MUM DOESNT WANT TO GO
Not long ago our family was shattered my mothers sister had died. She left behind a fouryearold girl, Ethel, and no husband. My husband, David, and I took on the care of the child. The moment Ethel learned that her mother was gone, she withdrew, never left the house, and refused to move anywhere. So David and I moved into the flat where she and Mum had been living, hoping that after the funeral she would agree to come with us. Instead, living in that flat became unbearable. At night the water would turn itself on and off, the lights would flicker for no reason, and the doors and floorboards creaked as if someone were sprinting from room to room. I tried to bless the place, but it made no difference.
One sleepless night, while David was deep in his own dreams, I heard a whisper drifting from Ethels room. A chill ran through me, yet I didnt rouse my husband. I switched on a dim light, slipped to her door and listened. All I could hear was my little girls voice.
I dont want to go to sleep, I want to play with Katherine, she said, just a little longer and then Ill lie down.
I opened the door. She was huddled in a corner behind the wardrobe, clutching her doll, eyes wide with fear, as if I were a stranger threatening her peace.
Ethel, who were you talking to just now? I asked.
Mother, she whispered.
A shiver ran down my spine. I tucked her into bed, curled up beside David, and drifted off myself. For the next week Ethel kept having conversations with someone unseen; I chalked it up to stress a child who had just lost her mum might well speak to the empty air. The flat kept testing my patience.
One afternoon, while I was frying the evenings fish and chips, I called Ethel to the table several times. She shouted that she wasnt hungry. She had never been keen on food, so coaxing her to eat was always a battle. Her mother had been, to put it mildly, impatient, and when Ethel refused a bite, she would be hauled to the table by force. As I called her a tenth time, a terrible crash and a wail tore through the air. I bolted to the bedroom and saw something impossible: a massive sliding wardrobe had toppled over the child. Fortunately it hadnt crushed her; it brushed the bed with one edge, leaving a thin gap between it and the floor. Ethel shrank back, eyes wild, and spent the rest of the day in a hysterical tantrum.
That night I again heard her sobbing, begging for forgiveness. I went in to soothe her; she clambered onto my lap and hugged me tightly, staring at the same corner of the room as if a presence lingered there, her gaze trembling with terror.
Ethel, whos there? I asked.
Mother she breathed.
Tell your mum youre letting her go, that she should leave, I urged.
Mother wont go! she cried.
When the fortieth day after the death arrived, David and I walked to the grave in the local cemetery, laid a bunch of fresh lilies, and handed out biscuits to the other mourners as a small token of remembrance. The atmosphere settled. We sold the flat and brought Ethel to live with us.
Now the house is quiet, but sometimes, when the wind sighs through the cracked panes, I swear I can still hear a faint, childlike whisper echoing through the rooms, reminding me that some dreams never quite end.
