Mum says a flittermouse got in. Don’t tell them nurses.

Wants me to believe her fairy tales. Not under her bed, behind nightstand, bookcase, inside closet, amongst curtains. Not roosting in the ensuite. I find a blackened banana skin in her knicker draw. She smacks her gluey lips.

Shall we try the fruit salad? Tiny teaspoons. Where’s this flittermouse come from?

Neither here nor there, she says. Not one thing nor the other.

Wasn’t there a bedtime story about bats? Didn’t it give me nightmares?

Screws her wrinkles piggy. Pale gums and pointed teeth. Give us a kiss goodnight, she says, I won’t bite.

That’s not what the manager told me. Restless at sundown, wandering in small hours. Have you been frightening other residents?

Rascally grin, tickled by secret mischief. So many hours spent in her snapshots, making her memories mine, and she only becomes stranger. Uncanny. An affront to all the mums of my mind’s eye.

Shall we try a scone?

Plucks currants like delectable bugs. Best part of going, she says, is forgetting your worries. Only you keep coming back.

Oh, overheated room. Rotten sweet and sharp with ammonia. Crack open the window for a breath of December. She asks after the moon. I see a sliver, maybe waxing maybe waning.

Ain’t scared of the darkness. Not like you, she says.

And her refection rises in the glass. White nightie. Hair wafting tufts like upside-down. Stick arms widen, skin hanging horrific. Squeaks out Que Será, Será as she navigates by near miss. Bookcase, closet.

Where are we going?

Find you with me eyes closed, she says. Can hear you thinking. Hooks her fingerbones into my shirt, skin pinch and whispers. Let me go, love.

Her gaze drifts far beyond me, emptying as I lead her by the tremoring hand, tuck her in.

Shall we try a juice? Put hairs on your chest.

A slow climb up the straw. No swallow.

Shall we find that story? Our old flittermouse from once upon a time.

Shush, she says. Tired.

Bats on my smartphone. A fable of their tricksiness; not bird nor beast and free. Witchy familiars, vampire origins. Unnatural longevity. Mum nods along as though I’m reading aloud.

Deathly omens, messengers from the other side. Stuff of nightmares. Thumb scrub on my hand.

In fact, in fact, bats hibernate through winter. Wee flittermouse hearts slowing. Upside-down so that if they should fall that fall is into flight.

If, when, they die at roost, they cannot let go. Hang on and on until shaken loose.

Arms crossed chin tucked like a coffin nightmare. But her rascally grin. Eyes darting under lids. Not sleeping, nor yet fallen into flight. I am afraid to kiss her goodnight.