by Jenni Ogden
Stumbling to my feet I began to pace. “If Danny had loved me he wouldn’t have taken any notice of his parents. I think he was scared. Marrying me, being stuck in New Zealand, well, that really would have stymied his career.” I stopped and rubbed my throbbing head. “I should have told him I was pregnant. But I didn’t. I didn’t want him to stay with me because I was pregnant. If only I had, that might have changed his mind.”
I sat down again on the edge of our bed. “Instead I was hysterical, accusing him of caring about his career more than me, screaming at him to get out of my house. Christ knows why I was so vehement. I’d been so worried and pissed off with him staying away so long and not even contacting me, and I suppose all those pregnancy hormones weren’t helping my mood. Not much of an excuse. It was wild outside and pitch black by then. Our house was miles from anywhere. There was nowhere he could have found any shelter.”
I forced myself to turn and look at Adam, every muscle in my body stinging with memories. “Adam, all that time Danny was away, not contacting me, part of me was thinking it would be better if I weren’t pregnant so soon, give me the chance to complete my neurosurgical training, give us time to be together for a year or two without the extra stress of a baby. Perhaps that’s why I was so angry with Danny when he wanted to get out of marrying me. I was feeling guilty about my own thoughts about having an abortion—perhaps even secretly, perhaps I wouldn’t even tell Danny. He might have stopped me. I had no idea really what his reaction would be to a baby so soon.” I dropped my face in my hands. “Adam, how am I going to tell Lara that I wasn’t sure even about whether I should go ahead with the pregnancy? That I didn’t want her enough? I promised I’d tell her if I remembered any more. I promised always to tell her the truth. How will I tell her that if I’d really wanted her and told Danny, he might not have died?”
“Give yourself some time, Georgia. It’ll be ages before Lara is home and is herself again. Anyway, I can’t see why you have to tell her. You didn’t have an abortion. Kids don’t need to know all their parent’s secrets. And it’s ridiculous to think it had anything to do with Danny falling off a cliff because he was crazy enough to go up there in a storm.”
“He had to get away from me. Like Lara.” My body was trembling so violently I could hear my teeth knocking between words. “Adam, what if I were up there too? What if I pushed him?”
Adam stared at me. “You’re really being ridiculous now. You can’t even stamp on an ant,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You need to calm down or you’ll have another panic attack. I’m so tired, Georgia. I can’t take any more of this. I just want to go to sleep and not have to think about any of it.”
“I need to talk about it. Don’t shut me out.”
“Shit Georgia, do you never listen? I don’t want to talk about this anymore, not until Lara's better. She’s what’s important now. Your problems will have to wait. Make an appointment with your therapist; that’s what she’s for.” Adam turned away from me and didn’t move when I fumbled for my nightgown and stumbled down the stairs to the lonely guest room.
Chapter 13
It was another eight days before Lara came home, a scarf concealing the prickly pale strip on the left side of her head where her hair was growing back around the scar. Our hope that she would cheer up once she was out of the hospital proved too optimistic. When she wasn’t asleep she lay staring into space, her iPod silent and the books and magazines delivered by friends unread. Even tickets to a blues concert she would have once swooned over couldn’t entice her out of bed. Nothing we could say or do seemed to help.
Selina came to see her once, but the visit didn’t go well. When I asked her gently what was wrong, she replied that Lara didn’t want to see her anymore because she reminded her too much of Tony. When Adam broached the idea that Lara see a psychologist, or her school counselor, she refused, telling him that no one could help her and talking wouldn’t bring Tony back. I felt only empathy for her stance. After discussing our concerns with our family doctor we decided that if Lara's depression continued much longer we would encourage her to try a course of antidepressants. I shuddered at the thought; our extrovert, sunny daughter brought to this.
The post-mortem revealed that Tony’s blood alcohol levels had been high, and blood tests on Lara and Selina confirmed that they too had been ‘under the influence.’ The police report concluded that the crash had been caused by a combination of the driver’s high alcohol levels, the wet, greasy, roads, and poor visibility from the heavy rain. Not wearing a seat belt had contributed to Tony’s death as he’d been thrown from the car on impact, and Lara's survival was probably due to the fact that she was wearing hers. We had seen the car wreck, and could only agree.
I’d moved back into our bedroom for Finbar’s sake; we didn’t want to give him anything more to worry about. But we lay apart in the bed, a brief hand touch the best we could manage before saying goodnight. We were both floundering, afraid to risk stressing our fragile relationship with any real attempts at intimacy. We talked daily about how to help Lara and that at least gave us some connection. But I didn’t bring up my demons again, and we remained painfully civil to each other, even when alone.
One evening Adam asked me if he could have one of my sleeping pills; he had an important research-funding interview the next morning and was desperate for a decent sleep. When I told him how worried I’d been by his constant exhaustion, he admitted he’d been plagued by a recurring nightmare—Lara's body catapulting from a car and exploding in a ball of fire, her severed head landing with a hollow thud by a shadowy figure that he knew was me. Shuddering, I’d reached over and covered his hand with mine, but he’d pulled away, leaving me stranded once more.
A constant stream of friends with casseroles, cakes, and offers of help only emphasized our own miserable existence, and I found the strain of trying to keep up the appearance of a loving couple almost unbearable. Even Finbar seemed complicit in our deception, smiling bravely for the friends who visited and making no comment to me, or, as far as I know to Adam, about our strained relationship. One day Julia appeared and foisted on us a fancy giant gourmet platter of cheeses, cold cuts, olives, dips, and high-end biscuits from Melrose and Morgan, with two bottles of white wine as an extra. Already chilled. As it was 6.30pm on a Friday—“on my way home after an exhausting day”— we had only one option. We sat on the patio out the back—it was, of course, a perfect evening—and picked at the platter. Adam consumed most of the wine and became increasingly tense with every glass; not, I suspect, his intention. I finally excused myself saying I had to get dinner ready, ignoring my mother’s voice telling me it would be polite to invite Julia to join us.
Later, when Finbar had gone to bed, Adam managed to mutter that he was sorry. That pissed me off even more. “How did she even know about Lara?” I hissed. “Obviously you’ve still found time to see her.”
“I assume she heard from Sonja. She’s called me a couple of times, that’s all.”
“I bet. And I assume Will has decided to stay in Dublin. Can’t blame him.”
“Leave it, Georgia. I’m going to bed.” And that was the end of that.
I returned to therapy after Tony’s funeral and talking with Sarah gave me some release from my emotional isolation. Our focus had shifted from my past to my guilt and concerns about Lara, and the emotional distance between Adam and me. Obsessing about my culpability for Danny's death was at the bottom of my list.
A week after Lara was discharged from hospital, I decided therapy had become an indulgence and told Sarah I wanted to take a break until Lara was much better. Perhaps then I could find a way to talk to Adam about my past, and at that stage I could focus on how to accept what happened and move on. Sarah pointed out that until she was convinced I was unlikely to experience further panic attacks she couldn’t recommend my surgical reinstatement, but agreed that without Adam's understanding, I couldn’t get much further. She counseled me firmly to persist with my relaxation exercises and
continue my daily symptom diary. Perhaps, she suggested, I could even experiment with writing down my thoughts and feelings in the form of a journal.
I wrote in it at night before I went to bed, and sometimes it helped and usually it didn’t. Instead of calming me, whatever I’d been writing got stuck in my head, and I’d toss and turn until I gave in and took a sleeping pill. I hated that. So I decided to forget the journal. That evening I went to sleep quite quickly but woke up in the middle of the night, my nightgown saturated with sweat. I couldn’t remember what I’d been dreaming, but then I saw the rocks at the bottom of the Pa as clearly as if I were standing on them, not lying in bed in London.
So cold, so wet. I’m in my shorts and singlet and my running shoes are squelching as I pull myself over the rocks. The waves keep breaking on my feet and I cling to the rock face above me, terrified I’m going to slip and be bashed to pieces. The face of the Pa is so steep and I can’t see the top, only the dark sky. Rain is drowning my face but I have to keep going. My bare legs are grazed and stinging but I’ve got to get higher. My fingers grab a ledge above my head and I scrabble my feet to push me up. I put my other hand on the ledge and I slip back and start again. The rain stops suddenly and for a few seconds I can see the rock face in front of me. I look up and see dark clouds racing across the starless sky, the half moon appearing then disappearing then appearing again. I reach up for the ledge and scrabble until I find something solid to cling to. Now my other hand. My fingers touch something wet and slimy. Seaweed. I know it’s seaweed. I pull myself higher and get my chest over the ledge and wriggle the rest of my body up and I’m on the ledge and he’s lying there, on his back, his eyelids closed over his green eyes. I scream at him to wake up but the sea is too loud and he can’t hear me. I stroke his hair back from his face; it’s so white. He’s so still. There’s blood on my hands, he’s not waking up, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. I’ll carry him home and make him warm again. Perhaps he’s not dead, he’s just knocked himself out. He’s so heavy and stiff, I can’t lift him, the sea is going to wash us away.
On July 7th, a month after Lara came home, terrorists bombed London, and for a while we were distracted from our own problems. I called the hospital to see if I could come in and help deal with some of the minor injuries. “Thank you, Dr. Grayson, but there’s no need. We’re covered pretty well here,” I was told.
Three days later, Lara appeared for dinner, dressed and with her hair clean and brushed. Sitting at the table she told us, her voice a little shaky, “I’m sorry I’ve been so miserable. I’m going to try harder. I’ve been upset about everything, all those poor people who were bombed right near where you work. It could have been one of you.”
I looked over at Adam, seeing his eyes mist over. My own throat refused to work. Thank goodness for Finbar who leapt out of his chair and bounded around the table, his hug almost lifting Lara out of her seat. “Go, sis,” he whooped. “Welcome back.”
Lara hugged her brother with her good arm. “Thanks, little bro,” she whispered. “Don’t let me get so gloomy again.” She had tears in her eyes as she looked across the table at Adam. “Sorry.”
Adam reached over and took her hand. “I’m so happy you’re on the mend, Pumpkin. You’ve had an awful time, and we’ve been so worried.”
“Oh, darling,” I said, “this house has been too quiet.” Then I was behind Lara’s chair, my hands on her shoulders. “It’s tough to lose someone you care about, and in such a tragic way. We don’t want you to feel so alone again, dealing with it all by yourself.” I bent and kissed her curly head.
Lara looked down and I could almost hear the emotions fighting in her head. Then she shrugged my hands away and said flatly, “I’ll come right. You did, after Danny died.” Turning deliberately to Adam she smiled at him and I sat back at the table and pretended to eat. Closing my eyes I let myself sink into the white clouds of relief that were filling me up, swallowing the chilly air streaming off the window of ice that separated me from my daughter.
Lara continued to improve both physically and emotionally, and I told myself she was forgiving me a little every day. One night I was in the kitchen plowing through a pile of bills when I heard hysterical laughter from the family room where Adam and the kids were watching TV. “What’s so funny,” I asked, poking my head around the door. Lara was in fits of giggles, literally rolling on the floor, and Adam was wiping tears from his eyes. Finbar raised his eyes to the ceiling, but he was chortling as well—more, it seemed, at Lara than at the source of her amusement. The TV was playing the credits of The Vicar of Dibley, and Adam flicked the mute and waited while Lara got herself under control.
“It was that silly end bit where the Vicar tells simple Alice a joke,” Adam said, grinning. “Lara found it amusing.”
“That would be putting it mildly. What was the joke?” I asked, coming into the room.
“Lara, you tell her,” said Adam.
Lara fell back on the couch, still giggling. “There’s this nun taking a bath and there’s a knock on the bathroom door,” she managed. “The nun calls out ‘Who is it?’ and a voice answers ‘It’s the blind man.’ So the nun thinks for a minute and then calls back ‘Oh, well OK then, come in.’ The door opens and in comes a man…” Lara snorted, starting Finbar and Adam off again too.
“Come on Lara, get on with it,” I said, laughing myself.
Lara took a deep breath. “The man comes in and looks at her and says, ‘Nice pair of tits.’ Then he points at the window and says ‘Is that where you want me to hang the blinds?’ ”
Later that night when the kids were in bed and Adam and I were having a cup of tea, Adam began laughing.
“What’s so amusing?” I asked.
“I was remembering the blind man. It was good seeing Lara like that, back to her old self. Giggling so much she practically wet herself.” Adam stretched, still smiling. “It’s amazing how wonderful a good guffaw can make you feel. Finbar and I were laughing more at Lara than the joke, but the joke was pretty funny too. I think I’ll write to Dawn French and thank her for her Vicar of Dibley. If we had a vicar like her near here I’d bloody well turn religious.”
“I’m sure I’ve read that laughing really is a good therapy. Probably why mine failed; I can’t remember too many giggles,” I said, smiling at Adam to show I was joking.
He moved over to the stove and lit the gas under the kettle again. “Georgia, do you want to tell me what else you’ve remembered?”
“Are you sure? You’ve been so happy tonight.”
“That’s why. I think I’ve got the strength to hear it now. Lara's turned a corner, and we have to make more of an effort too.” He sat beside me. “I want to hear the truth, however painful it is.”
I took a deep breath. “I still don’t remember everything, but bits and pieces. After I told Danny to get out of the house, the next thing I remember is finding him near the bottom of the Pa. It’s on a sort of peninsula that juts out into the sea at the other end of the beach from where our house is. It’s at least a thirty-minute walk in good weather. And it was terrible weather: pitch black, with gale-force winds, and raining. I must have waded through the stream that separates the Pa from the beach and clambered around it to the seaward side.” I swallowed and pushed onward. “I have no memory of getting there but I’ve finally remembered finding Danny’s body. He was on a ledge almost at the bottom of the Pa. If he hadn’t landed there he’d have been washed into the sea.” I breathed: In out, in out. Re-lax, re-lax. “I don’t remember getting back across the stream and all the way to the road. I must have been frozen. I still had my running gear on and I was saturated with rain and seawater when I was picked up. Even that’s hazy, the drive to Claris and the police. But I’ve remembered more about being in the hospital and not knowing what happened to Danny or whether I still had a baby inside me, or if I’d lost it. Or perhaps I never had a baby, and there was no Danny, and I was locked in there because I was crazy and everything I thought
was true was not.”
Adam took my hands in both of his and unclenched my fingers.
“Later when I was home again with Mum and Dad, they told me about Danny’s parents. They’d taken Danny’s body back with them to Queenstown and they were too upset to ever see me. Danny’s mother told Dad they were leaving New Zealand and never coming back.” I took a large gulp of my tea.
“They didn’t know about the baby. The psychiatrist didn’t even tell Mum and Dad because of confidentiality. Apparently I wasn’t crazy enough to be denied my rights. When my pregnancy became obvious after I’d been in hospital for weeks, Mum and Dad talked to me about having the baby adopted out; they thought I had enough to do to get properly well again. They even got a social worker to come in and talk to me. But I could never give her up. So I went home with Mum and Dad, and after Lara was born we stayed with them and of course they were wonderful.”
We sat in silence, Adam holding my hand.
“Danny died because of me. That’s the truth I can’t tell Lara.”
“But he broke off your relationship, not you,” Adam said, and I finally managed to look at him. I shook my head.
“When he needed me to understand, I told him to get out of my life. So that’s…” My voice petered out.
“It’s a long time ago,” Adam said. “You have to stop blaming yourself.”
“So that’s what he did. He must have been desperate to get away from me to climb up the Pa. He’d never been up to the top before. He knew it was tapu.”