Page 62 of The Good Sister

‘Confabulation is the spontaneous production of false memories which never occurred. Sometimes it’s memories of actual events that are displaced in space or time.’

I am intrigued. ‘You mean she’s making up stories?’

‘In a sense. Except she doesn’t know it. Confabulation isn’t lying. Your mother believes she’s telling the truth. With many patients there is some truth, mixed with fantasy. It’s like her brain is playing tricks on her.’

‘What is she saying?’

‘Different things. She talks about your sister a lot. She says loving things and then . . . other things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘It’s quite ridiculous. Sometimes she says she is trying to kill her.’

‘But Rose hasn’t seen Mum for more than ten years.’

Teresa laughs. ‘It sounds stupid, but in the moment, she believes it. The best thing is to not make a fuss and just try to keep her calm.’

‘What else does she say?’

‘Lately she’s been talking about a little boy called Billy.’

I feel myself stiffen. ‘What did she say about him?’

‘She’s brought it up a number of times. She says that Billy drowned. Or apparently drowned. But it was actually murder.’ She laughs sadly before I have the chance to react. I glance back through the door at Mum.

‘She was getting herself quite upset,’ Teresa says, needlessly.

‘What should I do?’

‘The best way to handle it, in my experience, is to act as though what she is saying is true and you are taking it seriously. Most likely, she will then forget about it and move on.’

‘Okay.’

Teresa smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Fern. I know it sounds strange, but honestly, confabulation is very common. In a few minutes, she’ll have forgotten the lot.’

I look back at Mum, still dabbing her eyes.But what if it’s not confabulation?I wonder.What do we do then?

*

That night, Rose and I make spaghetti bolognaise. I wear the goggles Wally gave me while I chop the onion, and I don’t cry a single tear. Rose rolls her eyes at me, but I don’t care. I like wearing them.

‘I saw Mum today,’ I say to Rose as I dice.

‘Hmm?’ Rose pauses from grating a carrot and fiddles with her rose bracelet. ‘Ugh. This clasp is driving me crazy.’

‘You need to fix it,’ I say. ‘We’re not supposed to ever take them off.’ The only time we’d ever taken them off, in fact, was when I’d got them adjusted to fit our adult wrists, as an eighteenth birthday present to us both.

‘What did you say about Mum?’ Rose asks.

‘Oh. She was talking in sentences,’ I say. ‘Actualsentences. She’s been having electromagnetic therapy. It’s the new speech therapist she’s been seeing.’

Rose stops fiddling with the bracelet. ‘What is she saying?’

‘She can repeat things that Teresa says–’

‘Who?’

‘Her speech therapist.’ I feel a whisper of irritation. ‘You would know if you’d visited her.’