My Mum died last week.
It was a long time coming- she’d been sick for ages. I got the news from Phil, our neighbour. He’d been the one to find her.
“Bella, I’m so sorry…” he’d said on the phone.
“Is she dead?”
“Yeah. She went peacefully in her sleep, and-“
I hung up and lit a cigarette.
So that was it, then. After 13 years of being confined to her bed, unable to talk, she was finally gone. I felt relieved. Sad, but relieved.
We used to be close. Practically inseparable. You see, I was the result of a one night stand on prom night. My Grandparents wanted Mum to terminate the pregnancy, adamant she was too young to be a single parent. But Mum refused. She got a job, moved out on her own, and gave birth to me on the 6th July, 1993.
“I knew it was all worth it the moment I saw you.” she’d say. “You and me, against the world.”
Then she got sick.
I was away for University at the time. It had been several weeks since I’d heard from her, so I decided to pop home and pay her a visit. But, when I arrived, Mum was different. Not just different health wise, but different towards me.
She refused to speak, pointing to the door the moment I entered her bedroom.
“No, Mum.” I said, resting my hand on hers. I’m gonna stay ‘til you’re better.”
She batted me away, adamant that I leave.
And so, reluctantly, I did.
“She’s not herself right now,” Phil had said, as I held back tears. “The doctors said she needs plenty of rest. She’ll come around.”
But she never did.
Every time I tried to visit, I was met with the same dismissiveness. She couldn’t tell me why, but I knew in my heart it was because she felt I’d left her behind. I begged her to let me stay, telling her I loved her, that I’d drop out of Uni and take care of her, that it could be the two of us again. But she wouldn’t listen. In the end, I stopped visiting. There was no point.
I was surprised to learn from Phil that, despite her hatred towards me, she’d left me everything. Even the house.
So I returned there, ready to collect whichever belongings I deemed worthy of keeping. I didn’t need the house, I had my own home now- my own life.
Phil was waiting outside for me when I pulled up.
“Hi.” I said, stepping out the car.
“Bella. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” I replied, unsure of what to say. “How are you holding up?”
“Oh. You know.. not good.”
Phil had moved in next door when I was about 13. He was a lonely man, but a kind man. We’d developed somewhat of a friendship with him over the years; he’d let me swim in his pool in the summer and in return Mum invited him round for Sunday dinners.
When she got sick, Phil dedicated his time to becoming Mum’s carer. I was grateful for his selflessness, but felt a twinge of jealousy that Mum happily accepted his help, yet refused mine.
I went to my old room and began piling my stuff into a bag. There was a picture on my bedside table of me and Mum at the seaside; arms wrapped around each other, both of us smiling.
It was taken on my 10th birthday. We’d spent the day at the beach like we did for all my birthdays, hitting up the arcades and funfair while stuffing our faces full of ice cream and candy floss. I turned the picture over.
“Bella by the beach, Age 10” was scribbled on the back in red ink.
There were lots more photos. Hundreds, in fact. Photos that had once been organised neatly into albums, but were now shoved into old shoeboxes in no particular order. My heart sank. Had Mum hated me that much? So much so that our memories weren’t even worthy of a proper home? Our life together, confined to old boxes.
Nonetheless, I decided to keep them. Even if they meant nothing to her, they still meant something to me. I also took our home videos, along with an old VHS player to watch them on.
Phil helped me carry bits to my car and I gave him a hug before jumping into the driver’s seat. He leant down, poking his head through the window.
“She didn’t want a funeral, so that’s one less thing to worry about.”
I nodded. Like I said, Mum and I only ever had each other. Not much point in having a funeral for one person. Especially one you despise.
When I got home and unpacked, I realised I’d taken everything of sentimental value, and hardly anything of monetary value. I sat on the floor, surrounded by my Beanie Babies, old diaries, CDs, and my childhood teddy, Biscuits.
I looked over at the shoeboxes. There were 4 in total, each of them numbered. ‘Box 1’ and ‘Box 2’ were written in thick red Sharpie, ‘Box 3’ and ‘Box 4’ in black.
I opened ‘Box 1’, surprised to find a note resting on top of the photographs. I recognised Mum’s handwriting immediately.
Red = yes Black = no
This meant nothing to me.
I picked up a photo of a young me sitting by the sea; a gold paper crown resting on top of my windswept hair, and chocolate ice cream smeared on my hands and face.
“Bella by the beach, Age 3” was written on the back in red ink.
I picked up a picture from ‘Box 4’. Me again, but older; my white blonde hair clashing against the oversized black blazer I had on.
“Bella starts secondary school” was written in black.
I thought for a moment.
Red = yes, black = no? Yes or no what? What did she mean?
I turned my attention to the videotapes, relieved to see all 12 were dated and in order. There was another note:
First time in film = 080796 @ Booker’s Lodge
VHS 3- Bella 1996 17 mins 35 mins 48 mins
VHS 4 - Bella 1997 10mins 23 mins 25 mins…
The list went on. For tapes 3 to 11 there were random times listed underneath. Perhaps they represented important events? Like, 17 minutes into VHS 3 could be a birthday, 25 minutes into VHS 4 could be when I started school?
I decided to put my theory to the test. Dusting off the VHS player, I hooked it up to my TV. After fiddling around with the ancient device for a while, I finally got it to work. I inserted VHS 3 and started a timer on my phone so I’d know when I was arriving at the 17 minute mark. The joys of old technology.
The tape began, and the screen filled with my 3-year-old face.
“Mummy!”
I heard Mum giggle from behind the camera.
“Do it again!” She laughed.
Young me took a step back, revealing a princess dress.
“Weeeee!” I screamed, spinning round in circles as my dress twirled, too. Mum laughed again.
I left the video playing and went outside for a smoke. It hurt to see how things used to be. We’d had some good times together. And then some not so good times. And now… nothing.
I returned when the timer reached 16 minutes, ready to solve the mystery of the note. At 17 minutes, I paused the tape.
I looked up at the still image on the TV. It was 3-year-old me mid-walk, looking back over my shoulder at the camera. I was in a forest somewhere. In the background, I could see a small cabin nestled in between the trees.
I didn’t understand. What was so special about that? I looked at the date at the top of the screen.
“8th July 1996”.
So not my birthday. Why on earth had had Mum made a note of this?
I pressed play, and watched myself wave to the camera.
“Come on, mummy!” I said, walking through the forest.
And then I noticed it.
There was a sign on the cabin: “Booker’s Lodge”.
I grabbed the note, giving it another read.
“First time in film = 080796 @ Booker’s Lodge.”
The number was the date! Of course- 8th July, ‘96. But what did she mean by ‘first time’?
Did she mean first time at Booker’s Lodge? I don’t remember it, so we couldn’t have visited it often. I let the video continue to play and paused again when it reached 35 minutes- the second time marked on the list.
We were still in the same place, only this time at a busy playground with the forest in the distance.
“Do you want a go on the swings?” Mum asked.
“Yes please!” I squealed.
Mum set the camera down. She picked me up, plonked me in a baby swing, and pushed me gently. I threw my hands into the air, laughing.
I paused the video.
“I don’t get it!” I muttered aloud, eyes searching the screen.
I looked happy. And, although she had her back to the camera, I could tell Mum was happy, too. We were surrounded by families who were also enjoying themselves. Another little girl was in the swing next to me, being pushed by her parents. A bunch of children queued up for their turn on the slide behind us, joyful parents in the background keeping a watchful eye.
I sat back, frustrated. I pressed “eject”, and threw the VHS back in the box. Tapes 1, 2, and 12 were the only ones not mentioned on the list. 1 and 2 were obviously me as a baby, but what could 12 be? I decided to find out.
What I saw shocked me.
It was Mum, but more recently. The date on top of the screen read “15th September 2011”. Just after I left for Uni, right around the time she got sick.
I stared at her face on the TV, feeling my heart thud.
She picked the camera up from her dressing table, staggering over to the bed. As she sat herself down, the camera buried itself into her duvet. While I couldn’t see what was going on, I could hear the sound of pencil scratching frantically against paper.
A minute or so later she picked up the camera, and turned it around to show what she’d written.
“Look at Booker’s Lodge video. Look at photos marked with red. BE CAREFUL.”
Feeling somewhat concerned, I reached for VHS 1, determined to get some answers. I played it again, fast forwarding until I saw that familiar image of me at Booker’s Lodge, walking towards the cabin.
I inched closer to the telly, eyes squinting.
“Come on, Mummy!”
Nothing.
I rewound the tape.
“Come on, Mummy!”
Wait. The cabin. There was something there. What was that?
“Come on, Mummy!”
Oh my god.
I paused the tape, bringing a shaky hand to my mouth as my blood ran cold.
There was someone at the window.
A man.
He stood there, looking directly into the camera with a twisted smile on his face.
A face I recognised.
It was Phil.