I open my mouth to protest, but Carmel gets in first. “It’s a two-hour class, and you can sit down the whole time.”

We lock eyes. Carmel hasn’t commented on my pregnancy yet, but it’s obvious she knows.… Last week, for example, when she caught me coming out of the secret cupboard after a two-hour nap, she simply looked the other way. And the week before last, she asked me to cover some new books in contact paper, which allowed me to sit down for nearly half my shift. Then there are all the other times she’s brought me a glass of water or suggested I pop outside for some fresh air.

“It’s pretty straightforward and if you pick it up, you could even teach the class in the future,” Carmel says. “It would mean you could sit down for a few hours each week while teaching. And there are free cakes and cups of tea!”

It’s the cakes that get me across the line. I still bring my sandwich to the library, but these last few weeks I’ve found myself ravenous between meals—and the idea of cake is simply too much to resist. I head to the training room fifteen minutes early (naturally) and take a seat at the front of the class. As others arrive, I’m encouraged by the fact that they—all older than me by at least a good thirty years—share my distaste for IT troubleshooting. I also understand that, like me, they are in a bit of an if-you-can’t-beat-them-join-them situation. As such I feel a certain camaraderie with the old folks. Like me, they grumble into their seats, glancing suspiciously at the handbooks laid out at each station before giving Gayle their reluctant attention. Like me, they are hopeful to learn, but even more hopeful that the whole process will be easy to discount as too complex, too difficult, beyond their abilities.

So we are all disappointed to find Gayle’s voice soothing and simple, her teaching manner easy to digest. At the end of the two hours, I believe I could guide one of my classmates through a number of troubleshooting situations quite easily.

Carmel is waiting for me as I exit the class, and I am forced to report that the class was more straightforward than expected. When pushed, I also tell her I might consider running the class after another session or two under Gayle’s guidance.

From the coy smile on Carmel’s face, she takes it as a win.

* * *

That afternoon, when I go to see Mum, Teresa is there as usual, with her machine. Mum has been getting better each time I see her. She strings two or three words together without a pause now. “How are you?” “Aren’t you cold?” “Can I have … more water?” She’s not reading novels as Teresa had suggested, but she’s definitely making improvements.

“Hello,” I say from the doorway.

Teresa looks up. “Fern!”

Mum doesn’t look like she’s having a good day. Her hair isn’t done. She’s wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt and has just socks on her feet. And her face is tearstained.

“I think Nina’s had enough for one day,” Teresa says to me as I walk in.

“What’s wrong, Mum?”

Mum shakes her head and dabs at her cheek with a tissue. Teresa makes a motion with her head that I have learned means that I should move out into the hallway so we can have a little chat, which I do.

When Teresa joins me, she lowers her voice. “I need to warn you about something.”

Teresa pauses, as if expecting me to say something. She hasn’t asked a question, but I give her a nod as a compromise.

“Your mother has been saying things, these past few weeks,” she says.

“Yes, I know.”

“Yes. But she’s been saying some strange things. And I don’t want you to worry. Confabulation is common with patients with an acquired brain injury.”

“Confab—”

“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 Bolognese. 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.

“Mum. She was talking in sentences,” I say. “Actual sentences. She’s been having electromagnetic therapy. It’s the new speech therapist she’s been seeing.”

Rose stops fiddling with the bracelet and looks up. “What is she saying?”