An incident at the Petersons

You’ve just finished dinner when the doorbell rings. Answering you find Mrs Peterson.

“Oh good, you’re in. It’s Henry, he’s fallen and can’t get up. Could you?”

Of course you can. You grab your keys. Lock the door and follow Mrs Peterson next door.

You find Mr Peterson in the lounge, lying down, his oxygen cylinder lying next to him, a shattered cup, a splintered plate, a tea stain and cake crumbs scattered about him. You rush to his side. Mr Peterson has always been a big man, but in the years you’ve been away, the muscles have atrophied into fat. A few weeks ago, you’d still have failed to lift him. The bands have turned your own fat into muscles. It’s still a struggle to get him up. His own legs appear incapable of holding his weight. You have to wrap your arms around his wobbling belly, push with your legs, and even then, you only just get him back into his seat. His need to be connected to the oxygen cylinder doesn’t help.

You both end up gasping with the effort. You bent over sucking in air. Him into his oxygen mask.

“Should we call an ambulance?” you ask. You’re worried he might have broken something in the fall, other than the cup and saucer.

“No, no, I’m fine. The carpet is soft. Padded,” Mr Peterson gasps. “Nothing broken.”

You look to Mrs Peterson for her own assessment.

“He’s always doing this, getting up too quickly. The doctors told him to take things slowly, but will he listen, no, no. He jumps up and then he falls over. And once on the floor he can’t get up. I usually get Mr “, she mentions the neighbour the other side of her, “to help, but they’re away at the moment. If you weren’t in, I’d have had to go to Miss Ollins, she’s remarkably strong. Or we’d have had to wait for his carer. She turns up in half an hour, to get him to bed.”

“Well, if you’re sure?”

She nods. It’s not convincing, but you know no better. You weren’t around when your mother was ill. You only saw her deterioration in spasmodic bursts, each one obscured by her own positivity.

You help Mrs Peterson sweep up the broken crockery and the bits of cake. “He’s broken another cup and saucer. We’re going through them.” Then you help with the carpet cleaning, mopping up the tea stain.

“Thanks, son,” Mrs Peterson says as you tip the bucket of soapy, dirty water into the sink.

“That’s alright. His carers come regularly?”

“Yes, twice a day, once in the morning to get him up, and once in the evening to get him to bed. I’d like more, but it’s expensive even for that. That’s one reason I’m trying to persuade our son to let our granddaughter Yua move here. I know she wants to. Now she’s 19, she’s looking to explore the world. She really wants to study in this country, but my son is very protective of her. She’s his eldest after all, and he’s worried she doesn’t understand this country. She’s lived her whole life in Japan. Hasn’t even visited for years.”

Mrs Peterson shows you a picture of her granddaughter. She’s a slip of a Japanese girl, her most striking aspect her very large breasts.

You hang around until the carer arrives and then leave, telling Mrs Peterson that if she ever needs anymore help not to hesitate to ask. You make certain she has your phone number.