The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  He makes his way slowly towards the bench – their bench – to sit on it one last time.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Cat, September 1994

  Leo and I face each other across the bedroom.

  I’m trembling. ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Why are we even talking about this again? We agreed. I’m not having an operation.’ I try to stay calm. ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’

  ‘But we’ve come so far …’

  ‘Where? Where have we come?’ I stare at him. ‘I can’t see that we’ve got anywhere. You of all people should know that. I mean, not just as a doctor, but as my husband. You saw what the drugs did to me. You know we gave up making love because … because we were both too tired and depressed to bother any more, and we’ve never got back to normal since.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ he says. ‘It was for a good cause. And now we’re older, this could really be our last chance.’

  ‘I can’t do it any more. I’m thirty-eight. We’re a family already. We have Grace.’

  ‘You’re tired, I can see that,’ he says, his tone softening. ‘Maybe you just need a break. A proper holiday. How about going somewhere long-haul? St Lucia? Mauritius?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him, my voice rising. ‘You’re not listening. You’re … obsessed with making this happen. And it’s not going to. You need to accept that.’

  ‘I’m trying to listen. Don’t be unreasonable, Cat,’ he says. ‘Calm down, or Grace will hear you.’

  ‘It’s not your body, your life that was hijacked for years. If it had been, I’d like to see how reasonable you’d feel!’ I tell him, anger pushing through my words.

  ‘Darling,’ he says, holding up his hands. He looks concerned. ‘Just take a deep breath.’

  His bedside manner feels like an insult. He’s approaching me with his arms out for a hug, but I can’t breathe – my lungs are flailing inside my ribs, bones tight as a corset. My hands fly to my throat, pulling my shirt apart.

  As he reaches me, I twist away. He exclaims in surprise.

  I’m hurrying onto the landing. All I can think is that I need air. Grace looks up at me from her open bedroom door, eyes wide. I can see that she’s upset. She must have heard us. But I can’t stop. I need to get out of the house.

  As I run downstairs, I slip a few steps from the bottom. My feet go from under me, and I fall onto my behind, bumping down the rest of the stairs, landing in an undignified sprawl. Shaken, I stand up gingerly and test my ankle, rub my spine where I know bruises are already seeping through my skin. But there’s no real damage done.

  ‘Mum!’ Grace’s voice wails from the top of the stairs. Her face is white with shock.

  ‘I slipped,’ I call up to her, trying to sound normal. ‘I’m not hurt. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just out. I’ll be back,’ I call. ‘I need a walk, that’s all.’

  ‘Cat?’ Leo’s voice floats down to me.

  I’m pulling the door open, and as I step onto the pavement, something in my chest releases. I’m walking to the Heath, striding uphill as fast as I can.

  I get to the top, out of breath but already feeling better just knowing I can sit on our bench and have solitude in a place where I feel close to him. Maybe I can make some sense out of my confusion, pick apart the elements of my frustration and unhappiness. But with a jolt, I realise somebody else has got there first. I can see their shape through the hawthorn leaves. A pointless rage fills me, and I nearly turn away; but I need to sit on those familiar wooden slats. Perhaps the stranger will leave.

  As I push past the leaves, I know instantly. Shock turns my body cold, then hot. My heart batters against my ribs. Why is he here? He sits facing the view, unaware of me. I’m scared to speak. He’s lost in his thoughts. I have no idea what those thoughts are, or how he’ll react when he sees me.

  I approach softly, and he looks up, his face blank with disbelief. ‘Cat?’ His voice is tight. He gets to his feet, standing as if braced for disaster. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I remember last time. My note. My walking away. I don’t deserve for him to be pleased to see me. I’m shaking, every bit of me filled with yearning, but I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Sam … I … Do you want me to go?’

  He moves his head, staring at me. Then his expression changes to concern, and he steps closer. ‘What’s the matter? Is something wrong?’

  I open my mouth, but words won’t come.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Fear makes his voice tense.

  I manage a nod. He reaches out a hand and touches my cheek. ‘Cat?’ The word is soft in his mouth. More than a question.

  I bow my head, unable to meet his eyes. My legs won’t hold me. I sink onto the seat, and he sits next to me. I slip my fingers inside his. We stay like that, looking out over the view, hands joined. September has turned everything dusty yellow and faded green. But I don’t feel connected to the Heath or the day; it’s as if we’re inhabiting a separate world. He shifts closer, and my head sinks onto his shoulder, my cheek against the thin material of his top. Stress lifts away, tension leaving my body like condensation. The physicality of him a key, unlocking me.

  ‘You’ve been running,’ I murmur, looking down at his bare knees. ‘You’re going to get cold.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He has his arm around me.

  ‘Why is it that it’s always the same between us, even when we haven’t seen each other for ages?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It’s just the way it is.’

  I pull away. ‘I … I’m going to leave Leo.’ As I say it, I know it’s true.

  He goes very still, his face impassive.

  ‘Trying for a baby has broken something between us – a kind of trust. I don’t want to leave Grace. But she’s sixteen. I think she’ll cope. I was afraid that perhaps I wouldn’t be able to see her any more if I left – because I’m not her real mom.’ I’m almost breathless with words rushing out of me. I lean forward, rubbing my forehead. ‘Only Leo isn’t a cruel person. He wouldn’t stop me from seeing her.’

  Sam still says nothing.

  ‘Leo will already have gone to the hospital. But tonight, I’ll tell him.’ I dare to look at Sam. ‘I don’t … presume anything. I don’t have any expectations. Maybe you don’t want to be with me any more. Especially after last time. What I did … it was unforgivable.’ I scrub at my eyes. I mustn’t cry. ‘I don’t know if you’re with anyone or … anything.’

  The air slurs and slows around us. We are fixed to the bench, side by side, stupefied by my words. I’m suddenly certain that he’s found someone else, that she’s waiting for him at his house. Why doesn’t he say something? He takes my hand again. I think I hear the thud of his heart. Feel it knocking at the surface of his skin, his pulse colliding with my own at the place where our hands connect.

  ‘I love you,’ he says quietly. ‘Always have. Always will.’

  I squeeze his fingers. Tears spill from my eyes.

  ‘Will you phone me?’ he says. ‘After you’ve told him – so that I know you’re okay?’

  I manage a nod.

  ‘Here’s my number. It’s a mobile, so you can reach me anytime.’ He presses a piece of paper into my hand, then kisses the top of my scalp, at the parting of my hair. ‘I think you’re brave.’

  ‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever done,’ I tell him.

  ‘It’s the beginning,’ he says. ‘If you want it to be.’

  My fingers tremble as I slot my key into the lock of the front door. I’ve turned this metal shape countless times, but now I feel like a thief. The hallway looks different, as if I’m seeing it with a stranger’s eyes. Already, I don’t belong. I wonder if I should pack a case. Prepare. But how can I prepare for this? Then I see Grace’s rucksack on the floor, her sneakers kicked into the corner. I frown. How come she’s still here? She should be sitting in class by now. ‘Grace?’ I call.

  I go upstairs, my hand sliding along the b
anister. ‘Grace?’

  She’s not in her bedroom. The bathroom door is shut. I put my ear to the wood and knock. ‘Grace? Are you okay?’ Silence washes back at me. I knock again. ‘Bug? Are you feeling ill?’

  Something is wrong. I feel it like a hand around my heart. I turn the handle and push with all my might. It’s not locked, and I stumble into the hot, steamy room.

  Grace is in the bathtub. It’s full to the brim; she’s suspended, floating, head tipped back, exposing the delicate curve of her throat. The faucet drips onto her bobbing toes. Her long hair is plastered to her skull. It hangs in ropes around her shoulders, merging with the water in a sodden mass. The water is cochineal, tinted with seeping strands of red, drifting into pink. The colour flows from openings in her wrists: two little bleeding mouths.

  ‘Grace!’ I’m kneeling by her, picking up her limp wrists, wrapping them tightly with whatever fabric comes to hand, pressing down hard. ‘Grace!’ Her eyelids flicker. ‘Thank God.’

  I don’t know what to do. I mustn’t stop pressing against the oozing slits, but I need to phone for an ambulance. Sobbing, I attempt to pick her up. I bend over the tub, managing to get one arm around her upper back, and slowly lever her towards me. Water slops everywhere. She’s heavy and inert, impossible to gather. As soon as I raise her torso, gravity adds new weight to her slack limbs. I struggle; my feet can’t get traction on the wet floor. My muscles strain. Her head lolls, shoulders slithering away from me, and she slips back. I fall to my knees. I can’t do this. I pull the plug, letting the water drain away. Carefully I place her arms on either side of the bathtub. The windings of fabric are crimson.

  Scrabbling to my feet, I run for the door, for the phone in the hall. I slip on puddles of water and blood, crash down, get back up. ‘Stay awake, Grace,’ I shout over my shoulder. ‘Don’t move. I’m calling for help.’

  The voice on the end of the phone is calm and matter-of-fact. She takes the address and asks me questions, about Grace, about the wounds, whether she’s breathing, where she is. I am given instructions. I go back upstairs, taking them two at a time, panting, my head full of urgent commands. I must elevate her arms above her heart, keep the sodden towels in place, find more to wrap around. I must keep applying pressure. And there’s a pressure point on the inside fold of the elbow, the voice told me; press there too.

  I don’t have enough hands. I push the pads of my fingers down through layers of towel, hoping I’ve found the right places. I lay a hand on her forehead briefly. It feels cold. The bath’s drained away, leaving her stranded; her body looks shrunken, broken, skin softened, swollen like dough from being in the water. I gasp as I see the inside of her arms and thighs, both places marked with a cross-hatching of old wounds and some fresh raw ones. A razor blade glints, washed up onto the plug hole. I keep talking to her. ‘Stay with me. Don’t leave me, Grace. I’m here, sweetheart. I won’t leave you. I’m not going anywhere.’ Her eyelids flutter, lashes making starred points against her pale cheeks. I kiss her shoulder, her forehead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sorry.’ She moans.

  Sirens sound outside.

  Leo finds me slumped on a hospital chair, my head in my hands. He pulls me into a hug, his face white and strained. ‘What news?’

  ‘She missed the arteries. The cuts weren’t deep enough.’

  ‘Thank God.’ His mouth contorts, chin wobbling.

  ‘They said to wait while they stitched her …’ I trail away as I realise he’s stopped listening.

  He’s looking around him in a distracted way. ‘I need to find out who the senior doctor is,’ he says. He stalks down the corridor purposefully. I watch him talking to a nurse in a low voice. He carries an air of authority here. This is his world.

  We are shown into a private room. Grace is lying in bed, very straight and small under the neat covers, her lower arms and hands wrapped in bandages. To my relief, there’s no sign of blood. When we come in, she looks up with red eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.

  ‘Shh,’ Leo says, sitting by her side. ‘We’re just so relieved that you’re still here with us.’

  I smile, bending down to kiss her cold forehead. Leo touches the tips of her pale fingers, tears dripping from the end of his nose. He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes.

  ‘Daddy,’ she says, her voice trembling.

  I swallow hard and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m going to wait outside,’ I tell them. ‘Let you two have some alone time.’

  I watch them from the doorway, father and daughter, their faces close. I feel isolated, separate, and it makes my bones ache. I can’t cry. My grief is complicated, riddled with guilt, sharp with horror. It lodges in my chest, bird-like, trapped, wings flailing.

  At home, Leo pours us large whiskies. ‘A nurse will stay with her tonight. Suicide watch. We’ll talk to the psychiatric team tomorrow after they’ve assessed her.’

  ‘Was this a cry for help?’ I take a sip, grimacing at the peaty sourness. ‘Or did she really mean to … to kill herself?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head. ‘She would have needed to cut deeper and harder to make the attempt successful. But maybe she didn’t know. She’s not a medic. And it would have hurt like hell to do it.’

  ‘She left the bathroom door unlocked,’ I say. ‘As if she wanted to be found.’ I think about those marks on her wrists. I should have investigated further, examined the injuries. ‘A while ago, she had a couple of scratches on her arm,’ I admit to him. ‘She told me it was the cat. But now … I think they must have been made by her. She’s been cutting herself for a long time.’

  ‘What?’ He snaps his head up, staring at me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think there was anything to tell.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘As far as I knew, the cat had scratched her a couple of times. The marks didn’t look bad – and I never thought for a moment she’d done them herself.’

  ‘Maybe you needed to be a little more alert. She was in your care!’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ I say, bowing my head. ‘She was obviously hiding things from me – from us – and I didn’t understand.’

  He leans away from me. ‘I’ve done everything I can to …’ he swallows, ‘to be a good father.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘If we’d asked the right questions … been more understanding … maybe this wouldn’t have happened.’

  I want to tell him how passionately I disagreed with the way he shut down Grace’s dreams of dancing. I want to tell him he has a problem with control, and how it’s pushed us apart, affected his relationship with Grace. But now is not the time. So we sit at the kitchen table in silence, the bottle of single malt between us. Everything is unravelling. And I feel tainted by guilt.

  ‘Did she tell you anything in the hospital?’ I ask quietly. ‘You were with her for a long time.’

  He turns his glass in his hands. He looks exhausted, emptied out. ‘She’s been blaming herself for her mother’s death,’ he says in a monotone.

  ‘What?’ I look up.

  ‘She thinks she killed Elizabeth.’ His mouth tightens. ‘What we didn’t know was that Elizabeth fell because … because she tripped over Grace’s dolls. Grace had been playing with them at the top of the stairs. She’d been giving a tea party with little plastic cups and plates.’ He stops and unhooks his glasses from his ears to wipe a hand over his eyes. ‘The phone rang in the hall. Elizabeth hurried to get it. She told Grace to move out of her way. As she tried to get past, her foot got tangled up in the dolls. She slipped on the plastic saucers and cups. Then she was … falling. When she didn’t get up, Grace sat by the body, talking to her.’

  Leo stops. He makes an effort to force saliva down his throat. ‘She says she didn’t really understand then that her mother was dead. But she understood it was her fault. That she’d done a bad thing. Then she got frightened … frightened that she would be in trouble and … and that I would …’ he stops again, clearing his throat, ‘that I would be angry.’
He breathes out loudly. ‘She put her dolls back in her room. Cleared away all traces of the tea party. She never told anyone.’

  ‘My God.’ I pinch the flesh of my lip between my teeth, then reach across to touch his hand.

  He blinks and looks up at me. ‘I was wrong to protect Grace from the truth about Elizabeth. To let her believe her mother was perfect – some kind of saint.’ He has a deep frown between his brows. ‘In the hospital just now, I told her the truth, that Elizabeth was a drunk. That she’d been drinking heavily that day. She would have been careless, sloppy, easily unbalanced. I told her it wasn’t her fault. That I would never be angry with her. Never.’ His mouth jags and droops. ‘We both made mistakes, Cat.’

  He drops his forehead onto his arms, folded on the table. His shoulders shake. I crouch by his side and murmur to him, patting at his arm.

  We lie in bed, shivering and exhausted, holding each other, exhaling whisky fumes into the darkness. Leo falls asleep first; after his breathing settles, I lift his arm away from my chest carefully and slip out from under it. I pad across the floor, feeling my way. In Grace’s room, I switch on the light. Her diary is lying on the carpet, unlocked. I sit on her bed, take a deep gulp of air and open the pages. Sentences rear up at me. I flick through, spanning years of her secret thoughts. What I read makes me clamp my palm over my mouth to stop the noise that’s building in my throat.

  I’m BAD. I don’t deserve to LIVE. It’s my fault Mummy’s dead. I killed her. I made her fall down the stairs. I can’t forget the sound she made when she landed. The nig htmares won’t go away. I see that look on her face when she fell – over and over. Why won’t it stop?