Tell the Truth

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Never came up.’ He rose, and placed Rachel into her Moses basket, covering her with a lemon-coloured blanket. ‘Me real ma walked out just after we moved to the farm.’

  ‘Oh, Dillon, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me real ma invited Imogen to live with us when she was preggers with Bridie. Her parents had kicked her out.’ He paused, rubbing his hand across his mouth. ‘Can we talk about something else? It’s just I don’t like talking about it – me real ma never said goodbye.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine, Laura,’ he said, but it clearly wasn’t. ‘So, should I ask Imogen?’

  Laura knew she couldn’t carry on as she was. It wasn’t fair on the baby. She would either have to accept his offer, or see the GP, who would probably fill her with tablets, or even take Rachel away – she didn’t want either. She would bond with the child eventually. She had to. They couldn’t go through life like this. Maybe Dillon’s stepmother would understand, help her. But the fear of getting involved with the family was too strong.

  ‘I don’t need anyone, honestly,’ she said. ‘Rachel and I will be just fine.’

  ***

  Two days later, Laura sat outside in the rain, soaked and sobbing, while Rachel screamed inside the house as though her tiny heart would break.

  Dillon approached through the trees, and stood in front of Laura, his hands deep in his pockets.

  She looked up. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, and covered her face with her hands.

  He didn’t reply, just took off into the woods, reappearing some time later with his stepmother, and his sisters.

  ‘I’m Imogen,’ the woman said. She was tiny, her dark hair scraped back in a high ponytail, her fringe uneven. Caitlin, a smiling, pretty baby of eight months, with the same dark hair, was balanced on her hip, and Bridie, more solemn, in grubby dungarees, clung to her mother’s blue and white checked dress.

  The rain had stopped for now.

  Laura brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and got up.

  ‘You poor thing,’ Imogen said, stepping closer. ‘Dillon said you were in a bit of a pickle. Bad case of the baby blues, I shouldn’t wonder. I had it dreadful with Bridie. Couldn’t touch the child for months.’

  She handed Caitlin to Dillon, and bustled Laura inside. She instantly made the red-faced, screaming Rachel a bottle, and changed her diaper.

  ‘Me ma’s pretty good, ain’t she?’ Dillon’s eyes followed Imogen, as she went to work, clearing up, and stuffing washing into the washing machine.

  ‘She is, yes,’ Laura agreed. There was no doubting his words, but watching the woman busying herself made her feel more useless than ever.

  ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, that’s what my mother taught me,’ Imogen said, as she filled the bottle steriliser with water, and dropped in tablets. ‘Not that I believe in God. Well, if there is one, he’s let me down.’ She headed up the stairs, and Laura followed.

  ‘Help me,’ said Imogen, as she changed Laura’s bed, and Laura grabbed the pillows and changed the covers. ‘That’s the idea,’ Imogen went on with a smile, as though she was praising a child.

  Next, Imogen grabbed a duster and wiped it over the chest of drawers. ‘Chanel,’ she said, picking up the bottle and spraying her neck. ‘Nice for some.’

  ‘Shall we go back downstairs?’ Laura said, kicking her dirty underwear under the bed in the hope Imogen wouldn’t notice. It all felt far too intrusive.

  ‘In a moment,’ Imogen said, leaning down and scooping up the underwear. ‘Where’s your linen bin?’

  ‘In the bathroom,’ Laura said, snatching the knickers from her and leaving the bedroom. ‘I can do that.’

  Later, when the house was spotless, and Rachel was gurgling happily in her Moses basket – tugging and stretching the foot of her Babygro – Imogen finally collected up her daughters.

  ‘I’d better get home to put Tierney’s dinner on,’ she said, her eyes skittering over Laura’s paintings on the wall. ‘These are stunning,’ she said. ‘Especially this one.’ She pointed at one of the lake. ‘You’re very talented.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Laura said, a sudden lift inside her. Perhaps she wasn’t as useless as she thought.

  ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise,’ Imogen said, touching Laura’s cheek.

  From the window, Laura watched them go, Dillon trotting behind with a stick the size of him, as though he was their protector.

  Laura wished she had someone to protect her.

  Chapter 13

  February 2018

  By morning, deep snow covered the roads and paths, and a message on my phone at eight-thirty told me Grace’s nursery school was closed.

  I’d always arranged my appointments to coincide with Grace’s nursery sessions. Two clients a day in term time only. At times like these I was grateful to Angela who’d offered as soon as we became friendly to look after Grace if ever I needed her to. Lawrence hadn’t been keen on the arrangement. He had a tendency to be suspicious of ‘Good Samaritan’ strangers. But Grace seemed to like her, and that was good enough for me.

  Grace tucked into her cereal, and I approached and sat down beside her. ‘What’s Farrah like?’ I asked, pushing a tendril of her hair behind her ear, wanting her to say she didn’t like her. It was selfish of me. If Farrah was going be in her life, it was better that Grace liked her. And she liked Grace. For my daughter’s sake, I needed to act like a grown-up about Farrah. Grace seemed to be coping OK with her parents living in different houses; I didn’t want to make things harder for her.

  ‘She’s nice,’ Grace said, nodding. ‘She smells of flowers, and has hair like a princess.’

  It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I tried not to show it.

  ‘Does she kiss Daddy?’ I asked. Stop asking! It wasn’t fair. I didn’t care about Lawrence any more – did I?

  She shook her head, so her curls bounced. ‘Finished!’ Grace dropped her spoon into the empty bowl, and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘You’re not going to nursery today, darling,’ I said. ‘You’re going to see Angela.’

  She turned up her nose.

  ‘You like Angela, don’t you?’ Oh God, please like Angela.

  She shrugged, and slid from the stool. ‘She’s OK, I suppose. But I want to go to nursery. I like nursery.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s closed today, because of the snow.’

  ‘Snow!’ She dashed to the French window, tugged back the curtain, and leaving handprints on the glass, squealed with excitement. ‘WOW! Can we build a snowman, Mummy?’

  ‘Later,’ I said, feeling a pang of guilt that I hadn’t built one with her the night before. ‘Promise.’

  She glanced over her shoulder at me and pulled a grown-up face. ‘Proper promise, or pretend promise?’

  ‘Proper,’ I said, through another shot of guilt. ‘This afternoon.’

  I washed Grace’s face and hands, before tugging on her coat and fur-lined boots. We headed for the front door, and I went to grab my spare keys from the bowl in the porch. I always gave them to Angela when she had Grace, just in case I’d forgotten something my daughter needed. But they weren’t there. Had Angela returned them last time? I couldn’t remember.

  We walked across the garden towards her front door, and rang the doorbell.

  Angela opened up, a wide smile stretching across her face. ‘What a lovely surprise this is,’ she said, tugging her robe around her. ‘We can play Snakes and Ladders, like last time.’ She tweaked Grace’s nose.

  ‘And you promise you won’t fall asleep,’ Grace said, sounding a little precocious, and stepping inside. She dropped onto her bottom and tugged off her snowy boots, clearly remembering Angela’s rules of no shoes in the house.

  ‘I was resting my eyes that day.’ Angela tipped back her head and laughed. ‘I’m not as young as your mummy.’

  I laughed too. ‘Children can be tiring,’ I said,
making a mental note to ask Grace more about her time with Angela, who I felt was hardly of an age to need a mid-morning nap.

  ***

  Back home, I had to keep my mind on track – concentrate on my clients – even though I felt I was the one in need of the therapy session. I’d had counselling once, as part of my training. It had been good for me at the time – helped me come to terms with the fact I might never know who my father was.

  Despite having all my arrangements in place, my first client cancelled because of the weather, so I trudged down the garden and disappeared into the summerhouse to do some paperwork.

  A sharp knock on the window an hour later startled me.

  ‘Rachel, are you in there?’ I glanced over my shoulder to see a freckled face appear behind the glass, pale green eyes searching.

  ‘Emmy,’ I said, looking at my watch and realising it was time for her appointment. I smiled. At least Emmy would lift my mood. I enjoyed her sessions now, proud of how far she’d travelled. Maybe it was unprofessional, but we’d become good friends.

  I opened the door and she stepped in, looking as though she was about to ski down a snowy mountain, dressed in an all-in-one ski-suit, and boots.

  ‘How’s things?’ she said, and what I wouldn’t have given at that moment to tell her everything, unburden myself. But I was here to listen to her. Put her back together again – although most of the stitching had been done. ‘God it’s hot in here,’ she went on, shimmying out of her ski-suit.

  ‘Take a seat,’ I said, once she was down to jeans and a cream cashmere jumper. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She shook her head, and we slipped effortlessly into therapy. I felt sure this would be her last session.

  When she first came, her severe panic attacks, stammering, depression and recurring nightmares were being controlled by medication that helped her cope with her job on morning TV. Her mother had died when she was young, and the tragic stillbirth of Emmy’s baby two years ago had triggered memories of her childhood trauma. The desperate need for a mother figure in her life, at a time when she’d come so close to being a mother herself, had seen her fall apart.

  Her goal when we first met was to attempt to manage without medication, so she could try for another baby. We were both delighted that she’d now been medication-free for over three months.

  ‘I think we could end our sessions for now, Emmy,’ I said at the end of our hour together. ‘You’re doing so well.’

  ‘I agree.’ Her voice was calm and soft. ‘And there’s something else.’ Her eyes shone, as she patted her stomach. ‘I’m going to be a m – mu – mum.’ I picked up on her slight stammer that was mainly under control, only occurring at times of extreme stress or excitement.

  ‘Oh my God, really?’ I squealed.

  ‘Really!’ she yelled, cheeks pink.

  ‘Oh, Emmy, that’s wonderful news.’ I moved in for a hug. This was just the kind of news I needed to lift me. ‘I’m totally made up for you.’

  ‘I’m not quite three months, so I shouldn’t be telling anyone, especially after … well, you know. But then you’re not just anyone, Rachel. You’ve helped me through the worst time in my life.’ Her eyes filled up, and she snatched a couple of tissues from the box and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m not sure where I would be right now if I hadn’t booked that first appointment a year ago.’

  ‘I’m just glad I could help,’ I said, through a lump in my throat. It was one of those moments when I was proud to be a psychotherapist. ‘And if you ever need me, you know where I am.’

  ‘So what about you?’ she said, patting my knee. ‘Something isn’t right. I can tell.’

  Was it that obvious? ‘We’re not here to discuss me, Emmy,’ I said, closing her file.

  ‘But our sessions are over. Talk to me.’ She leaned forward and stared into my face. ‘This isn’t to do with that stupid call to the studio, is it?’

  ‘God no, I put that out of my head a long time ago,’ I lied.

  ‘If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.’ She leaned back in the chair, and gave a hurt shrug.

  ‘It’s just I’ve had a couple of odd friend requests from strangers on Facebook, and they’ve unnerved me a bit, that’s all.’

  She leaned forward once more. ‘I used to get them all the time – loads of people do, it’s nothing to worry about. In fact, I once got a message from someone saying he was in the forces, and wanted to marry me.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve now tweaked my settings to only allow friends of friends to add me. It’s easy to do, Rachel. You should get on to that.’

  ‘Yes, yes I will.’

  ‘That’s not all, is it?’ She furrowed her forehead. ‘What’s wrong, Rach?’

  ‘It’s my mum.’ I’d never mentioned her before, keeping my private life private when talking to clients. ‘She’s in a care home. Has dementia.’ I shook my head, wishing the words hadn’t tumbled out. It was unprofessional, but then the boundaries between us were already frayed. ‘The thing is …’ I began, about to tell her about the pictures of the farmhouse, that I thought there were secrets in my mother’s past.

  ‘Well, at least she’s still alive, Rachel,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘Make the most of any good times you have left.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling guilty for complaining, when Emmy would have given anything to still have her mother, even if her lucidity was infrequent. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right.’

  She laid her hand on mine. ‘Listen, just call me any time, if you need me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling unsettled by the sudden role reversal.

  When she’d gone, I sat down at my desk, not sure if I wanted to cry or laugh hysterically at the mess I called my life. I rammed my head into my hands, wishing I could purge the worries about my mum from my head – if only for a while.

  My mobile rang, forcing me out of my thoughts. It was a number I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Rachel Hogan?’ A man’s voice – quiet, low, even.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Martin Walker from Dream Meadows Care Home.’ I’d met him a few times. He managed the home. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he continued.

  ‘Oh, God has my mother wandered off?’

  ‘I’m afraid your mother passed away this morning. I’m so sorry.’

  It took me a moment to catch my breath. My mum. Dead? ‘I don’t understand. She wasn’t ill. How did she die?’

  ‘A heart attack.’

  ‘But she was on medication for her heart.’

  ‘Miss Hogan, perhaps you could come here … it would be better if I we could talk in person. Could you come to the care home today, and we’ll talk here?’ His voice had became more insistent as he added, ‘As soon as possible.’

  Chapter 14

  February 2018

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind keeping Grace this afternoon?’ I said, standing on Angela’s doorstep, stepping from foot to foot, more to control my shaking limbs than to keep warm.

  She leaned forward and touched my face. I knew it must look blotchy and puffy from the tears that had followed Martin Walker’s call. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Grace is an absolute angel. I’m just sorry I can’t help you more.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I’m so sorry about your mum.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I tugged my parka round me like a protective layer, and stepped backwards. If she tried to hug me, I knew I would cry again. ‘I’m afraid I still can’t find my spare key, so I hope everything Grace needs is in her bag.’

  ‘No problem at all.’

  I was about to leave when Grace trotted into Angela’s hallway. I hadn’t wanted her to see me in such a state.

  ‘Mummy?’ She looked rosy-cheeked from playing in the snow, and was carrying a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on the top, like lost boats on dark waters. ‘Have you come to get me?’

  I knelt down in front of her. ‘Not yet, lovely girl,’ I said. ‘That looks delicious.’

  ‘Want som
e?’ she said, offering up the mug, and smiling a chocolaty smile.

  ‘Ooh, yes please.’ I took a small sip, enjoying the smooth liquid on my tongue, as she stared wide-eyed. ‘Yummy!’

  ‘I’m watching Peppa Pig, actually,’ she said, and turned and walked down the hall away from me, calling, ‘See you later, Mummy. Love you.’

  ‘Love you more,’ I called after her, noticing she was wearing a pair of fluffy slippers in the shape of rabbits that were a bit too big for her.

  Spotting where my eyes had landed, Angela threw me an awkward smile. ‘My sister leaves them here for when she visits with her granddaughter. I hope you don’t mind Grace wearing them.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, attempting to return the smile. She’d never mentioned a sister, but then I knew so little about her.

  ‘Well, I’d better set off,’ I said, thanking Angela again, and trudging towards my car.

  Despite being a confident driver, I hated driving in the snow, and knowing what I would find at the other end sent a bolt of anxiety through me. ‘I hope to be back by six at the latest,’ I called over my shoulder.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your mum,’ she repeated, before closing her front door.

  ***

  The side roads were icy, but once I was on the main roads, doing a steady fifty, driving got easier, until I reached Suffolk. There, the countryside was treacherous and it took me ages to reach the care home. My head thumped like a bass drum by the time I pulled up in front of it.

  I took a couple of painkillers with bottled water, and sat for some moments, trying to calm myself, beating back tears. The care home looked like something from a Jane Austen novel – stately, with rectangular windows, a double front door, and wisteria weaving its way up the walls. It was still hard to believe my mother had been there because Alzheimer’s struck long before her time.

  And now she’d passed away. Died. My mother was dead. My amazing mother who I loved so much was gone. Not just into her own world, but forever. Tears surged, and I broke down, sobbing over the steering wheel. Loud, breathless cries I couldn’t control. I didn’t want to go in. If I did it would make it real. I started the engine, and rammed the car into reverse. I couldn’t face it today. I couldn’t face it ever.