The Visitor
By Portwenn Hydra
Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.
Chapter Four
Louisa stared curiously at the woman she realized must be my mother. I briskly stepped across the room, so that I was standing next to Louisa, giving her a visual once-over as I did so. She looked tired, but I was relieved to detect no obvious signs of illness. I knew she was anxious to tell me about the reason for her visit to Truro; unfortunately, that conversation would have to wait until we'd dealt with my mother.
Mum slowly stood up from her chair. Her eyes took in not only Louisa but also James Henry, and I watched with resignation as her forehead creased and the edges of her mouth turned down. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Aunt Ruth had also risen to her feet.
It was time for a showdown.
"This is James Henry Ellingham," I said, taking the baby from Louisa's arms and hugging him to my chest. "My son."
My mother's eyes widened and her mouth opened, yet no sound came out.
"And," I continued, pointedly wrapping my arm around Louisa's shoulder. "This is Louisa, his mother."
"Mrs. Ellingham," Louisa said formally. "It's a pleasure finally to meet you."
As much as I'd dreaded and even feared this moment, now that I was in it, it was strangely liberating. For one of the very few times in the presence of one or both of my parents, I actually felt in control of my situation. The only thing I fervently wished was that I could have introduced Louisa as my wife. Still, as my mother continued to stare at us, I knew my words had had their desired effect.
To her credit, she regained her composure with surprising swiftness. She took a deep breath and wiped away a few beads of perspiration that had formed on her forehead. Although she stood nearly a foot shorter than me, she somehow always managed to look down her nose at me when speaking.
"Well Martin," she said in a voice that dripped icicles. "I suppose it was only a matter of time until you knocked up some local girl." The uncharacteristically crass language from my normally refined mother left no doubt she'd chosen her spiteful words with care.
"Now just a minute—" Louisa started.
My mother pointedly ignored her and continued speaking directly to me, as if Louisa weren't even in the room. "I suppose your chivalry is commendable, on some level." There was no mistaking her sarcasm. "But you of all people should know better than to get some farm girl pregnant. Whatever were you thinking? You're a doctor. Certainly you've heard of contraception? Or abortion even?"
It was all coming apart. My control of the situation was wilting under my mother's verbal assault. "Mother, I think that's enough—"
"Margaret!" Aunt Ruth almost spat out the word. "That's completely uncalled for."
"But obviously true."
James Henry started squirming and I adjusted his position, rubbing my free hand along his back in an attempt to soothe him. Beside me, Louisa stiffened and was breathing heavily. No doubt a full-sized blowup was about to ensue. I squeezed her arm to let her know that I would deal with this horrible creature who happened to be my flesh and blood.
My eyes bored into those of my mother. "Louisa is not 'some farm girl.'" I barked out the words. "She is the head teacher at our school and the mother of our child. And I love her very much."
Mother clasped her hands together and gave a sigh of victory. "Not enough to marry her, obviously."
"That was my choice," Louisa blurted out. "Martin asked me to marry him—"
"Oh I'm sure he did. He's always pathetically trying to do the right thing, even if it's the stupid thing." She leveled a frosty gaze on me. "Now I understand why you won't take proper care of your own mother. You're too busy supporting this . . . gold-digger . . . and her bastard child."
Aunt Ruth gasped.
Louisa turned to me, fire in her eyes.
I . . . at that moment, I wanted to strangle my mother. Before I could get a word out, James started crying. From the feel of his nappy and the familiar unpleasant scent, he was most assuredly wet.
"So tell me, Martin?" Mother continued in a voice that was infuriatingly calm. "Are you certain this . . ." She glanced at James Henry with disdain. "This child is yours? Have you even done a paternity test?"
A guilty look must have crossed my face because Mother's expression immediately turned to one of triumph.
"You haven't, have you?" She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath, then turned on Louisa. "It's not his child, is it? This is all some trick to get his money. No wonder he hasn't a penny to spare on his own mother."
"How dare you—" Louisa started. "What gives you the right to come into our home—?"
"Your home?" my mother asked derisively.
"To come into our home," Louisa repeated with emphasis, "and make such outlandish, unwarranted and untrue accusations? Who do you think you are?"
"The truth hurts, doesn't it, dear?"
Louisa and my aunt were now staring at me, both waiting for me to say or do something. I'd given Louisa more than enough cheek over the years about her father and her mother. Whatever must she think of my mother? And, more importantly, what did Louisa think of me for allowing the woman to say such horrid things about her and our son?
Mothers inherently loved their children; it was a fact I'd seen played out throughout my life. So, I'd always assumed my own mother must harbor that same emotion even if she didn't show it the way other mothers did. I'd always believed – or at least hoped – if I simply said the right thing or acted a certain way, my mother would eventually show some affection toward me.
I should have realized the impossibility of that ever happening several years ago, when Mum sat in my kitchen and confessed to resenting me from the moment of my birth. Her revelation should have convinced me she was either incapable of loving me or fundamentally unwilling to do so. Yet even then I'd irrationally harbored some hope she might one day come to her senses; that she'd realize she did love me, at least on her terms, whatever they might be.
Standing here today and enduring her vitriol, I realized it would never happen. She really did despise me. My mother hated me, and now apparently hated her own grandchild as well, probably for no reason other than he was my son. And there was nothing I could ever say or do to change her because, I now understood, she was incapable of change.
Still, it was one thing for her to insult me; by now that was familiar territory. But I would not stand by and let her insult Louisa, and I absolutely refused to allow her to slander my son.
Whether out of some misguided sense of obedience or fear that speaking the truth would drive my mother even further away, for forty years I'd tolerated her callous behavior. Today that would change. It had to, for James Henry's sake.
I stood tall, squared my shoulders, hugged my son closer to my body, and took a deep breath. "Mother, your comments are horrid and untrue; salacious even by your contemptible standards. This is our home – Louisa's and mine. James Henry is our son – my son – and I am proud to be his father."
She waved off my comments. "Oh, Martin, don't be so melodramatic."
I ignored her and pressed on. "And you are not welcome to stay here."
"Oh? And where exactly do you expect me to stay?"
James started crying loudly, and I was torn between calming him and responding to my mother.
"I don't care," I said, jiggling James. "Stay on the street if you like."
"Bravo!" Aunt Ruth said and I silenced her with a stern look.
My mother theatrically clutched at her chest like some aged actress in a serial. "Martin, I can't believe you're doing this. I'm your mother."
"You gave birth to me. Watching Louisa with our son, I now realize what it means to be a mother. You're not a mother and never have been."
"Oh, Martin, that was quite the little speech, wasn't it?"
I pointed toward the door. "If you cannot act civilly, get out. Now!"
"Martin, stop it."
"Go," I repeated.
"Please, you're upsetting me. I . . ." She rubbed her hand dramatically across her chest, then sank back into the chair, breathing heavily.
I rolled my eyes, thoroughly disgusted. I wasn't falling for the theatrics. The woman would try absolutely anything to avoid acting like a decent human being. This was obviously her latest ploy, a last desperate attempt to appeal to my sympathy.
I was having none of it. "I'm not interested in your histrionics."
Louisa reached for the baby. "Martin, your mother really doesn't look well. Maybe you ought to see to her—"
"Of course she doesn't look well. She's just finished demanding money from me, insulting you and our son, and making herself the center of attention. And now, she's pretending to be having some sort of attack." Even as I spoke, I couldn't help but notice my mother hadn't made her usual snappy comeback to any of my insinuations.
"Martin!" Aunt Ruth spoke my name with a sense of urgency.
"What?" I snapped.
My aunt was kneeling beside Mum, a hand wrapped around her wrist. "I'm not so sure she's pretending," she said, a worried expression on her face. "Might you step off your high horse for a minute and have a look at her."
I mentally frowned, certain that it would be a waste of my time, even as a tiny sliver of concern crept over me as I recalled Mum's ashen features when she'd first appeared at my door. I quickly transferred James Henry into Louisa's arms and, with an apologetic grimace for the disaster this afternoon had become, made my way to my mother's side.
"Mum, what's wrong?" I asked perfunctorily, pressing my fingers against her carotid, convinced this was nothing more than another arrow in my mother's quiver of manipulation. Her pulse was racing, which could indicate illness or simply agitation over the events of the past few minutes. Lord knew my own heart rate was elevated. "Are you having chest pain?"
She bit down on her lip and turned away from me.
I reminded myself that my mother might be a nasty bitch, but she was also now my patient, at least until I could rule out a physical cause for her symptoms. I fought back my bitterness and let my medical persona take over.
"You were holding your chest. Are you having pain or pressure there?"
"It feels tight," she mumbled softly. "Not pain exactly."
"Any pain in your neck, your jaw or your arm?"
"My arm," she answered, in a voice that seemed to quiver. "My left arm."
"Should I call an ambulance?" Louisa asked from behind us.
"Not yet." My mother's symptoms could be caused by anything from anxiety to a myocardial infarction; I'd need to do further testing to sort it out. And, much as I'd wanted her dead a few moments ago, now it was my duty as a physician to take care of her – to make sure she in fact didn't die. I reached for her arm and nodded at Aunt Ruth. "Let's get her into the surgery."
"No." My mother shook her head vehemently and, when I looked into her eyes, saw fear mixed with defiance.
"Mother, you may be seriously ill. I need to examine you."
"Margaret," Aunt Ruth said in a non-nonsense voice, taking my mother's other arm. "Stop being difficult and let him help you."
As we slowly headed toward the consulting room, I glanced at Louisa, whose expression had quickly transformed from anger to worry. "Why don't you take James upstairs," I suggested.
"What about your mother? Maybe I should stay—?"
"Aunt Ruth and I will take care of her." Louisa pursed her lips and I mentally berated myself for snapping at her. None of this was her fault; I forcibly softened my tone. "It would help me if you could see to James," I added and was relieved when she nodded and headed up the stairs.
"Have you had chest pain before?" I asked Mum as we crossed through the kitchen.
No answer.
"Mum, have you had chest pain before?" I persisted.
"Pressure once or twice. No pain."
Once we'd assisted Mother onto the examination couch, I turned to my aunt. "Can you hook her up to the ECG; it's in the bottom center cabinet."
As Ruth retrieved the machine and attached the leads, I grabbed my stethoscope and listened to my mother's chest. It was, I realized with a cruel twist of irony, the closest I'd come to touching her heart.
Other than the tachycardia, everything sounded normal. Yet, her color remained poor and her breathing labored.
Mother's eyes followed me as I turned on the ECG machine. "Am I having a heart attack?"
I refused to look at her. "That's what I'm trying to determine," I replied in my detached, clinical voice.
"You hate me, don't you." It was a statement of fact, delivered in a flat monotone.
"Be still," I ordered, staring at the ECG printout.
She sighed heavily. "I suppose I deserve it. Your hatred that is."
"Yes, you do."
I hated her not only for what she'd said today but for the person she'd been for as long as I could remember. Yet, much as I hated her, she was still my mother. And, for reasons I couldn't understand let alone articulate, I didn't want anything bad to happen to her.
"So, Martin, what's wrong with me? Is it serious?"
I studied the ECG readout for several more seconds, then faced her to give her my answer.
