Buena Vista Heights, gated community of my adolescence, its inhabitants protected by walls and watchmen from the dis-interest of the world at large. I drive down the familiar streets I once stood beside, stamping my unlicensed feet and whining for a lift somewhere, anywhere but Buena Vista Heights or school.

I pull into the drive of my mother’s house and as it sweeps around I am surprised to see a jeep, a rough, tough jeep out of a war movie, parked out the front. The sides of it are streaked with mud. A bumper sticker declares the owner hearts Smith and Wesson. In the back, poking up above the sides, there appears what might be a machine gun mount. It won’t belong to her tennis coach. Perhaps she has found a new pool boy.

Before I get out of the car I try to gather my thoughts on how I will dis-arm my mother’s sting, but I am being interfered with by the accelerant in the flu tablets. A complete and crystal clear blank blooms within me. I would like to enter the house with some form of a plan, or a gift (I bang my head against the steering wheel), but all I can manage is being there in the car. Really being really there, right down to the faux leather grain embossed in the black plastic of the steering wheel and the sesame seed caught in the groove of the airbag compartment. When was the last time I ate anything with sesame seeds? Four days ago, a breakfast bagel from the Stop and G-g-g-go near the offramp. The annoying guy with the sideburns served me. He’s always got something dumb to say. What was it this time? I shake my head off that track, my sinuses shudder, and I get out of the car before another fugue starts. I let myself into the house and I am still a little concerned because no clever ideas are popping up as I walk towards my mother’s dotagery - the east lounge on the ground floor that has been converted to her bedroom, from where she conducts all her business. My mind is still blank, I’m two weeks late and I am now standing unprepared in her doorway. She is propped up against a mound of satin pillows and is flicking through a fat magazine on her lap. She looks up as I hesitate. Quite unexpectedly, she smiles and raises her arms to me, “Jacquard! Where have you been hiding? And what is all that snot on your chin? Wipe it off and come give your mother a hug.”

I am suspicious of her delight in seeing me, but I rub the dried remains of Madeleine’s aloe off my chin and move in for the hug. Crossing the room I see there is an angry looking man dressed in white sitting on a chair in the corner. I’m thinking he doesn’t look medical, legal, official or famous, so this happy family show can’t be for him. I lean in over the bed and Mother and I perform our standard clinch: she presses her powdered cheek against mine while I give her a soft pat on the back . She releases me, but holds onto my arm, forcing me to sit on the bed next to her.

“How was Rome? Is your father still with that schoolteacher?”

“Who is he?” I motion with my head at the guy in the corner.

“That’s Frank, my new nurse. How is your father? Did you bring that cold back from Italy?”

“You got a male nurse? I was hoping he was the new pool boy.”

“Let me introduce you. Frank, come and meet Jack, my favourite son.”

Frank stands and walks over to me with an air of menacing nonchalance, like a mugger might as he approaches you on the street. His hair is in a crewcut I can see his tanned scalp through, and he has cartoon superhero chin. It is truly like a cinderblock wrapped in leather and it has been bolted to his skull by walnut sized jaw muscles that flex while he eyes me. He is dressed in spotless white - sneakers, pleated pants (or are they slacks?) and a t-shirt that must have shrunk in the wash. His right cheek sports a cluster, a starburst, of small scars and someone, whom I would like to buy a drink, has moved his nose off-centre. I reckon I have found the owner of the jeep. I hop up and put out my hand and we start the shake friendly enough, then he turns it into a schoolyard torture test. Maybe it was the pool boy remark.

“Frank used to be a commando. He saw lots of action in the middle east. You should hear some of his stories. War is so much worse than they show on tv! That’s all behind him now, all the violence. He wants to spend the rest of his life helping people. I think that’s so admirable,” my mother says as the bones in my hand are slowly ground into a thin paste.

“Would you stop that?” I ask, with a nod at my hand.

He flashes a grin rich in macho victory. “I’ve heard all about you, Jack. From your mother,” he says, and releases my hand. I put it in a pocket, where it will be safe. Frank returns to his post in the corner.

Back to my mother, but with one eye on Frank. “What happened to Hega? I thought you liked her?” Before I left for Rome, Hega had been mother’s nurse. She was from Sweden and appeared to me to be quite competent, if a little dour and hirsute. When she was a student, Hega told me a number of times, she had tried out for Sweden’s Olympic women’s powerlifting team. She missed out on a berth because she had weak ankles. “Like a bird,” is how she described them, but she never said which enormous, trunk-ankled bird she was referring to. Unable to compete at the highest level, Hega embraced nursing, where she knew she could find opportunities to practice her lifting, which she still enjoyed as a hobby.

“She was very dull. I think what happened is her visa expired and I reported her to immigration. I had to call twice before they came and took her away. The agency sent me Frank temporarily, just as a fill-in because he hasn’t got all his qualifications, but he worked out so well I arranged to hire him permanently. They didn’t want to let me keep him, but I insisted. I don’t need medical attention, I told them, I need care. And Frank cares,” she pauses to peer around me and give Frank a smile, “unlike you and your father. Speaking of which, how is the selfish prick?”

“He’s fine. He misses you very much and is looking forward to seeing you on his return next month.”

“Liar. Why did I bother asking? I knew you’d cover for him. I tried to raise you right, but you turned out just like him!” She threw her magazines aside and examined her fingernails. “Frank, dear, could you give me a hand? I need to pee. Don’t bother with the chair.”

I moved out of the way. Frank scooped my mother up off the bed like she was mere sweetness and light and steered her bare feet around me to the door of the her ensuite. Mother grabbed the handle and pushed open the door, then Frank carried her across the threshold and kicked the door shut behind them with his heel.

Very disturbing. Despite Hega’s large, soft hands and lifting prowess, I could not recall such a scene while mother was under her care. I have had plenty of opportunity to give some thought to the intricacies of palliative care, but I was disturbed by the muted sound of my mother’s giggling mixed with Frank’s deep laugh emanating from the ensuite door. An Italian Vogue was no distraction. I popped two more flu tablets out of the blisterpack in my pocket. A jug of ice water beside the bed, bless my fiendish mother, turned out to be a strong mix of vodka and tonic. Yes, it would all be over before either item kicked in, but empty hands leave an idle mind open to the imagination. I hear the toilet flushing, accompanied by more laughter. There is a short pause (washing hands, drying hands), and the ensuite door swings open and they emerge, my mother back in his arms, smiling in a manner that I am loathe to describe as coquettish, and with some colour showing under her foundation. Frank no longer looks angry, just smug. It is my turn to study my nails as he returns my mother to the bed. I now understand the delight with which she greeted me.