“You’re my baby.”
I felt my lips part for a moment as shock consumed me before I hurriedly moved to sit on the side of my mother’s bed. I grabbed her hand and lifted it to my mouth. I kissed it gently and never wanted to let it go.
“D’you know my name, Mum?”
“Yep,” she grinned, her voice was no more than a whisper. “My Frankie.”
My heart jumped.
“Yes, Mum,” I trembled. “Yes, it’s me. It’s Frankie. I’m Frankie!”
“I know who you are,” she tittered to herself, wheezing as she went. “I’d never forget you . . . you’re my girl.”
I couldn’t believe it. She recognised me. She knew me! I wanted to jump and scream and cry my eyes out. My mum knew who I was!
“I love you, Mum.” Tears welled in my eyes. “I love you so much. You’re the best mother to me, you gave me all the love in the world. I am the woman I am today because you raised me to be her. I love you. Always remember that, okay? Frankie loves you so much.”
“I l-love you too, little.”
Hearing her nickname for me, and her declaration of love, caused me to choke back a sob. Mum frowned at me. I could see confusion in her eyes but I didn’t want this moment of her knowing who I was to end. I leaned over her, kissed her face and hugged her tightly. She returned my hug and when I cried she chuckled and patted my back. When I leaned back from her embrace, she stared at me and sighed.
“Did a boy hurt you, sw-sweetheart?” She clicked her tongue in frustration. “Tell me all . . . about it.”
I wiped my tears away.
“I’m okay, Mum.”
She nodded, yawned then wiggled a little in her bed. She busied herself with her covers and by the time she looked back at me, the familiar squint of confusion had her in its grip once more.
“Who are you, hon?”
When she asked the question this time, it didn’t hurt as much because I knew that inside her beautiful mind, and warm heart, I was there. I was her little and even though she didn’t always know who I was, I knew that deep inside, I was protected by her like I always was.
“My name is Frankie,” I smiled and wiped my cheeks. “I thought I’d sit with you a while, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’d love that,” Mum beamed. “What’s your name?”
“Frankie,” I repeated.
“Oh, I love that . . . name for a girl . . . be-beautiful.”
I smiled. “I like it too.”
I picked up mum’s roll of knitting and handed it to her. She took it from me instantly, unwound her patch and positioned the needles correctly in her hand and began knitting. As I watched her, I wondered how long it would be before she forgot how to knit or lost the mobility in her hands to be able to do it. How she gripped the needles right now was already clumsy, like she didn’t know how to do it. I thought of things like this whenever I was with her. I wondered how long it would be before she could do anything for herself. Every single one of those thoughts scared me to death.
“That wool is a beautiful colour,” I said to Mum as she knitted. “Do you like that colour.”
“It’s okay,” Mum replied with a shrug. “It’s my daughter’s . . . favourite colour, you know? She’s only a toddler. I’m knitting . . . her a cardigan.”
She was struggling to speak and I had to strain to hear her and when I realised what she said my heart clenched. What my mum was knitting was nothing more than mess of a random stitches. She wasn’t following a pattern, each time she began to knit, the end result would always be different to whatever she was working on. It didn’t really matter though, she never remembered what she had previously knitted, she just enjoyed the activity of doing it. Her mobility was getting worse and worse and I knew that soon she wouldn’t be able to hold her knitting needles. Simply holding them was a victory of sorts for her.
“It’s going to look beautiful on her.”
“I know.”
I snorted as I moved to the chair next to Mum’s bed, I took out the paperback I was reading and flipped to the page that I had bookmarked. Ten or fifteen minutes had passed by when Mum let out a big sigh. I bookmarked my page and returned my book to my bag.
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
“Enda,” Mum smiled at me. “When did . . . you get here?”
“Just now,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m tired. My chest . . . is heavy.”
I stood up, got her oxygen mask, turned it to the level Michael always did and fitted it over her face. She didn’t smack my hands away or fight me on it, which I was grateful for.