Mama's Got a Secret

Traffic is light this bright Saturday morning as Becca Bodichenko drives to the nursing home where her mother now lives. It still feels weird to be coming here, instead of to Mama's house, the house Becca grew up in, with her sister, briefly, and slightly more so, her brother, the place she moved out of when Dad was still alive. The place she's cleaning up to get ready to sell.

Life moves on, doesn't it? Whether you're ready for it or not.

Mama has dementia. Becca can hardly believe it. Her mind has always been so sharp. But over the last year, things have started to slip. She forgot to eat. Forgot she'd turned the stove on, until the smoke alarm went off. Mama's neighbour had told her about that. Asked Becca for a key so she could let herself in if it happened again and make sure Mama was alright. And it did happen. Again and again.

"You need to put her in care," her neighbour said. A harsh truth, kindly meant. "I'm afraid something terrible will happen to her."

And so they had found a place for her. It's a new facility, clean and bright. Not too far from Becca's home, which makes visiting easy.

Becca pulls into a parking spot and takes a deep breath. Mama in a home. It takes a lot of getting used to.

"Good morning, Mama," she says when she gets to her room. She's sitting in a recliner by the window, watching the birds.

"Becca! What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. See how you're settling in."

"But you'll be late for work!"

"It's Saturday, Mama. I have the day off."

"Of course it is," she nods, trying to smile. "My memory..."

"It's OK, Mama. There's lots going on."

As she's been cleaning out Mama's house, she's been bringing small treasures to put in her room. Sitting down, she pulls a letter from her purse. "I found this stuck in your nightstand," she says. "It's an old one, from Dad."

"You read it to me. I can't find my glasses."

She's wearing them. But Becca's been told not to point out mistakes. They'll only upset her. They won't slow down the loss.

"OK. It's from 1961. That's when Dad was posted to Libya, wasn't it? And you were in Wiesbaden?"

"I was a nurse," she affirmed, sitting up a little straighter. "Looking after the troops."

Mama is proud of the career she had, before she had children. Nothing since has quite compared, Becca suspects.

"So, it says: Dear Nancy,

"Got your letter today and am more than normally happy to know you made it back OK. I think I was just as worried about that abortive take-off from here as you were."

"They were always crashing planes over there," Mama says. "It was a training facility. Not everybody learned."

"Wow," says Becca. "Scary."

Mama shrugs, waiting for more.

"We had another crash yesterday."

"See what I mean?"

"Crazy... 'This time an F-101. He flamed out on a bombing run at very low altitude.'

"Who were they bombing?" Becca asked. She didn't know her Dad had seen combat over there.

"Nobody. I told you. It was a training facility. They bombed targets. They needed to know how in case the Russians..."

"Oh. Right. The Cold War."

"You missed it. It was a terrible time."

"Is that why you moved to Canada?"

"That and Vietnam. He did a tour of duty and it sickened him. So he packed it in. Got an honourable discharge and we moved here. This was before you were born, of course. You're my Canadian baby."

"I'll always be your baby, won't I, Mama?"

"Always." She smiles. "Anything else?" She gestures at the letter.

"It's mostly just a bunch of stuff about life on the base. Except at the end, he says 'I don't quite understand why this airman left his shaving kit in your room. But I trust you and know you wouldn't do anything bad - would you? Be good.

"'I love you and am no longer mad. I'm too easy. Love, George.'

"Were you guys OK?"

"Well. Would we have stayed together if we weren't?"

"I guess so?"

Mama waves the letter off. "I don't want it. It's all nonsense. Your father was always the jealous type."

Was he? Becca had never seen that side of him, if he was. "But who was the airman?"

She waves her hand as if she's brushing away a fly. "It was just Tony."

"Tony?"

Becca has never heard of him.

"You know, Tony!" Mama's becoming agitated. "Patricia's father."

Becca takes a deep, sudden breath. Patricia is her sister, the oldest in the family. Mama has lost interest in their conversation. She's staring out the window, her eyes drawn to the movement of the squirrels at the bird feeders. She fades in and out quickly. Becca can never be sure they're in the same time line.

But this! Patricia's father was Tony, whoever Tony was? Is it true? Could Mama have had an affair? Last week, she'd thought she was pregnant, so how's Becca to know whether this is true or not? Is Patricia my half-sister? she wonders. Does she suspect anything? Could this explain the distance between us? Becca has always put it down to their age gap. Twenty years is a lot for siblings to navigate and they've never done it gracefully.

Putting the letter back in her purse, Becca says, "I'm sorry Mama, I've got to go. Alexander has a running group this afternoon and I've got to get home to the kids."

"That Russian," her mother mutters.

"In name only, Mama. You know that. It was his great grandparents who came over. To get away from the Bolsheviks."

"But did you have to take his name?"

Becca hadn't officially changed her name until their daughter Gaia was born. And then she'd felt like she wanted them all to be on the same team. Team Bodichenko. It was old-fashioned, she knows, and she isn't an old-fashioned person. But it's what her heart wanted. And she doesn't regret her decision.

"I raised you better!" her mother wails, catching the attention of a passing support worker. "You were supposed to be a feminist. I named you after Rebecca West. I hope you know that!"

Becca knows that.

"I am a feminist," Becca assures her, shooting a worried look at the support worker. "And I vote in every election. I promise."

"Nancy?" says the assistant. "How are you doing? Can I get you a cup of tea? Some juice?"

"Juice would be nice," Mama says, calming a little.

"I'm really sorry. I have to go," Becca mutters, feeling terrible, feeling to blame for her mother's upset. "It's just, my husband. I don't want to make him late. She's never approved of him."

"Go," says the support worker kindly, giving her a smile. "We'll be fine. Won't we, Nancy?"

"Fine," she parrots.

Becca turns and flees.