Lunch at Maungaturoto

Yesterday I decided to take my mother, who is 86 and has the onset of dementia, out to lunch. It was a little treat for her. This is what we said to each other.
She asked, “Where is this place?”
“Maungaturoto.”
“Oh, that’s where your father was born.”
“I know. Well done for remembering that.”
“How long ago would that have been?”
“Eighty-six years ago, Mum.”
There were a few moments’ silence, and then she asked, “Where are we?”
“Maungaturoto.”
“Oh, that’s where your father was born.”
“I know.”
There was a few moment’s silence, and then she asked, “Is this place called Maungaturoto?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, isn’t that where your father was born?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago would that have been?”
“Eighty-six years.”
“That doesn’t seem right. I’m 86.”
“That’s right Mum. He was born in the same year as you.”
“No. He can’t have been.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he was my father, how could he have been born in the same year?”
“No. He was my father, Mum. Not yours.”
“Who was?”
“Tom.”
“Tom? Was I married to Tom?”
“Yes.”
There were a few moments’ silence, and she looked up from her food, and asked, “What’s this place called?”
“Maungaturoto.”
“Isn’t that where your father was born?”
“Yes, it was. Eighty-six years ago.”
“Was he the same age as me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if your father was born here, where was my father born?”
“Cornwall, England, about 1890.”
“Really? I thought he was born here.”
“No. That was Tom. My father.”
“Your father? Was I married to your father?”
“Yes, Mum, unless you were kidding us all these years.”
There was a few moments’ silence, while she studied the restaurant with a slightly bemused look, and then she said, I’m a bit confused. Did you say your father or my father was born here?”
“My father.”
“And your father was Tom, is that right?”
“Well done, Mum, that’s right.”
I could see the relief on her face, and I asked her, “Now are you able to remember him?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t remember living here anyway.”
“No, you didn’t live here. Tom was born here. You always lived in Auckland.”
“Well, if I was married to Tom, what was my father’s name?”
“George.”
“George? George is my brother’s name.”
“That’s right. Your father was also called George. George Prinn.”
“George Prinn? That’s my brother’s name.”
“That’s right. Your brother was named after your father.”
“That’s funny them both having the same name. Quite a coincidence.”
She sipped her cup of tea, and then she said, “Now, let me get all this straight in my mind. What was my father’s name?”
“George.”
“And what was your father’s name?”
“Tom.”
“And did we have children?”
"Yes. You had Ernie, Noeline and me
She looked at me in utter surprise, and said, “Did I? I can’t remember that.”
“Well, you did. Ernie died many years ago, Noeline is nearly 60 and I’m 57.”
“I feel awful,” she said. “It’s like a story you are telling me about somebody else. I just can’t remember all that. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, Mum. But don’t let it worry you. It was all a long time ago and it doesn’t matter.
“But I should be able to remember. It’s strange,” she said, “not being able to remember.”
All the time this conversation was taking place, I was trying to keep my voice from showing anger and frustration. Now I looked at my mother properly. I felt pity for her. It must be dreadful not to remember people who once meant all the world to you. I chastised myself for not having more patience at times like this and resolved to show her more love and understanding in the future.
Mum put down her cup, and asked, “What’s this place called?”
“Timbukbloodytoo,” I said. “Come on, Mum we’re going home.
Raewyn MacDonald