Her Perfect Family

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘This is Ed. Your husband Ed,’ her mother had encouraged. ‘See. I can see that this is the real Ed. It’s all fine now.’

  But Laura had stared at him, wide-eyed, and then stood up. ‘This isn’t Ed. This is him. This is the man who’s taken Ed. Can’t you see that, Mother? Look at him. Please look at him properly.’

  The consultant, watching via a camera on the wall, had sent in a nurse to ask Ed to leave as Laura was becoming distressed. They had tried this kind of ‘test’ one more time with the specialist observing but Laura was even more upset the second time, thrashing her arms about until she had to be given a sedative.

  It was decided that she should be given yet more general tests along with complete rest – a couple of weeks of ‘watch and wait’, living with her parents. The idea was that Ed should stay away and they would wait for the results of all the other tests and psychiatric assessments to try to introduce him for a third meeting to see if Laura’s behaviour around him changed.

  But things spiralled further. Although Laura had no problem recognising both her parents, she suddenly became suspicious of the family home. She’d lived there from birth. A beautiful sprawling five-bedroom home with a huge attic room which had been Laura’s playroom once. When they were together in England, Laura had shared pictures and stories of the house. The attic had the most wonderful doll’s house. Every birthday her parents gave her more miniature furniture to dress it. Laura loved the doll’s house and she loved the family home.

  But in their new nightmare, Laura woke up one day to announce to her parents that she wanted to be taken ‘home’.

  Her parents thought she meant back to her marital home – the flat with Ed across Toronto. But she didn’t. She seemed no longer to recognise her parents’ house. Her beloved childhood home.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked. ‘It’s not your house.’

  In despair, her father decided to try an experiment. One of the doctors had already mentioned the rare condition Capgras Syndrome which was on the long list of possible conditions that could be afflicting Laura. But it was so rare as to be considered highly unlikely. Nevertheless Laura’s father, and Ed too, had done a lot of research. Laura’s father David had found one suggested theory that driving the patient back to the ‘right place’ or the ‘right person’ sometimes worked by tricking the brain to reset. So he drove Laura a few miles in circles, telling her that they were going home.

  Sure enough, when they returned to their same house, she seemed at first to recognise it. But this only lasted about half an hour. When she moved into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, she again suddenly protested that it was not the ‘right house’.

  Why am I here? I need to go home.

  David was now at a loss and tried desperately to reassure his daughter. He tried to show her familiar things. Look – here’s your favourite mug, Laura. Look at it.

  But Laura picked up the mug and threw it at him. She then began to smash other things in the kitchen, crying uncontrollably.

  Eventually, she barricaded herself in her bedroom, clearly terrified. The family doctor had to be called out with a sedative and when things did not improve, the decision was taken that Laura would need ‘hospital care’. As she wouldn’t agree to this, she would need, in effect, to be temporarily sectioned for her own safety. The process in Canada involved a ‘certificate of involuntary hospital admission’. But it all amounted to the same thing.

  His beautiful wife Laura had been sectioned. The woman he had met, watching an extraordinary clock in Wells Cathedral, was the subject of the Mental Health Act.

  That’s how they ended up in this private hospital. With the smart orange chairs. And the fancy specialist.

  ‘So what’s the diagnosis?’ Ed was struggling to sit still, Laura’s parents sitting together holding hands to his left. He glanced across to see that Laura’s mother was fighting tears.

  ‘It’s been weeks,’ Ed added. ‘You must surely have some idea by now. Some treatment plan.’

  The specialist looked down at his notes. ‘Our priority at the moment is to ensure Laura is kept calm. And safe.’

  ‘Yes. But you can’t keep her sedated forever and she can’t live in the hospital. And she’s my wife, for heaven’s sake. My wife.’ Ed felt his voice crack as if facing up to the true horror of his situation for the first time.

  ‘These things can be very complex. And they can take time.’

  ‘What things? What is it precisely that you think this is? Could it be this Capgras Syndrome you mentioned previously? Is that what you really think?’

  The specialist took in a deep breath. ‘It’s a possibility but I’m not an expert. I’ve been in touch with a colleague in Ontario who’s worked with Capgras Syndrome. He’s written a paper on it. I’ve asked him to see Laura when he’s next here.’

  ‘And when’s that?’

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘Next month.’ Ed stood up and marched to the window. He looked out at the garden – at some kind of pink-flowered bush alongside an oak bench in a walled courtyard. He stared for a moment at the blooms. He didn’t recognise the plant. He found himself longing for the pink camellias outside his flat back in London. Campion in the hedgerows on childhood holidays in Cornwall. The familiar. Familiar flowers. Their familiar flat back in England. All the familiar places where they had been so happy.

  ‘Maybe I should take Laura back to England. See what the doctors there can do.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ed.’ It was Laura’s mother. ‘She can’t even be in the same room as you.’

  And then suddenly it was too much. The alien pink blooms slowly blurring before his eyes, though it was a while before he realised why.

  Suddenly he could feel a tennis racket in his hand. An ache deep, deep in his stomach. An awareness that the life he had known was over.

  And just like that boy in the head teacher’s study, he could once more feel silent tears dripping from his chin on to his shirt.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE MOTHER

  ‘I still don’t believe it.’ I feel giddy. ‘You’ve been married before and you didn’t tell me?’

  We’re in the nurses’ small office at the entrance to the ward. I hate that we’ve had to leave Gemma with a nurse in the cubicle. I feel real physical distress to be out in this other world, away from our girl. What if we miss something? What if this is the very time that Gemma opens her eyes?

  I feel light-headed, my arms tingling. ‘I’m sorry. I feel faint again.’

  ‘Sit on the floor. I’ll fetch a nurse.’

  ‘No. I don’t want a nurse.’

  ‘Well – put your head forward. I’ll get some tea with sugar.’

  ‘I want you to go.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rachel. We need to talk. And I can’t leave you like this.’

  He doesn’t move and so I lower myself to the floor and put my head forward. Ed just watches and we wait a few moments in silence. I’m thinking of my mother sitting on the floor of the kitchen crying all those years ago. I still feel giddy but I don’t think I’m going to faint after all. I just need to wait a while and I need Ed not to be here.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. Just go. Please.’

  At last Ed leaves the room and I’m relieved to be alone, words spinning around my head. Laura. Canada. Some ridiculous syndrome I’ve never heard of. That he probably made up to try to make his lies look better. I can hardly believe it. Ed married before. I find that I’m not only disorientated but jealous. What was she like – this first wife? This first choice? I have my eyes closed and am trying to work out what to do next when I hear the door again and Ed reappears, holding out a cup of tea.

  ‘Sip it. Please, Rachel. It’s got extra sugar.’

  I don’t want the tea and I don’t want him back in the room either, but I also don’t want to speak so I just reach out for the cup. Resigned. It’s too hot but he tells me again to try sipping it. I do as I’m told. Tiny sips
. It’s horribly sweet, the punch of it hitting the back of my throat, and I’m sorry to find it’s almost instantly waking me back up, sucking me back into this room. This new nightmare. I keep sipping, not because I want this new awareness but because it’s buying time. He’s quiet at last. Watching. And I’m trying to work out what to say to make him go; to leave so that I can return to Gemma and pretend this isn’t happening.

  By the time I’ve drunk maybe a third of the tea, he’s repeating the bizarre story. The muddle of words, filling the room again. Laura. Canada. Psychotic episode. Capgras . . .

  I try to shrink in on myself but the sugar’s preventing the retreat. A mistake. I reach out to put the remains of the tea on the nearest desk.

  ‘I should have told you. I wish that I had, Rachel. I’m so very sorry but I was so thrown when we met. So confused. And ashamed too. And I couldn’t believe it when you didn’t push me about my past. When you didn’t ask questions.’

  I look up at him. This new Ed. This liar Ed. And there’s this part of me that always knew something like this was lurking. Waiting. And he’s right, actually. I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know. It was like a pact. I didn’t ask questions; he didn’t ask questions. Why did he have to spoil it? Why did the secret have to be this big?

  ‘I can’t do this, Ed. You need to go.’

  ‘No, Rachel. I’m sorry that this is hurting you so much. I never wanted this. To hurt you – or Gemma. But I can’t let you shut me down this time. We have to talk about this. The police say Laura’s here. In the UK. She flew here a few weeks ago. I’m sure they’ll sort it all out. That it’s some kind of terrible misunderstanding. But until they do—’

  And now I feel my eyes widening. My mind opening. My thoughts are expanding like a bird stretching its wings and in this new expanse of air and pictures and puzzles, there’s the sudden realisation that Ed is not just confessing something bizarre about the past. Something over. Historic.

  ‘Oh my God, so is she dangerous? Violent? Is that what you’re really saying? This Laura. This first wife I knew nothing about. Are you seriously telling me that she may be involved in all of this?’ I glance to the door on to the ward and am thinking about Gemma in her coma with the frame over her horrible stump, the confusion and the shock all at once changing to a new emotion. Real anger.

  I glare at Ed and am shocked to find I want to hit him. I feel this terrible bubbling up inside as if all the years of pressing things down, all the pictures and the confusion from the past, from my childhood, are suddenly in the room with us. All the shouting and the secrets and the lies and the pretending. All suddenly too much.

  ‘Are you saying that your first wife may have shot our daughter?’ I pull myself up, using one hand on the desk, to sit back on the chair by the wall, unsure if I’m steady enough yet to stand.

  ‘No, I’m not saying that. I don’t believe that for one minute. She wasn’t violent, Rachel, she was unwell. I would have said something right at the beginning if I ever thought that.’

  ‘So why are you speaking up now? Why are the police suddenly in a panic about all this now?’

  My eyes dart wildly around the room as I start to think of DI Sanders, remembering why I need to talk to her too.

  I put my hands to my face as the awful reality dawns. Click. The two pieces in the puzzle suddenly slotting perfectly together. The woman watching me. The weird woman at the end of the drive and then outside the hairdresser’s.

  He’s not who he says he is. I have to warn you . . .

  Not Ed’s mistress. Never Ed’s mistress.

  ‘I need to see a picture of her, Ed.’

  He looks stunned at this request. ‘Why?’ He rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘No. Rachel. You’re upset. I won’t let you torture yourself.’

  ‘Your phone.’ I stare at his pocket. ‘Do you have a picture of her on your phone?’

  ‘No, of course not. This is my past, Rachel. Decades ago. A lifetime ago.’

  I glance right then left before shutting my eyes, trying to call up the image of the woman outside the hairdresser’s. It takes a moment but suddenly I can see her more clearly. Open my eyes.

  ‘Does she have striking hair, Ed?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Laura. Your Laura. Does she have strawberry-blonde hair?’

  CHAPTER 28

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  As he pulls into the drive, Matthew can see Sally at the kitchen window, looking out for him. He raises his hand. She shares a small, nervous smile and then retreats, turning away towards the playroom.

  Matthew finds that he’s nervous too, wondering what the counsellor will be like and what exactly will be expected of him. He takes his phone from his pocket and scans the contacts. He starts to write a text but changes his mind. Too difficult to get the tone right. Dials instead.

  ‘Amanda? Oh good. I just wanted to say thank you for helping us out. She’s here at the house now. Lucy, the counsellor. I’m so grateful. Really.’

  ‘Oh good. I’m glad she was able to come out so quickly. It sounded urgent.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the details. Something happened. Sort of classified.’ He can’t share details about the dolls. They need to keep it quiet. Something for the interview room down the line – to hopefully trip up a suspect. ‘But my wife and I are incredibly grateful.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  A part of him would like to ask her what to expect but he still feels awkward, knowing that she’s having counselling herself.

  ‘Also.’ He changes his tone – more upbeat – as he gets out of the car, not wanting to keep Sally and Amelie waiting. ‘Will you be at the update with the chancellor and DI Sanders later?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Anything to add? We’ve still got the media crawling all over us. Expect you do too.’

  ‘And some. No. Nothing to add. I’ll be out of action, obviously, for this session. But DI Sanders will bring you up to speed. Just wanted to add that if you need anything from us – a return favour, do please ask.’

  ‘No need. Happy to help.’

  ‘Right. I must go. DI Sanders will update me after the meeting.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  He fires the central locking and hurries inside to find Sally and Amelie seated around the small table in the playroom alongside a woman with a shock of dark, curly hair, held back by a bright turquoise band. She’s wearing long, dangly earrings with white and turquoise beads and Matthew feels strangely reassured by how much she looks the part.

  ‘Hello. I’m Matthew.’ He shakes her hand.

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Look. We’ve got a worry jar, Daddy.’ Amelie picks up a large empty plastic jar to show him and he’s both surprised and pleased to see the energy back in her eyes. Amelie’s clearly open to this; up for this. She’s a frightened little girl just now, but above all still a curious girl.

  ‘What’s a worry jar?’ He finds that he is ironically worried about the worry jar, still wary of his part here. But he smiles at his daughter and at Lucy and Sally in turn to signal he’s up for this too. He takes a seat and tells himself that he will try very hard to bury his default setting that ‘therapy’ of any kind is all mumbo jumbo. That talking never solved anything. He will try not to remember that when he left the force – when he woke night after night, sweating and calling out from his nightmares for the child he believed he had killed – he refused help. Refused therapy. Left the force instead.

  He smooths the fabric of his trousers over his knees. This is not about him. This is for Amelie so he must park the prejudice and do whatever it takes to help his little girl.

  ‘Well, everyone has worries,’ Lucy says as she hands out paper. ‘And everyone gets afraid sometimes. It’s normal. Adults and children have worries. So sometimes we need to talk about them and maybe draw a picture. Or write some words. And then we put the worry in the jar and put the lid on. And we think of something happier t
o help us not to think about the worry.’

  ‘I can write my name!’ Amelie says, looking proud.

  ‘That’s very clever! And I bet you can draw pictures. Do you like drawing, Amelie?’ Lucy is moving the pot of crayons and pencils closer to Amelie.

  ‘OK, Mummy and Daddy. You need to write or draw a worry too.’

  Lucy is widening her eyes and Matthew feels a pull in his stomach. He finds that he is unsure how he is supposed to behave here. Should he have spoken separately to Lucy first? Is he supposed to be honest? Or brave for Amelie?

  ‘We need to be honest so we can work out how to deal with our worries,’ Lucy says as if reading his mind. ‘So that we know what to do when we have difficult feelings. When we have worries. And when we’re afraid.’

  ‘Do you get worried?’ Amelie says suddenly, looking very earnestly at Lucy.

  ‘Of course.’ Lucy adjusts her hairband. ‘But not too much. Because I know the tricks now.’

  ‘Tricks?’ Amelie looks very interested now, her eyes wide and hopeful, and Matthew feels his heart leap. He thinks of her crying when he ran to them in the supermarket car park after the cathedral. He thinks of her creeping into their bed in the night. I’ve had an accident, Mummy . . .

  ‘Yes – the tricks are how to make myself feel better. That’s what I’m going to show you.’ Lucy winks and takes a piece of paper herself. ‘So my worry is what people will think of me.’ She starts to draw a stick person with a big stomach and in the belly she takes different-coloured pencils and draws lots of wiggles. ‘I get funny feelings in my tummy – like wiggly worms – because I worry if people will like me.’

  Amelie laughs and Matthew finds himself smiling and realises that he likes Lucy already.

  ‘So what are you all worried about at the moment? Mummy and Daddy – write it down. And Amelie, you draw a picture of your worry.’