I wish Alex hadn’t told him that. It’s humiliating and it makes me sound weak. ‘Oh, no. We didn’t ask for an appointment––’
‘Can you describe the symptoms you had when you experienced it?’ His voice is flat, soporific.
I look at Alex. It’s meant as a reproach, but he takes it as a prompt and answers for me.
‘She has difficulty breathing,’ he says, ‘and she feels dizzy. That’s right, Katie, isn’t it?’
I nod.
Dr Irving hasn’t taken his eyes off me. ‘Go on please, Mrs Riley,’ he says.
‘I get frightened. My pulse races and I feel the need to escape, sort of, to get out of the house, I suppose, but my legs won’t hold me up.’
The doctor swivels in his chair so he’s facing the computer screen, and jiggles and clicks his mouse. ‘Uh-huh. Anything else?’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Nausea,’ he says, typing slowly, using mainly his index fingers.
‘Insomnia?’ There’s no rising intonation and it takes me a second or two to realise that this is a question.
‘No. I find it hard to get to sleep sometimes, but I’ve been tired since … well, you know, with Chloe, so once I fall asleep at night, I don’t wake up until she does.’
‘I see. Any chest pain?’
‘No. Just a pain in my stomach. Like bad nerves.’
‘OK. How long did this panic attack last?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Less than five minutes, I’d say,’ Alex offers. ‘Three or four minutes, tops.’
Again, I wonder how long Alex was behind me on the staircase before he came to my aid. Did he just stand there while I was struggling to catch my breath? Did he watch me panic for three or four minutes without intervening?
‘Have you had an anxiety attack like this before, Mrs Riley?’
I’m staring at Alex, lost in my thoughts, and the doctor has to repeat his question before I hear it.
‘Yes.’ I can’t find it in me to elaborate.
‘Any crying episodes?’
I remember sobbing earlier as Alex held me against him on the stairs.
Again, Alex answers for me. ‘She did cry earlier. And she cries sometimes in the evenings or at bedtime.’
I look at Alex, but he seems to be avoiding my gaze. Surely he’s not referring to our wedding night when I sobbed next to him in bed? Or the evening he accused me of tampering with his shower gel and made me cry?
Doctor Irving rolls his office chair round to my side of the desk and unwinds the stethoscope from around his neck.
‘I’ll just check your heart and lungs,’ he says, ‘and then I’ll take your blood pressure.’
When he has finished examining me, the doctor types up a few more notes. Then, without further comment to me, he starts talking to Alex about Chloe. I hear them talking, but I can’t decipher what they’re saying. I’m in a daze. I allow myself to zone out for a while.
Recently, I’m the one who has been looking after Chloe the most, and yet the doctor doesn’t ask me a single question about my baby. The two men seem to have forgotten I am there. I don’t feel like I’m there myself. I’m removed from all of this, as though it’s all happening to someone else.
I vaguely register that Chloe wakes up when Doctor Irving starts to examine her. Although she cries, it is not the high-pitched screeching that I’m used to hearing. It’s a cry that I find less disturbing and normal.
‘I’m going to prescribe you some low-dose anti-depressants, Mrs Riley,’ the doctor is telling me when I tune back in. ‘The anxiety, bouts of crying and tiredness you’ve described indicate to me that you have post-natal depression.’
‘I’m not depressed,’ I protest. But I think my words might have stayed in my head.
‘Your family live far away and so it’s hardly surprising,’ the GP continues. ‘I understand that you were worried about bonding with your daughter when Alexander went back to work––’
‘Well, I was looking forward––’
‘And, of course, I know about your mother-in-law’s bad fall, but now she’s on the mend, I think it would be a good idea if she could help you out with Chloe,’ he says. ‘Alexander seems to think that Sandy would relish the chance to see more of her granddaughter.’
Alex takes my hand. I resist the urge to snatch it back.
‘Can I continue to give Chloe my breast milk on this medication?’ I hear the words coming out of my mouth even though I’m not aware of the thought going through my mind. I have no intention of taking anti-depressants anyway.
‘Yes, you can. It’s very mild.’
‘Perhaps we should switch to formula,’ Alex says. ‘Chloe prefers feeding from the bottle anyway.’
‘That’s up to the two of you,’ Doctor Irving drones, ‘but it could be a good way of monitoring how much milk Chloe is taking.’
‘Monitoring?’
‘As I was saying to your husband, Mrs Riley, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your baby girl except for the fact that she’s a little underweight.’
I say nothing all the way home. I’m confused. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep so that I can begin to unravel what’s going through my mind.
I replay my conversation with Doctor Irving in my head. I’m not depressed. I feel misunderstood by the GP. I feel betrayed by my husband, as if he didn’t stick up for me when Doctor Irving made his diagnosis. I even feel let down by Chloe, although I know this is irrational. But it’s as though she was on her best behaviour at the health centre so that the doctor would think I was the one with a problem.
I do fall asleep for a few minutes and when I open my eyes, we’re home. I see it before Alex does. There’s a cardboard box in the porch. With his easy stride, Alex is wheeling Chloe in her pram towards the entrance when he notices it. He stops dead in his tracks and I nearly walk into him. He turns to look at me, a quizzical expression on his face.
The parcel doesn’t have a name on it or an address. It’s the size of a large shoebox. I pick it up and notice it’s quite light. I shake it and something moves around inside the box. I hand it to Alex. He doesn’t even open the door and take it into the house. Instead, he tears off the parcel tape, ripping the box open right there on the doorstep. I stay behind him, as though he’s shielding me.
An unmarked parcel. Someone has come up the drive and left this here. I’m reluctant to find out what this is. I cling to the hope that this could be a benign present, but my senses are telling me otherwise.
Looking over Alex’s shoulder, I smell it at the same time as I see what it is. This is no gift. There are flowers in this box, about a dozen of them, but it’s not a bouquet from a friend, that’s for sure. The flowers are dead and their heads are separate from their stems.
To begin with, I’m more puzzled than frightened. Is this supposed to be scary? A warning? A threat?
I look at Alex. If I had any doubt about the phone calls, this time I know it’s not him. He was with me when this was delivered. He has fear written all over his face, which has drained of colour. I notice he’s biting his bottom lip. I’m missing the point, I think, taking the box gently from his hands.
‘I don’t get it,’ I tell him.
I peer into the box again. There are purple flowers and red flowers. There’s a lot of soil, which appears to have been scattered over the flowers. Tentatively, I touch them. The purple flowers are artificial rather than dead, I realise now, but their heads have been snipped off their stems just as for the red ones. I count them, pushing each dead bloom to the side of the box in turn. Thirteen flowers altogether.
My fingers feel something else, under the flowers. It’s a small card. I pull it out and read the words written on it in small, neat letters. How ironic. But I’m not sure I’ve grasped the meaning. I read the words again. Wake up and smell the dead flowers.
Alex is leaning against the stone wall and hasn’t seen me take the card out. Quickly, I stuff it into my handbag. He doesn�
�t look like he can take much more for now.
‘The flowers,’ Alex says. ‘They’re … they’re …’ He doesn’t seem to have the force to finish his sentence.
It takes me several seconds, but then it hits me. Oh, no! I feel my eyes widen as I meet Alex’s gaze.
‘Poppies and violets,’ I whisper.
Chapter 14
~
In the end, I have to drop it. I bring it up several times that day, but Alex either changes the subject or walks out of the room. He refuses categorically to call the police and I can’t get him to tell me why.
But I can’t stop thinking about the box. Questions whirl round and round in my head. Who would do this? Why? What does it mean? All this has rattled me. And I am scared now.
It’s clear in my mind that the parcel is linked to Alex’s older daughters Poppy and Violet. Poppies are in season right now, a quick internet search has informed me, but violets are springtime flowers. Perhaps that’s why the violets were artificial. I think the number of flowers – thirteen in total – is supposed to be unlucky. Is someone cursing us?
I think Alex should contact his ex-wife, but I know there’s no point suggesting that. Maybe I should try to find her myself. I’m also tempted to go to the police tomorrow when Alex goes back to work, but he has burnt the box and everything in it, so there’s no evidence now anyway. Except for the card. It’s still in my handbag.
I haven’t been able to tell Alex about the card. I’m not sure if I should. He’s obviously shutting this out and that seems to be his way of dealing with it. But every time I close my eyes, I see the words. Wake up and smell the dead flowers. It’s as if they’re stamped on the inside of my eyelids.
I can’t explain why, but I get the impression that the message is intended for me. Someone is warning me, telling me to open my eyes. I have to be more aware of what’s going on around me. Or more wary. I think that’s what it means. But I have no idea what I’m not seeing.
I need to keep my wits about me, which is another reason why there’s no way I’m taking the medication Doctor Irving has prescribed for me. The main reason, of course, is that there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not depressed. Freaked out at times, yes. Sad, homesick and lonely, yes. But depressed, certainly not. And I know what depression is. I’ve seen it. I know what it can do. They’ve got it wrong.
I don’t protest, though, when Alex goes to the chemist late that afternoon to pick up my prescription. And that evening, when he opens the bottle of pills and hands me one, I take it compliantly and put it on my tongue. Then I take a sip from the toothbrush glass, which Alex has filled with water from the tap.
I don’t want to make Alex angry by refusing to take the tablet. So, under his watchful eye, I pretend to swallow it. I can tell from the look on his face he’s very concerned about me.
‘I’m worried about you,’ Alex says, as if reading my thoughts, ‘so I’ve asked my mum to come round next week. She’ll help out with Chloe, give you a chance to rest.’
In my head, I swear. In the mirror, I smile at Alex. Then, on second thoughts, I decide it might be a good thing if my mother-in-law spends some time with Chloe. Perhaps I could go out on my own for a while and shop for some clothes that actually fit. Or I could meet up with Vicky at that gym she mentioned or go for a swim. I like the idea of a change of scenery. And I think a bit of sport would do me good now.
On the Monday, Sandy arrives before Alex leaves for work. I can hear them talking in the kitchen as I pad down the stairs and along the hallway in my slippers.
‘She’s suffering from post-natal depression,’ Alex says. ‘Can you keep an eye on her?’
I don’t like the idea of my mother-in-law watching over me.
‘Do you think Chloe’s safe when Kaitlyn’s on her own with her?’
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ Alex says, in a solemn voice I haven’t heard before. ‘Just keep an eye on her.’
This time I think he’s instructing her to look out for Chloe rather than spy on me.
‘You certainly know how to pick them, Alexander.’
I clear my throat loudly as I come into the kitchen. Then, as my mother-in-law’s words sink in, I wish I’d eavesdropped a little longer. What did Sandy mean by that?
‘Good morning, Sandy,’ I say. My tone is cool and I glare at her. I can’t help it.
Alex leaps up from his seat to make me some tea, and once he has done that, he makes a speedy departure for work.
By mid-morning, I’m fed up with making cups of tea and polite conversation. By mid-afternoon, I’m starting to go mad.
‘Why don’t I take Chloe out for a long walk and you can have a nap?’ Sandy asks when I sigh for at least the tenth time in five minutes.
I’m about to snap that I’m not tired, but then I think the better of it. It will do me good to have some ‘me time’, as Julie calls it. When she was staying, she kept saying how important it is for mothers of young children to pamper themselves now and then so they don’t lose their minds.
‘Are you sure, Sandy? I’ll come with you if you like.’ I don’t sound very enthusiastic.
Luckily, my mother-in-law insists, so I get the baby bag ready and a few minutes later I watch Sandy pushing the pram down the driveway in her impracticable heels.
I don’t know what to do with myself once Sandy and Chloe have left. I don’t feel like taking a nap – I’m wired, not tired. I consider doing some cleaning, but I can’t be bothered. The house isn’t quite as spotless as Alex would like, but it’s spick and span by anyone else’s standards.
As I’m sitting on the sofa cradling a mug of tea in my hands, my mind inevitably wanders to the box again. The dead flowers covered in dirt. The card with its confusing message. I remember the cardboard box in the guestroom and I picture Julie’s curious face when she asked months ago if we should open it. I rejected the idea at the time – we were looking for the necklace and it couldn’t possibly have found its way by accident into a sealed box, but ever since it cropped up in my dream the other day, I’m as keen to know what’s in there as Julie was.
Do I dare? How would I feel if Alex went through my things? My eyes are drawn to the whiskey I gave Alex for his birthday. The bottle is still in its box, unopened, on the coffee table. The sight of it and the memory it carries spur me into action. I set down my half-full mug of tea on the coffee table next to it and then I make my way into the kitchen and grab a pair of scissors before heading upstairs. My movements feel automatic and unconscious, as if I’m sleepwalking or being pulled along by my hand. I don’t resist.
Moments later, I find myself kneeling in front of the open box, hesitating. Last time I didn’t trust Alex, I made things worse by going through his phone and jumping to the wrong conclusion about a text message that turned out to be perfectly innocuous.
You really don’t trust me at all, do you? It’s so like his voice, I almost believe my husband is on his knees next to me. I shudder.
He’s the one who accused me of chatting up Tom.
But I’m the one snooping on my spouse.
I’ve no inkling of what could be in there. What if I discover something I don’t want to know? I might be better off not going through with this. But that parcel has reminded me of this box and now I have to find out what’s inside.
I feel bad about not trusting Alex, but he has told me so many lies that I can no longer see the truth. I’ve been blind, or blinded. I need to open my eyes – and therefore this box. Inside there might just be one more piece that’s missing from the puzzle my life is becoming. If I don’t open it, I may not ever see the bigger picture.
All this wavering is getting my adrenalin going, but it’s also giving me pins and needles in my calves. I’m not really in two minds about opening this box; deep down I know I’m going to open it. I also know it will probably turn out to be nothing. I’m building this up out of all proportion, but I’m in for a huge anticlimax. At least, I hope I am.
The very first thing I pull
out of the box is a book entitled First to the Finish Line: My Incredible Journey from Injury to Ironman. It has a photo of a triathlete in action on the cover. Thumbing through it, I notice there’s a handwritten dedication at the front of the book.
To Alex.
With all my love, always.
Nicola. X
My heart misses a beat or two. Then I reason with myself. The spine of the book is quite worn and I’m pretty sure this box was taped up long before I got here. I’ve never heard of Nicola. She must be one of Alex’s ex-girlfriends from before he married me.
Under the book are lots of trophies. I inspect each of them in turn. Unsurprisingly, they’re all for triathlons. Under the cups are medals with pictures of swimmers, cyclists and runners embossed on them. I’m surprised Alex doesn’t have them on display. He likes to extol his athletic prowess at every opportunity, and I think he’s quite right to be proud of his sporting results.
But then, on closer examination, I notice the athletes on the medals are female. Do these belong to Nicola? Or to another of Alex’s ex-girlfriends? The jealous thoughts just keep coming. He must have lived with this woman at one point if he still has her trophies. I imagine he packed them away when they split up. Whoever she was. It can’t have been Melanie. I’ve heard him criticise his ex-wife many times for being ‘intellectual rather than athletic’. His words.
Wondering if the whole box contains mementos of Alex’s past flames, or belongings one of them has left behind, I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly before carrying on. The next thing I take out is a pair of handcuffs. With black fur. For fuck’s sake! I’m starting to feel sick now. I need to stop now. I don’t want to know any more.
But I push my hand into the box again and rummage around to see what else it contains. There’s nothing else. I peer into the empty box and then I do a double take. There is something left – a large white envelope at the bottom of the box. Opening it, I find a photo, its colour faded with age.
I turn the photo around so it’s the right way up. I feel my mouth and my eyes opening wider and wider as I take in the picture. It shows a young boy, aged eight or nine, lying across a wooden chair, his jeans and his pants around his ankles. Next to him, a man stands over him, a belt in his hand.
He Will Find You Page 15