This is story #47 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
47. I Am My Mother’s Daughter
I was in my early 20s, when my brother, Peter, six years my junior, underwent complicated surgery inside his left ear, to widen a narrow inner channel which trapped water and caused endless ear infections. It was a relief to know that an operation could help him, especially since the infection sometimes affected both ears. Poor Peter was, at times, almost completely deaf.
I remember that Peter was in hospital and that my mother and I were going to visit him, post-surgery. I was as anxious to see Peter as I was about how my mother was going to cope. I knew from experience that she wasn’t the best at dealing with trauma or injury, tending to faint at the least sight of gore. Our family had grown used to protecting her, or, at the very least, to preparing her for any injury she was about to see. She knew upfront, for instance, when my 16-year-old brother, John, had just come off his motorbike, that he’d live to see another day. My mother was about to come home from work. She knew nothing about John’s accident. To ensure that my mother didn’t worry, my father had insisted that my brother (who had somehow made it home, but was in shock, hardly able to stand, his knees in a terrible mess from road rash) wave from our balcony to our mother as she was approaching our apartment. She could see that John was there, although it was unusual for him to wave hello to her like that, but she thought nothing of it, till she was through the front door. By then, my father had sent my brother to his bedroom. I heard my father say to my mother: “You have just seen John, haven’t you? So, you know he is OK, don’t you?” I saw my mother blanch, and blurt out in panic, “Why? What has happened to him? Where is he? What do you mean? I want to see John!”, whereupon my father explained gently that John had had a “slight accident” (an understatement in view of John’s injuries), but that John was going to be fine, and she was not to worry. The fact that poor John had to be taken to hospital immediately afterwards was irrelevant. My father had prepared my mother for the worst, and she had survived.
