During the first and second week, she refused visitors. Patient withdrawn. In the third week her father and husband were allowed in. After the visit she threw her dinner at staff. A nurse found her tying towels together attempting to make a noose. Reported as refusing to cooperate in further attempts at interviews, tried on three occasions to leave the ward, tried hacking at her wrists with a cutlery knife. The family had been contacted regarding committal should the patient continue to be a danger to herself.
Stephanie goes back to the father’s letter. My wife suffered from depression for some years and was hospitalised on several occasions. In the end we lost her in very sad circumstances. I am transferring my daughter in the hope that a private clinic may provide her with the help that my wife, perhaps in retrospect, should have been given when she first became ill. In the past Elisabeth has been a strong and stable girl. She and her husband, Peter, had recently discovered they were to have a child and she appeared overjoyed about the prospect of becoming a mother. Peter and the rest of the family have been stunned at what has since happened.
Sad circumstances?
Stephanie makes notes. Was pregnant. Hormonal? It’s not all that likely but it can happen. She reads the rest of the letter. I am writing this letter because the family wishes to be consulted, wherever appropriate, regarding Elisabeth’s care and treatment. We are anxious that we be involved.
But what if she doesn’t want that? What if the family’s part of the problem? Stephanie’s seen patients devastated by family interference. They’re starting to respond, starting to blossom and then there’s a family visit and they close right up again. She gathers up the papers, replaces them in the file. She pulls out the next folder. Cameron Foster. Cam. He’s in again. A nice boy; gentle, sensitive. Too sensitive. Things have got too much for him; he’s back to cutting himself.
After ten, she’s involved in the ward meeting which happens every day. It’s one of the strengths of this place, this daily routine which insists on involvement. In the mornings the patients are up at the same time to shower, eat breakfast and then go to the ward meeting followed by ward duties. That’s unless they’re on bed rest.
They’re all together in the main lounge. Today there’s around fifteen patients. She slips into the circle of chairs. She’s there mainly to observe but also to intervene if that’s needed. The ward meeting’s run each day by one of the patients and everyone has a turn. She smiles over at Will Ryan. He’s the nurse on duty this morning.
It’s Rowan Aitcheson’s turn to run the meeting. Stephanie braces herself. Rowan’s confrontational at the best of times and here she is squatting up on the chair, her legs crossed under her and her face already belligerent. She’s got some issue. She’s going to use the meeting to have go at someone, Stephanie would swear to it.
‘Okay,’ Rowan says, ‘we’ll start with circle of feelings. Jenny, you start.’
Stephanie looks over at Jenny. She’s glowering at Rowan.
‘That’s not the way you’re supposed to start. You’re supposed to invite me, not tell me.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Do you want to start or not?’
‘Right, well I will then but it’s not the way you’re meant to do it. What I’m feeling is really pissed off with Rowan. All I was doing was having a smoke outside and Rowan told on me. I thought you were my friend, Rowan.’
‘Why I told is you’re not allowed to smoke on your own. So I don’t appreciate you saying what you said about me last night.’
Jenny has scars from cigarette burns all up and down her arms. She has to be supervised when she smokes. Rowan looks over at Stephanie for support. Stephanie keeps her face impervious, she doesn’t say anything.
Then Kay speaks. She’s a peacemaker, hates any conflict.
‘Jenny, Rowan would only be thinking about what’s best for you.’
‘This is between me and Rowan,’ Jenny says.
‘That’s not true.’ Jane’s in on it now, looking agitated, ‘This is a ward meeting.’
‘Yeah, well, Rowan’s right though, Jenny,’ Brent says. ‘You’ve got more burns on your arms. I saw them the other day.’
Stephanie listens. She watches the patients’ faces. She checks around the circle for Elisabeth Clark. Not there. Must be on bed rest.
I’m feeling okay today. I feel like I’m getting better.
I’m feeling angry. They’re making me eat way too much and I’m feeling like I’m getting fat again.
I feel like I’m in prison. I want to go home.
Cam’s hunched up into his chair. ‘I’m feeling really sad.’
He pulls up the sleeves of his shirt and hold out his arms showing the cuts. ‘I thought I was better.’ He starts to cry.
In the afternoon Stephanie goes to Elisabeth’s room. She taps on the door. There’s no answer. She turns the knob quietly and steps inside.
The curtains are drawn and the room is dark. Stuffy and airless and dark. She’s curled tightly on her side sleeping, the blankets pulled up around her head. Stephanie takes the board attached to the end of the bed and reads through the nurses’ notes. Temperature and pulse normal, blood pressure 140 over 85, a bit high for someone Beth’s age but probably that’s because she’s anxious.
She moans softly and turns over. She looks untroubled and healthy and so young, her face rosy from the heat in the room and soft and smooth in sleep. Stephanie stays for a moment watching her. She wonders what will happen with this one, if she’ll respond to treatment, that is if the right diagnosis is made, the right treatment found. If she was looking down on a sleeping patient who had appendicitis, gall-bladder problems, a tumour even, there would be certain paths to take. With this it’s tortuous, so uncertain it’s as if she feels sometimes she’s wandering aimlessly around in a labyrinth. She believes a patient is making progress then suddenly there they are back at square one and most of the time she has no real understanding of how that could have happened.
How would it be if you had voices that seemed utterly real and trustworthy telling you what to do? How would it be if your mental state was elevated to the point where everything was miraculous, anything at all possible and reachable?
How would it be to plummet so far into despair that you aborted the pregnancy everyone believed you’d longed for, to be in such pain you had to get rid of it and then yourself?
She looks at the drug schedule. Fairly heavy. She’s sleeping a lot. Maybe let her sleep and then reduce the dosage within the next few days. Maybe it’s better to sleep, to remain so drugged up she never has to explain, never has to think, never has to go over and over and over what has happened.
Inside the house was stifling. All you could do was lie on your bed. You couldn’t read, couldn’t do anything. Because round and round and round in your head it kept on going. I should have stayed with Gemma and watched her. I should have lifted her up on my shoulders, taken her to watch the plane, taken her wherever she wanted. I shouldn’t have been reading that stupid magazine. I shouldn’t have taken so long mucking about, tightening my sandals to piss Minna off.
Because if I’d gone right away I may have found her. Because if I’d looked after her every minute she would never have been lost.
She feels the heat within the room enfold her. There’s a faint wind outside catching the blind and it taps faintly against the window. She’s mesmerised for a moment in the too-warm room, the barely audible tap-tap-tap almost hypnotic. She stands motionless, watching the girl sleeping then forces herself to turn around, quietly twist the doorknob, walk down the corridor and back into her office.
There’s a message on her voicemail. Mark. What if I cook for us tonight? I’ll bring everything. See you at seven. If it doesn’t suit, text me.
She’s seeing Mark more frequently lately, more than once a week. He’s staying overnight more often as well.
She isn’t sure about this. If she starts seeing him during the week the next thing he’ll be there all the time. She can’t have that. There’
s her research; the reading she has to do, the papers she has to write. She stares beyond the window into the garden. She likes Mark, likes him a lot if she’s honest about it. Though what she should do is tell him she’s busy. But then again, what would be the harm in having a meal together? She hasn’t got much work on tonight and, anyway, she could get in to her office early, get something done in the morning.
Better to stick to the rules. Unspoken rules, sure, but rules she thought they both understood. She picks up the phone. Puts it down again.
He’s there when she gets home and that feels immediately strange and wrong, coming into her own flat seeing him there already. He knows where she keeps the spare key, in the carport underneath the bucket she uses to wash her car. She told him that but still, coming into her own place, seeing her own bench covered with peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms, spinach and garlic doesn’t seem at all right.
He looks up smiling. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Very domestic, eh?’
That’s not what he should say, either. It seems intrusive and presumptuous. And he’s set her table with flowers and candles carefully placed in the middle. Jesus, next it’ll be what about if we set a date and start selecting china and cutlery?
‘Hi.’
She sits on the sofa, her own ugly beige corduroy sofa, though she’s feeling like a visitor, a visitor in her own place.
He glances over at her, looks more closely. ‘Bad day? ‘
Oh, fuck, and now he’s started asking about her day.
She forces a smile, shakes her head. ‘I’m a bit tired.’
He opens a bottle of wine, pours two glasses. Glasses she doesn’t recognise. He’s brought his own wine glasses, he’s moving in. He holds one out to her and she takes it. He sits down beside her, places his hand on her neck and begins to massage it slowly in a way that sets her teeth on edge. It’s time to redefine the boundaries, take back control. She leans forward and places the glass in front of her on the coffee table.
‘Mark, I don’t drink wine during the week.’
‘Not even when someone has bought special wine and slaved over making a delicious meal for you?’ He’s grinning at her.
‘No I don‘t.’
‘Hey, what’s wrong? What’s going on?’
‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’
His hand has stopped kneading, ‘What’s not a good idea?’
‘Eating together. I’ve got a lot of work on. If I get behind I won’t be able to catch up.’
She knows her face is stiff and closed. She knows her body is rigid. She knows her voice sounds like some prissy school teacher.
His smile has gone and he’s staring at her. ‘I thought it might be fun.’
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Right. What do you want me to do? Shall I cook and leave or do you want me to go right now? Your choice.’
She looks miserably at him. She’d like to say she’s sorry, make some excuse. She’d like to burrow up against him. Tell him about Wanaka. About Gemma. She’s never told him anything about it, never told anyone.
‘Maybe you’d better go,’ she says.
She doesn’t look at him as he leaves. She hears the door close. She picks up the TV remote and stares for a moment at what’s on the screen. Some quiz show; she takes none of it in. In the end she switches it off, goes to the bench and starts to clear up. He’s left the food exactly as it was. She tries to be angry about that as she sweeps it into the rubbish tin.
She makes herself a sandwich, takes it to the table and eats, then switches on her laptop and begins to read through what she wrote the night before. It reads quite well. She’s right up to schedule with her research but if she starts interrupting her routine she’ll fall behind. She has no choice, she has to keep at it.
10.
Westport, 1996
He’s always around. At first Beth doesn’t mind. The girls at school think he’s cool so it makes her feel good telling them he comes to their house. She doesn’t know all that many kids now she’s started at the high school and she wants them to like her. And at first she likes it when he says to call him Ward, even though he’s an adult and a teacher and her mother looks swiftly at them when he says it as if she wants to say no. Calling him Ward made her feel grown up. Ward came to our place for dinner on Sunday.
He’s funny. He tells jokes, laughs a lot. When he’s there the house feels different. Lighter. Easier. She likes how Mum giggles when he says that’s the best meal I’ve had in weeks, my mum tried to teach me to cook but all I can do is burnt eggs on burnt toast.
It was Dad who invited him first. At the barbecue, after the school sports at the beginning of the year, she saw him looking across at her and Mum and Dad and Gracie and then he walked over to them. He said she ran well even though it wasn’t really true, she started okay but didn’t hold it, and he said she could be a really top runner, he’d watched her at the cross-country last week and she should keep it up. Dad shook his hand and Mum did what she always does when she meets new people, went red and didn’t meet his eyes. Then he turned up at church and Dad asked him if he’d like to come for dinner. Dad says it’s good to get the young ones coming along to church.
Sometimes he brings Holly with him. She’s his girlfriend now. That happened because of him coming to their place and Beth’s not all that happy about it. He came to dinner and Holly called in to give Dad the new brochures and he said she should stay and have pudding and the next thing she’s Ward’s girlfriend. Dad really likes Holly, likes it that she’s his girlfriend. And when Ward starts playing with Gracie, gets her down on the floor and starts tumbling her about and tickling her so hard she squeals and giggles, everyone looks at Holly when they say Ward’s going to be a real great dad one of these days.
Holly works at the tourism office. Dad says she puts so much work his way he doesn’t think they’d even have a business if it wasn’t for her. She was Beth’s friend way before she was Ward’s; they started being friends right back when Dad bought the boat and Holly gave him advice when he was starting up. She used to give Beth sweets and she used to say to Dad oh she’s so cute. But now Beth’s grown up Holly sometimes does her hair in different styles when she pops into their house and when Beth goes with Dad to the tourism office if Holly’s having a quiet spell she takes her out for a cappuccino.
Holly used to come over by herself but now she’s almost always with him. But she’s still Beth’s friend. Last time she came she gave her nail polish. Cherry Punch, the same as hers. Not that Mum would let her wear it out anywhere, she can only try it on at home. Holly’s pretty, her eyes are dark blue and shiny and her hair is reddish fluffy curls. When she laughs she opens up her eyes really wide and shakes her head. She’s not as pretty as Mum, though. Mum’s really beautiful. Everyone says so.
When Holly comes with Ward she goes out into the kitchen and helps Mum and talks to her and he talks to Dad and most of the time they go to the shed and work on the boat. Sometimes when Dad goes out fishing he takes him along if there’s a space. Never on the overnight trips though. When Dad does the overnighters it’s only for the tourists.
But when Holly doesn’t come, sometimes Dad isn’t there to talk to him and take him away. Ward says he’ll give Mum a hand and he follows her out into the kitchen and Mum looks like she’s not all that pleased but she can’t say anything because he’s a visitor and you have to be polite. Beth worries that Mum might start getting nervy again. Sometimes Mum gets real bad headaches and has to stay in bed. She heard Dad tell Granny when she stayed ages looking after Gracie and Mum was in bed and couldn’t stop crying it’ll only be the two now, Mum, Ellie’s not strong enough.
But Mum looking a bit uncomfortable around Ward isn’t the only thing Beth doesn’t feel right about. Most of the time he’s all smiley, like he wants to be everyone’s best friend, but once she caught him looking at Holly real critical, like he wasn’t keen on her at all, and she felt so bad because she sees how much Holly wants him to
like her. Beth wishes so hard she hadn’t met him in their house. She really likes Holly, she loves her, she doesn’t want anything bad to happen to her.
She waits until Mum’s on her own folding the washing.
‘Mum, do you like Ward?’
Mum glances at her, then looks down at the towel she has in her hands and starts to smooth out the creases. ‘Ward? Well, yes, Beth, I do like Ward. Dad does as well. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t like him.’
‘Why not? He’s always very nice to you. Every time he comes over he brings something for you and Gracie.’
‘I don’t like how he’s always here. He takes up everybody’s time.’
‘Oh surely not, Beth.’
‘I never get to be just with you, Mum. Or Dad or Gracie. Or Holly.’
‘Ah.’ Mum looks likes she’s trying not to smile.
‘What do you mean, a-a-ah?’
‘Holly’s your special friend, isn’t she?’
‘Are you saying I’m jealous, Mum? Is that what you think? Because I’m not. I just don’t like him.’
‘I think you’re being silly. Ward’s not here all the time and, anyway, perhaps you might think about how he could be feeling. Most people who live in Westport have lived here all their lives, it could be that he feels quite lonely. Anyway, he’s part of our church now and we have a responsibility to make people feel welcome.’
‘Why doesn’t he go to some other family’s house? Why does he always have to come here?’
‘Beth, I think you’re being unkind. I don’t like the way you’re talking right now.’
So she keeps quiet about it, tells herself Mum’s right, he’s okay really and he must like Holly because if he didn’t she wouldn’t be his girlfriend, would she? That way he looked at her, perhaps she got it wrong.
But another thing Beth doesn’t like is how Dad teases her when Ward’s around, like she’s some little kid to be made fun of and not almost thirteen. Telling stories that make her look stupid while they’re all eating dinner together and there’s no way of getting away. She has to just sit there listening to her secrets being told and she can’t say anything because if she did it’d be rude.
Hunting BLind: It's Every Family's Deepest Fear Page 8