this Saturday 2 December, alongside a stellar line-up of young writers and performers.
