The Other Girl

by C D Major

  Declan moved towards him, pressing on; he knew he had to finish this. ‘You will agree to halt the plans for the operation, to release Edith Garrett. You will ensure she is given the right support to help her back out in the community. And you will apologise to her,’ he added as an afterthought.

  Doctor Malone nodded dumbly, his head moving in his hands. Declan could see a small coin of flesh where he had lost his hair on the crown of his head. There was something very human about it.

  The older man looked up at Declan. Perhaps he was going to explain? Perhaps he was going to apologise?

  ‘I will,’ he said.

  It was enough.

  Declan tried to swallow down the surprise that he knew was all over his face as he nodded, leaving Doctor Malone and walking back to his own room. Closing the door behind him he sagged against it, feeling tears prick at his eyes. He rested his head back, closed them.

  He had done it.

  Chapter 46

  THEN

  The walk from the white room seemed a painful blur: body jittery, a head full of clashing voices, footsteps, whistles.

  Matron stopped writing and looked up as Edith entered the room on shaky legs. Dismissing Deputy Matron with a hand, she motioned to a chair.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, neatening the pages with a decisive bang on the desk.

  Edith jumped. She walked unsteadily over to the chair in front of Matron’s narrow desk and slowly sat, gasping as she did so at the pains in her thighs, her stomach; the skin under her hair throbbing, one eye sticky, half-shut. She tried to focus, swallowed fruitlessly, her throat scratchy and dry. Was it hours after the fight? Days? She’d woken a few moments ago, strapped to the bed. Deputy Matron had unbuckled her, brought her here.

  Matron was watching her now, her face screwed up as she scanned her face and body. She was wearing spectacles, her eyes bigger behind the lenses, a chain around her neck. Edith crossed her arms in front of her chest, unfolded them and let them hang by her sides. She wanted to ask Matron why she’d had treatment; she hadn’t been any trouble – it had been Donna – but all the words stayed in her head, plugged by the sour expression on the older woman’s face.

  She had a different-shaped hat to the nurses and there wasn’t a hint of hair around the edges, as if she was entirely bald underneath. In all her years at Seacliff, Edith had never seen Matron without her hat.

  ‘I’m disappointed to be seeing you, Edith.’

  The words hit her harder than if she’d raised her voice. She found herself feeling choked by them. Looking down she saw her knees trembling and placed her hands on them, pushed down, trying to remember words, words she should say.

  ‘I had thought these episodes were in your past?’

  ‘They are.’ The words exploded out of her as she looked up, loud in the small room, surprising herself.

  Matron’s eyes widened so that Edith could make out all the whites around the pupils. ‘That is not what Doctor Malone thinks. He thinks you have become a problem again. After all this time, Edith.’

  ‘No, I’m not, I’m not, I’m sorry . . .’ She rocked once forwards and backwards before remembering to stop, to be still, to be silent. All those things she must remember, from so long ago now; but she must do them again. She didn’t want to be back in that room. She didn’t want the yellow pills that made you not notice if things were sped up or slowed down, she didn’t want to be put in the coats that tied endlessly round you so your arms were squeezed by your sides until you lost the feeling in them, lost your balance.

  She shook her head, slowly, carefully. ‘I’m very sorry, Matron, I won’t be a problem, no, I won’t be.’ Her hands were in her lap now; there was blood underneath the nails on her right hand. She didn’t know how it had got there. She covered the hand quickly with her left.

  ‘I would like to hear your version of events,’ Matron said, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper.

  Edith swallowed as she watched her waiting, her pen hovering over the page. She took a breath, scrunched up her face, images returning in chunks: what things should she say?

  She started to speak, haltingly, feeling as if she was swimming through a murky lake of pictures as she recounted the events that had led to her being there. She was getting confused, felt her palms dampen as the words got tied up in her mouth, tripping over themselves; she tried to go slower, the sentences weren’t making sense.

  ‘I saw her crying, that’s why . . . no, before that she was waiting for me, after Bernie’s parents . . . it was . . .’ She could feel herself grow hotter, fingers tapping at her knees. She wasn’t sure how long ago it all was; it could have been weeks, not days or hours. She needed to get it right. She wanted Matron to write it all down correctly. She wasn’t a liar. ‘She came to my room . . . she came and then . . .’

  ‘Slow down, slow down. Take a moment, now start again. I was told you started a fight. You bit Donna,’ Matron said.

  Edith stopped short at that. ‘I didn’t . . .’

  Did she? Did she bite Donna? She imagined the feeling of Donna’s flesh in her mouth, sinking her teeth down hard, not caring what it was. They think she bit her. If she said she didn’t bite her they’d think she was lying. She might have bitten her.

  Matron was looking at her and she licked her lips, tried to start again. ‘She was angry because I’d seen her, in the visitors’ room. She waited for me in the dormitory. She can get into my room now . . .’

  ‘Edith.’ Her voice was a warning.

  It wasn’t coming out right; she knew it didn’t sound right.

  ‘She waited for me,’ Edith started again. ‘After the visitors left . . . Bernie was there,’ she burst out in a rush. ‘She’ll tell you what she did.’

  ‘Bernadette couldn’t recall anything.’ Matron glanced over at the pages in front of her. ‘Two other patients agree as to the order of events. It is clear you attacked Donna and what I want to know is, why? We will obviously need to ensure there are no more violent episodes in the future.’

  ‘Violent . . .’

  ‘This isn’t the first occasion recently where you have lost control, had to be removed from the dayroom. Deputy Matron tells me you have been seeing things again, moving furniture, and of course I don’t need to go into your history with you.’

  Edith’s knees were quivering; her hands couldn’t do anything to stop them. Goosebumps were breaking out on her arms. Her voice was fading in and out as the panic seized her. This felt like the times when she was younger, when she couldn’t make them understand.

  ‘Doctor Malone feels that you can’t control your emotions. We’ve had others who can’t control their disorder, allow themselves to be taken over . . .’

  Edith tried to get her breathing under control, needed to reassure Matron that she was not one of those people. That she could control herself. Her head was full of clouds, like thick sea fog, and the words weren’t coming. Her bruised body seemed weighted down, brain sluggish. She knew she needed to say something, but the more desperate she was to speak the more she struggled to do so.

  ‘Doctor Malone feels that further treatment will have a limited effect.’

  Edith looked up, hope lighting in her eyes. She wouldn’t be having more treatment. Was that really true? Her hands loosened their grip.

  ‘There is a new procedure,’ Matron continued, ‘that could settle you. Doctor Malone is now considering you for this procedure.’

  Her mind raced as Matron said the words: the new procedure. Then with horror she thought of Patricia, her dull eyes, no longer caring the furniture wasn’t straight, the chairs all in the wrong places: not noticing any more. She scratched at the back of her hand, feeling her skin itching, itching as she watched Matron write.

  ‘No . . . I . . . Matron . . .’

  Matron wasn’t looking at her, just writing. It was all upside down and Edith wished she could read better; she could only make out the letters on their own with her finger under them, struggled to remember what they meant
when strung together. What had she written there? What might Doctor Malone do?

  ‘Please, Matron, I . . . please . . .’ She wondered if she kept saying it whether the other words would come, whether Matron would realise Edith wouldn’t do it again, wouldn’t do anything again. She had to find the words. She scratched again, feeling the skin break under her nails.

  Patricia but not Patricia.

  ‘You’ll be returned to the ward, but I’m looking at your privileges now, Edith: unlimited grounds access will be revoked – that will include your time with the gardening gang, the ability to go on outings off-site, your own room. These things will not remain in place and I will be moving you to another ward in the next few days to prepare you for your operation.’

  Edith couldn’t focus; everything was too much. Her walks with Bernie, the garden, pressing the soil into the ground, the scent of the flowers. She closed her eyes, her throbbing body suddenly impossibly heavy. It was as if all the last few years of good behaviour meant nothing to them.

  ‘Now, can I see that you return to the ward without starting a fight on your way, or do you need someone to escort you back? And Edith—’

  ‘Yes, Matron,’ she whispered.

  ‘Doctor Malone will see you first thing.’

  She didn’t hear her, didn’t hear anything apart from the noise in her head, the voice trapped inside that couldn’t speak aloud; that voice was getting louder, raving at Matron, moving out of its shadowed place where it had been hiding. She felt her whole head fill with it, her fists clench as she strained to keep it inside.

  ‘Edith . . . Edith . . . ?’

  She realised she was being dismissed.

  ‘Edith, do you need someone to take you back?’

  She held her head in her hands, shaking it. ‘No, Matron.’

  ‘Right, then.’

  She lifted a hand and Edith knew she had to leave now. She had to think, to get away. She stumbled as she got up, one hand on the desk before leaving. Moving down the corridor, clutching at her ribs, her chest felt tight, her breath shallow as pain swept through her. She felt the nausea as she arrived back on the ward, placed a hand on the cool stone wall and breathed out, hunched over, before she stepped inside.

  She wanted to run through the line of beds in the dormitory but her body just wouldn’t let her. It was evening now and everyone was milling around; all eyes swivelled to Edith as she walked slowly down the aisle. She wasn’t sure if it was the evening of the fight or weeks later. Everyone looked the same, but she could never be sure.

  Bernie was lying on her side with her back to her. Edith thought of what Bernie had told Matron. That she hadn’t been sure what had happened. Other women were watching her from the walls, floor, beds of the room. Joan was reading a book as if no time had passed at all. Joyce stopped patting the wall with the flat of her hand as she passed, waggled a finger at her, a little giggle escaping.

  Edith didn’t pause.

  She wanted to get down the stairs, get down to her room, get into her bed. Her head was still thumping a dull beat and she could feel the tug of drowsy sleep on the edges of it all. If she could just lie down.

  Martha, knees tucked under her chin, watched her as she passed. ‘Edith,’ she called out.

  Edith didn’t stop as she passed.

  Shirley sat on the bed opposite. ‘Donna’s going to be m-a-d when she’s back,’ she said, her mottled body bent over as she secured a bandage on her leg.

  Edith kept walking, to the stairs and the safety of her single room. It was only then that it really hit her: her room wasn’t safe. She would spend every night lying open-eyed, clutching at the sheets, waiting for someone to do something to her; they would come back, and if she said or did anything, what would Doctor Malone do to her?

  There was howling and laughing as Edith turned to head down the stairs, and then a small hand grabbed at the back of her tunic. She spun round, eyes wide, a sharp pain as she lifted her arm, heart racing. It was Bernie: her face red, her eyes puffy. Edith lowered her arm, her breath released, her lungs burning.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bernie whispered, casting a look over her shoulder. ‘When Matron . . . I didn’t . . .’ She was the same height as Edith, standing on the first step. A smell, something below the stairs: matted fur.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Edith said, her voice low too, one hand on the wooden bannister. ‘I know you couldn’t.’

  Bernie was frightened of Shirley and Martha; there was no way she would have said much to Matron.

  ‘I should have,’ Bernie said. She darted her head back towards the room, leant in closer. ‘They told Matron you started it,’ she said hurriedly. ‘They told Matron you’ve had it in for Donna for ages. That you’re always starting fights with her.’

  Edith flinched at that, knowing it would be hopeless to try to tell Matron anything else.

  ‘It’s OK.’ She gave her a gentle push, a small smile. ‘Go on.’

  Bernie turned reluctantly and Edith walked slowly down the stairs, one hand gripping the bannister until she was on her floor, the doors to the single rooms shut, hers left open.

  She felt the remnants of her energy leak out of her the moment she lay down on her bed, grimacing as she shifted. Her eyelids closed, even if she had wanted to stay alert, watch the door. The ache in her head thrummed as she heard the sound of the room above. Was Donna back on the ward too? She forced her eyes open, strained her ears. She could make out a nurse doing the rounds, shut her eyes again. The door opened, torchlight cast over her; the sound of the key being turned. Never again the relief of feeling that for a few hours, at least, she was safe. She would never be sure.

  Chapter 47

  NOW

  The day was finally here. He couldn’t believe it. He was driving her there. There was sunshine in a wide, cornflower-blue sky. He felt his insides flip.

  The arrangements were in place. A halfway house in Dunedin and a place on a secretarial course three days a week. Her parents’ money had been saved, enough for her to buy a small house, somewhere by the sea was what she had said, and the estate had been turned over to her. Edith had seemed tiny signing papers in Doctor Malone’s office, the fountain pen shaking in her hand. She had stopped, a drop of ink bubbling on the end as she went to practise her signature, something she had never needed before. She left the office clutching the sheet filled with different versions, giggling and showing it to Nurse Shaw who had smiled faintly at her, looking at Declan over her shoulder.

  Edith had been moved into another ward, given her own room as she waited for arrangements to be made. She had lessons in cookery, laundry, housekeeping, sewing. She had a visitor now; Mary would come and they would sit for hours, Mary telling her more and more about Primrose and their childhood together: about running through the plannies in the pine needles, splashing in the creek, lying in the meadow at the back of the house, about the way Primrose would curl round Mary at night. How much she still missed her.

  Edith would regale Declan with updates when they met over tea and biscuits in his office. No need to talk about notes or the past but simply for Edith to be excited about the future. She was always checking when they were leaving, when she would be free. It made him grin stupidly at her, his stomach bubbling, daring to hope that he had time to get to know Edith away from Seacliff, away from that place. They would be two people, two young people with different upbringings and experiences but something extraordinary uniting them.

  Declan had undertaken more research in the field, different theories competing in his head: the power of the mind, the nature of the soul, the possibility even of reincarnation. He wasn’t sure what he believed, but it had transformed the way he viewed the world; suddenly there were possibilities in everything: magic everywhere.

  ‘I’ve never even been in the front of a motorcar,’ Edith said when he spoke about the plans for her release.

  Declan smiled at her, thinking then of all the many firsts that Edith would experience; how she would have her first
home, first pet, first dance, first kiss, and he found himself flooded with a happiness for her, an excitement. Imagine seeing the world for the first time, knowing she could travel anywhere, eat, cook, dance, walk whenever? She was free. He felt a renewed glow, a contentment. The best thing he had done.

  He had turned down the job in Wellington and had given his notice to Doctor Malone too. The senior doctor was still in shock and struggling with the investigation into the fire. Martha certainly wasn’t going home now. Declan didn’t want to be in that place any more. He wasn’t sure what the future would bring; he just knew he was leaving with her. He had one more night in Seacliff and then who knew what next.

  Now it seemed surreal that she was beside him, that he was staring across at her sitting in the passenger seat, her curled hair whipped backwards by the breeze from the open window, her cheeks rosier, her face fuller. She looked healthy, itching with excitement as she craned her neck to peer into the distance, taking in the passing landscape, staring out at houses on the side of the road, a cart selling vegetables, the stretches of iron-grey sea they could glimpse in the distance.

  ‘Am I really going to have a new life?’ she asked as they drove along the coast.

  Declan turned and looked at her, feeling his head swim. We both are, he thought, feeling his stomach swirl for the future.

  ‘In my own house,’ she said slowly and quietly, ‘where I can look up at the sky. See shooting stars,’ she added with a grin. Then she grew serious again. ‘And I won’t have to go back to Seacliff, not ever.’

  ‘Not ever.’ Declan laughed at her wonderment. He hit the steering wheel with gloved hands, happiness suffusing his whole body. ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Not even if I say things?’

  Declan shook his head from side to side. ‘Nothing, Edie’ – the name new to him, a small thrill at using it – ‘nothing you can say will ever send you back there. You’re free.’