The Broken Ones Read Free

right, wasn’t I?” she says.
    “Yes,” I reply.
    “I’m always right.” She moves a few strands of her hair back. She likes to have it set just so. Many hairdressers have been screamed at. “Aren’t I?”
    “Yes.” I wring out the rag in the kitchen sink and try not to say anything more. Erin starts on another batch of soup.
    “Did I tell you that I’d lost my keys?” Mum says.
    “No, Mum. I’ll go and look for them in a moment.”
     
    *
     
    After Erin leaves and Mum has been put to bed, I tidy up the kitchen and replace the filled bin liner. As it’s early July, if I don’t do it right away it will smell. Not to mention the fact that I once came downstairs to find Mum picking discarded chicken out of the bin. Even the memory makes my stomach churn.
    The evening is pleasant and warm, but the air is full of midges. I pad down the path to the outside bin and quickly throw the filled bin liner into it.
    Our garden needs tending. Mum always loved to garden, but since the Alzheimer’s, she’s not cared for it as much. I try to get her involved every now and then, but she’s too easily distracted.
    Perhaps I’ll enjoy a nice, cool glass of wine when I get inside. Or maybe I’ll take it into the garden and stretch out on the sun lounger. I don’t drink a lot, but there’s little that’s more relaxing than a glass or two at home.
    I frown as I step on an oddly shaped object. I didn’t bother with shoes to take out the bin. It didn’t seem worth it. Now my bare foot is standing on a small, round item. Too flat to be a stone. I step back, bend down, and pick it up.
    It’s a button from a coat or a jacket. There’s nothing unusual about that, but for some reason, it seems so out of place. I know it’s not from any of my clothes, and I know most of Mum’s clothes. I don’t think it’s hers. I suppose it probably belongs to Erin, so I pop it in my jeans pocket and open the French doors into the kitchen.
    “Has that shadow been hanging around again?”
    I start. Mum is standing in the centre of the kitchen with her hair bedraggled and her face vacant. Her nightgown has come loose, so I can see far more of her chest than I’d like.
    “Come on, Mum. I’ll take you back to bed.”
    But before I take her up, I make sure to turn around and lock the door. The word “shadow” pokes at a long-forgotten memory. It’s there, but I can’t access it, like a word on the tip of my tongue. All I know is that the word makes me shiver, and it makes me want to lock the door.

Chapter Two
     
     
    Through sleep-filled, bleary eyes, I somehow manage to move my finger across my phone screen to turn off the alarm. My eyelids flutter as I force myself not to choose the snooze option. I don’t have time to snooze. I have too much to do.
    First, I wash and dress Mum. She never was an early riser, and now that we need home help, I have to force her out of bed at 6am. Every morning, I get called every name under the sun. She’s always more disorientated in the mornings. She flails her thin arms, scratches my skin with her fingernails, and hisses at me between her teeth. She finds old wounds to pick at, even in this confused state. My jaw is a favourite. I need exercise, because I’m too fat and I’ll never find a man. Then there’s blaming me for Dad’s death. I’ve never amounted to anything.
    I’m a disappointment.
    At 6:30 I make us both breakfast. Sometimes Mum still loves her favourite breakfast, which is toast and strawberry jam. Other days, she suddenly hates it. I manage to gobble down tea and toast while watching her like a hawk to make sure she eats enough. Then at 7am Erin arrives, and I bomb upstairs to get a quick shower and get ready for work. Sometimes I even squeeze in some marking if Erin is a bit early.
    It can be hard to leave the house if Mum is being difficult. I know Erin is being paid a wage to care for my mother, but I also know it’s not easy, not even when she’s more lucid. She’s