The Hunt
For years, my mother and I engaged in a covert war of wits. She would hide it, and I would seek it out. It wasn’t just the reward of tasting the rich and bitter luxury, but the hunt itself. Could she outsmart me? Where would it be, this time? Would I get away with stealing her precious ingredient?
It didn’t help that my parents were night owls, and I was a lark. I didn’t sleep much at all, by all accounts. I was always awake hours before they stirred. The hunt surmounted my boredom.
At first it was easy. A cursory glance and I could see the tell-tale packaging poking out between the Tupperware. On the baking shelf, too, for goodness sake. How unobservant did she think I was? But, how much to take? A piece small enough to go unnoticed? An entire row and hope she hadn’t counted? Or the whole lot, trusting that a complete absence would be excused as a shopping oversight?
It didn’t take long for suspicion to develop, though my mother’s reputation for being a scatterbrain almost certainly helped. I can imagine her frustration – Diane’s eaten it, naughty girl. And I hid it so well. Must try harder next time. Or did she? Did I really buy some more? Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it’s not her fault after all. But I’m sure I did. So, it should be here. Or did I put it somewhere else? Where? Where, this time?
I can see her now. She is making Dad’s favourite dessert. Baked pears with chocolate sauce. Mine too, so I’m hurting myself just as much as them. But she can’t find it and now the butter’s burning. I open my eyes wide and raise open palms. Not me, Mum, the gesture signals.
It wasn’t me who squirreled it out earlier that day, hidden behind the cookery books. Or at the back of the crockery cupboard. Or behind the boiler flu. And surely, I had to rescue it from such an unsafe resting place. It was no good to anyone as a melted, gooey mess. I had to hand it to her when I found it tucked between two cake tins. A stroke of genius, if ever I could have told her so. The hunt lasted twice as long that morning.
It was a weekend diversion and challenge, until it wasn’t anymore. The game took on a handicap. Her peace of mind, her memory. The hiding became endemic and involved so much more than the dark chocolate I craved on lonely mornings. We began to routinely search for anything my mother considered precious, whether it existed or not. For even the surety of knowing she had something to hide in the first place, became unclear. It was, by turns, irritating, painful and sad. One of the most upsetting scenes and cruelest disappointments was to observe a woman in palpable distress, tell me there was something special for my birthday, but it had been moved, misplaced. She would find it later, OK? The acquisition was as much an illusion as it’s supposed disappearance.
In my heart I know the hunt had nothing to do with her dementia. But I still wish I hadn’t been part of a ritual that encouraged such behaviour. We should have been able to laugh about this memory: Mum gently berating me for my greed and cunning; me, congratulating her ingenuity in finding such inspired hiding places. But the recollection sticks in my throat. A little like the stolen chocolate.
THE END