The Moon is Missing: a novel

by Jenni Ogden

  Adam and Julia were obviously finding a lot to talk about as well. I caught fragments of their conversation over the general hum of enthusiastic chatter. They seemed to be deeply into dissections of the human psyche, I suppose an obvious topic for a criminal lawyer and a psychologist. I tried to catch Adam’s eye, but he was too wrapped up in his tête-à-tête. On occasions like this he became the flirt I remembered from our own early days. He knew that I knew that he knew I wasn’t really worried. I usually rather enjoyed the fact that everyone—women especially, but men too—loved being around Adam. It felt a bit too bloody much tonight though.

  When everyone else moved into the adjoining lounge for coffee and liqueurs, Adam and Julia remained seated at the table, engrossed in their mutual revelations. A niggle of irritation distracted me whenever I glanced in their direction. Heaven forbid, surely I’m not jealous? I’d lost Will in the move to the lounge and was stuck with Sonja’s grumpy retelling of the latest problems teachers had to put up with in the state secondary school system. I snuck a glance at my watch, but it was only ten o’clock.

  When, almost an hour after everyone else, Adam and his new girlfriend finally rose from the table, I watched Adam's expression as they found two chairs close enough together to enable them to continue their cozy chat. I had a perfectly good empty space beside me on the couch. Damn him, he knows how low I’m feeling. How dare he ignore me. I stuck it out for a bit longer then made the first move, telling Sonja we’d promised Lara and Finbar we’d be home by midnight. Of course everyone stood up then, kissing us goodbye as if they were our lifelong friends. Adam left Julia until last and I almost dragged him out the door, knowing I was embarrassing him but too angry to stop myself.

  It was bitter outside on the street and not a vehicle of any sort in sight. “Well, are you going to phone for a taxi?” I asked. “I’m bloody freezing standing here.”

  “I thought you’d phoned for one when we were in the house?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, why did you drag me out here? If you’d phoned ahead we could have waited in the warm until it arrived.”

  “So you could continue gazing into what’s-her-name’s eyes?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Georgia. You’ve had too much wine.”

  “I have not…”

  “You two still here?” called a male voice and I swung around to see Will and Julia walking down the steps, Julia in what looked like a genuine mink coat. Animal murderer.

  “Hasn’t your taxi arrived yet?” Julia asked, brushing against Adam with her mink.

  “We haven’t called one yet,” Adam said, his voice making it clear he was pissed off. “I’m just about to.”

  “Well, looks like this one’s ours then,” Will said, as a taxi cruised around the corner.

  “Why don’t you share it with us?” Julia’s voice was so husky I could barely hear her. “We’re not far from here and then you can take it on to your place. In fact, why don’t you come in for a nightcap first?” She turned to me. “You’ll love the apartment we’ve rented. It’s the penthouse suite and it has a view to die for.”

  “No thanks. We’ll get our own taxi. We need to get back as soon as we can. We don’t have a live-in nanny to mind our children.”

  Adam grabbed my arm. “Sorry, Julia, she’s had a few too many wines. I should get her home. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Too many wines. The mark of a great evening,” Will smiled at me. “Come on old girl,” he said to Julia. “In the cab with you.”

  As Will practically shoved her through the door Julia turned her head. “We’ll be in touch to organize a lovely quiet dinner, just the four of us.”

  Not even when hell freezes over. I wished I had the nerve to say it aloud. Adam pulled out his mobile and jabbed in the cab number.

  In the taxi he slumped in the seat, head turned towards his window, leather jacket pulled tight around him. I stared out my own window and watched the lighted buildings stream past and couples walking hand-in-hand on their way home after a night out. Bringing my hand to my mouth I felt the hard curve of Adam’s gold band on my lips. My eyes and nose stinging, I closed my eyes and gave into the creeping darkness.

  Chapter 6

  Taking a deep breath I obeyed the command ‘Please enter’ on the red door below a sign announcing ‘Sarah Waring, Clinical Psychologist.’ The small waiting room was empty and I sat on a low couch covered with a bright throw. Quashing a flashback to the vomit-green psychiatric ward at Auckland Hospital, I breathed in the private clinic ambiance: high ceilings; one dark red wall and three cream ones; old-fashioned windows letting in the pale autumn light; a Turkish rug on the dark polished wood floor; various large tubs with erupting greenery; three prints of English scenery. I’d never understood why some famous folk seemed to find their endless psychoanalysis pleasurable, but perhaps today was the day. That thought almost made me smile, but not quite.

  A low coffee table was covered with a jumble of magazines, National Geographic and The English Home being two that I recognized. Psychology Today did not seem to be present, at least in the top layer. Another door stood closed, presumably with Sarah herself behind it, so I sat back and waited, willing my churning stomach to behave like a grown-up. I’d spent sixteen years trying to put those agonizing, painful months in therapy behind me and here I was, back again.

  There seemed to be no bell to ring, and I could hear a murmur of voices from behind the door. Then it opened and two middle-aged-plus women emerged, saying goodbye. The woman with the handbag didn’t seem to notice me as she walked past. I stood up as the second woman came towards me, her hand outstretched. “Georgia, glad you found me. I’m Sarah. Come right in.” Her handshake was warm and strong and her voice low-pitched and lilting.

  Is she Welsh? My nausea dissolved as I returned her direct gaze. Brown eyes almost disappearing when she smiled and a sweet face with soft, finely creased skin, clean of makeup. Even her hair was just right—she obviously didn’t provide financial support to the hairdressing salon below her rooms—it was iron grey and pulled back from her face in a thick plait, wisps floating freely around her face and neck.

  I glanced around the therapy room. A cozy family room with comfortable chairs and a couch pulled around a coffee table, walls lined with bookcases, and a large desk in one corner. Not in the least way reminiscent of the over-heated claustrophobic closet with its straight-backed chairs where I’d spent endless hours with the gaunt, white-coated, Dr. Rhodes.

  “Get as comfortable as you can on this couch. No need to lie down. I do most of my therapy with the client sitting upright.” Sarah grinned, and sat in the chair facing me.

  I smiled back. Thank goodness she’s not twenty. Or a man.

  “Simon told me you’d experienced a panic attack when you were operating. I’d like to hear more about it, but first we should get to know each other a little,” Sarah said. “I’ll begin.”

  I didn’t really take in the list of qualifications Sarah sped through; Simon wouldn’t have referred me to a quack. But I listened more closely as she explained the psychological models she worked in.

  “I use cognitive behavior therapy for helping my clients take control of their panic attacks and narrative and talking therapy to help them explore the underlying issues.” Her infectious grin flashed. “And I don’t usually talk as much as this.”

  Familiar territory and it hadn’t worked last time. But from my mad Googling over the past few nights I knew it was the therapist and not the therapy model that made the difference. “It sounds as if it mightn’t take too long?” I said, hearing the plea in my tone.

  “I hope not.” Sarah’s smile returned. “Do I detect a touch of New Zealand in your accent? One of my favorite places. I spent a year there in my twenties, back-packing. Never will I forget that spectacular Milky Way and watching the moon rise out of the sea.”

  “Oh, don’t. You’ll make me homesick. Adam and I are both Kiwis. We moved to London eleven years ago
, a year after we were married. I was thirty-four and a few months pregnant with Finbar. Lara was three. I was a single mum when I met Adam and he adopted Lara when we married.”

  “So why London? That’s a big change from New Zealand.”

  I smiled. “The moon here doesn’t have quite the same magic, even on the rare occasions it can even be seen. But there are compensations. I’d managed to get a consultant position at the hospital and Adam got a research assistant post at the university where he’s a senior lecturer now. Luckily he was able to go part-time when Finbar was born. I’d only been working there a few months before Finbar’s birth, so I had to return to work full time when he was three months old.”

  “No plans to return to New Zealand?”

  I shook my head. “It’s nice to go back when we can afford it so our kids can get to know their grandparents and cousins, but London’s home now.” I looked down at my hands, gripped together like drowning souls. “Although if I can’t sort out this”—panic attack, say it—“this panic attack, I can’t see how we can stay in London. The NHS can’t afford to continue to pay a surgeon who can’t operate.”

  “We should get started then. Are you ready?”

  I nodded, my voice stuck in my throat. Sarah’s eyes held mine. I forced some words out. “It seems it’s my only option.”

  “Therapy is certainly not for everyone, but even skeptics sometimes find it useful.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so dismal,” I said.

  “I was taking a punt that you mightn’t have much faith in therapy, based entirely on my stereotype of neurosurgeons.”

  “I don’t think I could be classified as a stereotypical neurosurgeon. The truth is, I had a serious anxiety disorder when I was pregnant with Lara, panic attacks and all. I spent months in therapy. But I hadn’t had a full blown panic attack since we left New Zealand.”

  “You must be gutted. It’s so disheartening when something triggers an old disorder again. But it happens pretty often I’m afraid. You’ve done well to keep the panic attacks at bay for so long.”

  “But why now? It couldn’t have picked a worse time. Our director is on sick leave and I’m covering half his clinical and administrative work as well as my own. If you can sort me out so I can get back to operating, I’ll bury all my prejudices about therapy.”

  “Truth is, even I have some doubts about therapy. It’s no picnic. Emotionally draining, damn hard work and you have to keep working on yourself even outside this room. You’ve probably heard this before, but if you aren’t doing at least fifty percent of the work while we’re together then the therapy is doomed to fail. The paradox is that you do most of the work but I’m the one who gets paid.”

  “I know it will be difficult, but it can’t be harder than what I’m going through now.”

  “Perhaps not, but from my experience, the pain gets worse before it gets better,” countered Sarah, her voice gentle. “And as you know from your last therapy experience, emotional pain can affect every aspect of your life and the lives of those you love. So it’s a courageous step to take.”

  “I think I understand that, and I’m willing to do whatever I have to.” I looked steadily at Sarah, trying to believe myself.

  “What are you feeling when you say that?”

  “I’m feeling OK.”

  “Too quick. I want you to take the time to look inside at your feelings. Perhaps you can’t put a label on them but you might be able to describe bodily sensations.”

  I closed my eyes. “I think I feel apprehensive and anxious, but not as much as before I came in,” I said, realizing it was true. I opened my eyes. “I’m feeling more hopeful that you can help me. I don’t think I’ll find it too hard to talk to you and that’s a relief. I’ve been feeling so out of my depth over this.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “It’s so important in my job to be in control that I’ve got used to it, at least when I’m working. Not being in control terrifies me.”

  “We’ll work on helping you feel less uncomfortable when you can’t control every aspect of your life and your feelings. That will give you the courage to look at what’s happening inside you, with the knowledge that you can regain control when you need to. You clearly learned some techniques to help you take control of your panic attacks the last time you had them so I think you’ll learn quickly how to stop them in their tracks once again.”

  “How do I do that? Feel comfortable about being out of control, I mean?”

  “Not needing to be in control all the time is a better way of thinking about it. It comes with time, and as we build up a trusting relationship. Then you can begin by trusting that I won’t let you experience painful feelings too deeply before you’re ready. That’s my job, to take care of you while you get to know yourself at a level that you haven’t reached before.”

  “I don’t think I ever got near that point last time.” I gazed out the window at the gray sky.

  “Meanings take time to understand, and feeling apprehensive and wanting to avoid therapy is normal, and often accompanies a journey into one’s psyche. But I’m confident you won’t avoid the hard issues. A woman bold enough to dissect the living human brain is surely bold enough to dissect her own feelings.”

  I took a deep breath. “If dissecting my feelings is what it takes, I’ll do my best. I have to for my family’s sake. Lara and Finbar don’t deserve a mother who can’t keep it together. And I need be able to operate again.”

  “Both those parts of your life are precious.”

  I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Let your feelings happen. You’re safe here.”

  “I’ll try.” I swallowed again. “How do I start?”

  “You start by telling me about yourself. Who are you, what makes you tick, who do you love, why are you a neurosurgeon and not a pediatrician or lawyer or psychologist, what do you do for relaxation?”

  “But that will take most of our session.”

  “It probably will, but trust me, it’s the right place to begin.”

  I soon discovered what Sarah meant when she warned me that therapy was hard work. And talking to Adam about my sessions was the most difficult thing of all. He didn’t push me, but after my third therapy session he cornered me in my study.

  “Sweetheart,” he began. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your therapy? It might help to talk about it.”

  “I’m still too confused myself about what’s going on. I’m not sure I’d make any sense.” Suddenly hot, I pushed my hands through my hair, lifting it off the back of my neck.

  “You’re miserable. Perhaps the therapy’s not helping?”

  I pressed my lips together, fighting back tears. The silence seemed to go on for a long while before I found the courage to speak. “I’d forgotten how soul destroying therapy could be. It’s… it’s …” My voice gave out again and Adam pulled me into the soft blue wool of his jersey.

  “It’s OK, OK,” he whispered, one hand stroking the back of my head, the other keeping me safe.

  “Do you think I should stop therapy?” I’d calmed down and was sitting as close to Adam as I could get, my hands around a hot mug.

  “I want to say yes, but I don’t really know. What will happen if you stop?”

  “With my ban from operating, do you mean?”

  “I suppose so, but I really mean what will happen to you now everything has been stirred up. Is it important to get through this bad part and hope it will soon be easier?”

  “That’s what Sarah says. But that’s not what happened when I was young. It never got better.”

  “In some ways it did from what you’ve told me. You went from someone who was almost mute with anguish to becoming the best mother and passing your neurosurgery exams. How can you think it didn’t work?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose learning how to control my anxiety and learn not to worry about whatever horrible things I’d buried, keep them buried… I suppose
that was progress. Perhaps that’s all I need now too. I simply need to relearn how to control my panic attacks and get on with life.”

  “Is Sarah OK with that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not? Does everyone have to remember everything? Sounds like psychobabble to me.”

  “It’s not really Sarah, it’s me. I feel a responsibility to Lara, now she’s old enough to know what happened to Danny.”

  “She does know. He fell off a cliff and died.”

  “She needs to know why. I need to know why.”

  “Georgia, the police investigation concluded that it was an accident. Danny slipped on the steep wet grass, that’s what happened.”

  “That doesn’t answer the real question. Why was he up there in the first place in the middle of the night and what did it have to do with me? Was I there? How did I know where to look for him?”

  “You need to stop blaming yourself. Isn’t that called survivor guilt? Whatever the reason he was up there, he slipped, and that’s terrible, but it’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t really know that. Inside, somewhere I know the truth. I can sense it sitting just out of my grasp, in my head somewhere, and it’s terrifying. If I don’t remember, these panic attacks won’t stop. I can feel it.”

  Then Adam was holding me close against his jersey again. I breathed in the wool scent and it smelt like the sea. The thunder of the surf was inside my head, the sting of salt in my eyes. Rocking, rocking, to and fro.

  “Hush now. It’s all right. You’re safe here with me. Shhh, shhh.”

  Chapter 7