The Heatwave

by Kate Riordan

  You still. I watch your profile as the moon comes out and spills its cool light over the garden. I can’t quite make out your expression as you turn everything over in your mind, but I cling to the fact that you haven’t gone back to your own seat, that your head is resting on my shoulder.

  ‘But I always …’

  ‘You always thought she was perfect. Clever, beautiful, the first-born. She was all of those things, but she was also very di– difficult.’ I almost said disturbed, but I don’t want to scare you. Truth and protectiveness are so hard to reconcile. ‘When she was young she had these … rages. But then, as she grew older and learnt to control herself better, she became very … well, she became very cold.’ I reach round for your hand, stroke it. You pull away, though you do it gently.

  ‘Keep going,’ you say, looking straight at me and, just for a split second, I see a glimpse of Élodie in your face. I think it’s the hardening expression: you’re determined not to allow me to stop as you have in the past. You turn to look impassively into the garden, waiting, like a skilled interrogator, for me to fill the silence.

  ‘Élodie was very good at manipulating people,’ I say eventually. ‘It was part of her condition. She knew that your father let her do what she liked if she was charming and well-behaved with him. So she was, most of the time. But I was with her all day every day. I knew her better than anyone. I saw other sides to her, too, when she wasn’t … acting.’

  You’re quiet, taking that in, and I watch you, nerves wringing out my insides in case I’ve said too much. I can always read your face but it’s too dark. I wonder if any memories are flickering on in your head and silently pray there aren’t.

  ‘So that’s why she was expelled from school?’

  ‘Yes. She stayed at home with me after that. With you and me.’

  You hang your head. ‘I can’t remember. I can hardly remember her at all.’

  ‘Well, you were only three. I don’t remember much from when I was that young either.’

  You now know the truth, though not the whole of it, not by a long way. And as we go inside to find Camille, I feel overwhelmingly relieved. With everything you’ve just discovered, you haven’t thought to ask what your physically healthy sister died from. And being glad about that fills me with shame all over again.

  1975

  I book the appointment with Hubert Morel the day after the incident with Luc in the swimming pool. I don’t care any more what Greg will say when he finds out, or old Dr Bisset, the village doctor who’s fobbed me off for a couple of years now. I know he thinks I’m an hysteric. When I tried to show him the drawings, he waved them away without even looking at them. ‘My dear,’ he said, hands folded around his stomach as if he was already thinking about what to have for lunch, ‘so she’s a handful. She’ll grow out of it.’

  Morel is a child psychologist, and his practice on a quiet street in Avignon is the closest I could find. This is not London or Paris: there aren’t huge numbers of psychologists of any stripe to be found around here, let alone those specializing in children.

  I am nervous on the journey there, not so much because I don’t know anyone who’s ever seen what Greg calls a ‘head shrinker’, but because I’m afraid he, like Bisset, will think it’s nothing. That it’s all in my mind.

  Morel is tall and impossibly thin standing there in the waiting room when it’s our turn.

  ‘Madame Winters, why don’t we speak alone first? Jeanne will keep an eye on your daughter.’ He gestures to the owl-eyed receptionist.

  In one corner of the waiting room there are books and toys, drawing materials, a small wooden table and a chair. I watch as Élodie chooses a book and sits down quietly with it. As I follow Morel along the corridor to his office, I can’t help glancing back because I can never get Élodie to read. She’s staring after me, little jaw set, and I realize the book in her hands is upside down.

  In his office, high-ceilinged and airy, Morel pushes a box of tissues towards me, though I’m not crying. Not quite.

  ‘May I ask how long you’ve had concerns about Élodie?’

  I let out a humourless laugh, which turns into a sob. ‘About six years?’ I reach for a tissue.

  He waits, one long-fingered hand folded over the other.

  ‘My husband doesn’t know I’m here. She’s completely different with him anyway.’

  I pick at a torn cuticle. I’m so worried that I’m not going to be able to make him understand either.

  ‘Different how?’ he says.

  ‘I feel as though she pretends with him and is honest with me,’ I say, then sigh shakily, because the words are so vague and inadequate. ‘I see her every day, we’re together all the time. I see her face fill with hate, or – and sometimes this is worse – this total blankness.’

  I am trembling now, and tears are spilling over. I dig my fingernails into the soft pads of my palms to make myself stop.

  ‘Can you give me an example of when you’ve seen her like this?’

  I tell him about the lizard and its eggs, how she’d destroyed them.

  ‘And she didn’t do it to frighten me either. She thought she was alone.’ I swallow loudly. ‘She did it for her own entertainment. For pleasure.’

  He nods, taking that in. Then he looks at me. ‘Madame Winters, would you say that you are frightened of your daughter?’

  I jolt in my seat. No one has ever asked me that. I reach for another tissue but the box is empty. He hands me a perfectly laundered handkerchief, a blue H embroidered in the corner.

  ‘My mother does them for me,’ he says, with a rueful smile, and I think how much I would love to stay in that office for ever, with nothing to do but listen to the gentle timbre of Hubert Morel’s voice.

  ‘I am the first child psychologist you’ve seen?’ he says, when I’m closer to composing myself. He sits down again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there a particular event that prompted you to come now? You said the incident with the lizard was a while ago.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Things have started to happen more frequently. I feel as though it’s getting more serious. There was a dead pigeon. Élodie said she’d found it like that in the garden. Greg – my husband – said another animal had done it, a bigger bird perhaps, or a fox, but I –’

  ‘You think Élodie killed it?’

  The word makes me stammer. ‘I don’t – I don’t know. But there was no blood on it, no wound. Its wings were broken, as though they’d been pulled apart. I found a feather in her room.’ I look up at him. ‘I think it was strangled. Or maybe died of fright.’

  He makes a note, then puts down his pen. ‘What else?’ He steeples his hands. ‘Tell me.’

  And so I tell him about Luc.

  Afterwards, he wants to speak to Élodie on her own. I sit in the waiting room, leafing through old magazines I don’t absorb a word of.

  ‘So, what’s the verdict?’ I ask, when I’m called back in, with an attempt at lightheartedness I don’t even slightly pull off. I’m shaking again.

  ‘Have you heard of the Rorschach method?’ he says. ‘Some people know it as the inkblot test.’

  A bell rings somewhere in my brain: a dim memory of listening to one of Greg’s London friends who was training at the Tavistock Clinic. Red wine and an orange Habitat sofa, Greg and I still happy.

  ‘It was developed in the twenties to test for schizophrenia but it’s come to be used more generally, as an indicator of other … conditions. People assume there’s a correct answer for each of the inkblots. That if you see a bat or a butterfly, you’re normal. But it’s much more complex than that. I take into account how long the subject might take to answer, for instance, and where in the picture they see what they see. I also look at how closely what they see resembles what is actually there, and many more factors.’

  ‘And what did you find? What did Élodie see?’

  He flexes his hands, turns the palms upwards. ‘These are preliminary thoughts more than
anything. I need to spend more time with her, perhaps in a month or so. There are further assessments I would like to undertake.’

  I lean forward. ‘But you must have formed some sort of impression. She was with you for over an hour.’ I’ve crushed his lovely handkerchief into a damp ball.

  He breathes out slowly through his nose. ‘There were some … unusual responses. There are particular cards – I mentioned the bat – where most people see the same thing. When a subject doesn’t, it can be significant.’

  ‘What did she see?’ I whisper, full of dread and conviction that she will have described monsters and infernos where anyone else would see flowers.

  ‘It’s more what she didn’t see. She’s obviously a bright child, but she struggled to see faces or animals in the shapes. Do you know what function the amygdala serves in the brain?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘The amygdala is shaped like an almond. It’s buried deep within the temporal lobes. Put simply, it’s where our emotional responses come from. It’s there that emotions are acknowledged and processed. But occasionally, in some people, this part of the brain doesn’t light up when it should. It stays quiet and dark.’

  ‘And you think Élodie is one of those people?’

  He spreads his hands again. ‘I think she may be. When the amygdala doesn’t work in the same way it does in most people, there is a tendency to take risks more than is normal. You said to me earlier that Élodie never seems to show fear. That’s different from bravery, where someone who is fearful of heights jumps off the diving board anyway. It might be that Élodie doesn’t feel the fear in the first place.’

  ‘But what about the other things we talked about? Is that all part of the same thing?’

  ‘Madame, it’s important to remember that Élodie’s brain is still growing. She is not yet fully developed. As such, I would be reluctant – any psychologist would be reluctant – to make a diagnosis of psychopathy. She –’

  ‘Psychopathy?’ The room empties of air. ‘You think Élodie could be a psychopath?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. As I was explaining, we don’t like to label a child with a condition that has such negative connotations while he or she is still very young.’

  ‘But if she was eighteen? Doctor, is – is this my fault? Is it how we’ve brought her up?’ It’s the question I’ve asked myself so many times and here is someone who might be about to say Yes. It’s your fault. I feel like I might be sick.

  But Morel only gives me a sad smile. ‘There are two types of children who display unemotional or callous traits, such as you’ve described to me. The first have been exposed to abuse and violence all their lives. Their extreme coldness develops as a kind of defence mechanism, in order to survive the terrible situation in which they find themselves.’

  ‘But we –’

  Morel holds up his hand. ‘I said there was another type. It is clear to me that Élodie does not fall into the first group. The parents of those poor children do not seek help from someone like me. I am not talking about marital arguments or a smack on the back of the legs. These are children who are sexually and physically abused, neglected, left to fend for themselves from an early age.

  ‘The other group are very different. They are rarer, too. These are children who appear to be wired differently. It’s genetic with them, not learnt.’

  I put my hand to my stomach. ‘It’s inherited?’

  ‘It’s not really clear. Possibly. I would like to see Élodie again, preferably next month. As I said, there are further tests I’d like to perform.’ He stands.

  ‘But what can I do? Is there anything I can do to help her? What if she tries to hurt someone again? I’m so frightened that she –’

  ‘Not all children with these traits are actively violent. Some are just manipulative and bent on getting their way. Often they do things just to see what happens. They are not stimulated by the same things we are. Adults with this personality type typically have a very low heart-rate, even in dangerous or what should be highly emotive situations. There is a theory that their urges to do things they know are wrong and will hurt people come from a desire to feel more, to be excited. This is naturally difficult to deal with but, with careful handling, it doesn’t have to be dangerous.’

  ‘But it can be?’

  He inclines his head. ‘If she is aggressive, try to make sure she doesn’t gain from it in some way. Try not to overreact and create a fuss that she might enjoy or find interesting. Punishment doesn’t work with children like this. It’s not an effective deterrent. They don’t worry about people being angry with them. They don’t feel shame when they upset someone. What is shown to work better is the very opposite: you reward the good behaviour instead of punishing the bad.’

  I think of Greg: the gifts he buys her, the treats I have always seen as naked bribery. And yet his relationship with her is so much less fraught.

  ‘But what if she does something dangerous? Are we supposed to ignore it?’

  ‘Effectively, yes. A child like Élodie will not respond as another child would. It is hard to hear but she doesn’t really care. At most, she will be fascinated by the effect she has on you: your tears, perhaps, or loss of temper. I showed her some photographs, too. One of them was of a woman looking distressed and fearful, on the verge of tears. When I asked Élodie what she thought this lady was feeling, she had difficulty coming up with the sort of answer a child younger than her would know straight away. Do you know what she said in the end?’

  I shake my head, part of me not wanting to know, the other part morbidly needing to know everything.

  ‘She said, “She looks like Maman.”’

  I briefly close my eyes. ‘But you’re saying I didn’t make her like this, and that she can’t help it?’ My voice is muffled by more tears.

  He nods.

  I don’t feel any less frightened – perhaps I’m more so – but it still feels like an enormous stone has rolled off my chest.

  ‘So, you’ll do more tests,’ I say, hope a faint glow in the core of me. ‘And then you’ll know what you can do to help her? Is there any kind of medication? Or talking therapy, perhaps?’

  For the first time, Morel doesn’t meet my eye. I watch the Adam’s apple in his narrow throat bob as he swallows. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. She is what she is. There is no cure. But I can perhaps help you to understand her more, to manage her behaviour better.’

  He sees my face crumple and rushes on: ‘There is hope, Madame Winters. I said before that children’s brains are not fully formed yet. They are still malleable. That means they can grow out of it. It’s thought that some four out of five children like this do.’

  I take that in. Four out of five is good. Eighty per cent. I ignore the inner tremor when I think of the other fifth. I push away an image of her wild blue eye.

  ‘But there must be something we can do in the meantime? Something that improves her chances of being in the four out of five.’

  ‘There is a study I read about recently. The results appear to point towards parental affection making some difference, though it’s early days. But if you can show her plenty of warmth and love, it may make a difference. I certainly don’t think it can hurt.’

  ‘But she doesn’t like affection, not from me. She never has. She doesn’t like it much from Greg these days either. Even when she was tiny, she didn’t seem to need it.’

  ‘So try again. What have you got to lose?’

  He’s right, and I ignore the little voice in my head that says it won’t work.

  *

  Driving home in the car, Élodie silent in the back, I barely see the road passing underneath the wheels. I’m so afraid of everything ahead – from telling Greg to trying to deal with a child who has possible psychopathic traits, those words still clanging in my head.

  And yet, underneath it all, I feel weak with a horrible kind of relief. It isn’t my imagination, which Greg has implied for years. Something really could be wr
ong with her, a biological flaw hidden behind all that beauty.

  I’m not mad. It’s not me.

  It’s not my fault.

  When I glance at her in the rear-view mirror, quiet and apparently peaceful as she watches the city thin out into fields again, I’m swept up in a welling of emotion so strong that it hurts my throat to cry silently. As tears spread in the lap of my skirt, I realize what this unfamiliar feeling is.

  It’s sorrow, deep and true. Not for me, but for her.

  Though I haven’t made a sound, she must sense something seismic taking place inside me. Perhaps sadness has a scent. She meets my eye in the mirror and I know she sees the tears and the smudged mascara, the blotches on my cheeks from the strain of stopping myself sobbing aloud. She takes all this in, then looks away again, her gaze returned to the road.

  1993

  The morning after you brought me Élodie’s medical notes, the air curling in through my window smells strange, a note of something sour and herbal in it that’s too faint for me to place.

  I find Camille in the salon, a bowl of black coffee by her side, various boxes half packed around her.

  ‘You’re awake early,’ she remarks, without looking up.

  ‘It’s so hot. I feel like I’ve been trying to get cool all night.’

  ‘Look, Sylvie, I think I’m going to head home this afternoon. Leave after lunch.’ The sunlight streaming in through the open doors cuts her in two. ‘I’ve done what I need to do and can pop back if need be. I can’t stand this heat and, anyway, I did say I’d only be staying a couple of days.’ She smiles wryly when she sees my face. ‘Mon dieu, I thought you’d be relieved.’

  ‘No.’ I cast around for the right words. ‘I like having you here. So does Emma.’

  ‘I’ve liked it too.’

  Suddenly I can’t bear the thought of Camille leaving you and me alone in the house. There is something immensely reassuring about her implacable, uncompromising nature. It feels like a bulwark against all the uncertainty.