Emily closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Lewis had left her alone, the outside world hammering on her windows. He had abandoned her like an unwanted child left out for the wolves, with nothing to cling to but grief. But why was she grieving?
“Do you remember the night you attempted to end your life?”
The world grew dark. She was in her cottage. Except it wasn’t her cottage. Her breaths came slow and steady. She was inside the apartment. It was night. All of the lights were switched off. She glided from room to room, illuminating each one. Furniture moved around her, sliding into place. Pictures appeared on the walls. One of them caught her attention—the portrait of a woman with a horribly distended neck. Now, she moved along the hallway, which stretched out into the shadows like an endless road. Someone was crying in the bathroom. Thick tendrils of fog, seeped out from beneath the door, reaching towards her like Death’s fingers.
“Miss Swanson?” Doctor Adams looked at her from across the desk.
Emily opened her eyes. She’d been living in the city. She’d moved there alone. The portrait of the woman with the distended neck—there was something important about it. About her.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
Doctor Adams looked down at his notes. “And before you moved to London? You mentioned Lewis. Do you remember your life then?”
“That woman,” Emily interrupted. “The one they found.”
“Harriet Golding.”
“Yes, Harriet. She was my neighbour.”
A vague image of the woman came to her, surrounded by piles of old books.
“That’s correct.”
“Is she all right?”
“Let’s try to remain focused. Tell me, what do you remember about your mother?”
“My mother?”
For a long moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Then, like a great wall of water, anxiety came crashing down.
“My mother ...”
The doctor’s pen hovered above the page.
“Do you recall her death?”
Pieces of her mind fused together, creating a picture—her mother’s body, small and crumpled, arms placed across her chest. Tears slipped down the contours of Emily’s face. Memories came—her mother screaming with pain; her mother lashing out in anger and in fear; the funeral, where the only other people in attendance were Lewis and his parents, and Molly Simms the baker’s wife.
Her mother’s life had been lonely and scant, and she had trapped Emily in its core like an insect fossilized in amber. It was a tragedy she had lived such a solitary, anxious life, but it was cruel she had made her daughter’s life almost as insular as her own. And Emily resented her for it. The first words to enter her mind as her mother exhaled her final breath were: Now, I am free. What kind of a daughter had she been to think such a terrible thing? A loveless daughter, she thought now, as the memories rained upon her, drowning her in guilty tears.
“My mother!”
What a selfish daughter, incapable of empathy!
Doctor Adams scrawled feverishly on his notepad.
“Remembering is always painful,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “But the question is, Emily, do we always need to remember? You see, negativity is very much a disease of the mind. When bad things happen to us, the memories of those experiences attach themselves to us like parasites, forcing us into a cycle of pain. We relive those experiences, over and over. We feel those painful emotions in their rawest forms, as if each one of our nerve endings has been dipped like a paintbrush into pools of anguish. Every minute of every day is spent simply drowning. What is the point of living if our lives are spent in suffering? Isn’t that the very conclusion you came to yourself? Yes, we can go on punishing ourselves morning and night for our misdemeanours. But what is the end result? What changes does that bring? The past remains and so do your mistakes. What if those mistakes could be erased?”
Emily removed her hands from her face.
“What do you mean?”
Doctor Adams smiled. “Phillip Gerard cannot be brought back from the dead, but I can exorcise him from your mind.”
The name hit Emily with the force of a freight train. Memories repaired and reformed at a terrifying rate.
“I don’t want to think about that!” she cried. But it was too late. Every horrifying memory that she had fought to supress, every unbearable thought she had buried in the deepest recesses of her consciousness, flooded her mind like a broken dam.
***
TEACHER IMPLICATED IN STUDENT SUICIDE read the kindest newspaper headline. Others were not so forgiving: POLICE QUESTION 'CRAZED TEACHER' AFTER ELEVEN YEAR OLD FOUND DEAD; BRING TEACHER TO JUSTICE SAY PARENTS OF SUICIDE STUDENT.
The local newspapers had been the worst. Emily had foolishly assumed they would keep an open mind, perhaps report impartially on a story about one of their own, who had not only been born and raised within the same community, but had helped to shape the young lives of its children. She suspected it was the latter that had induced a full-scale witch hunt. That, and the rabid excitement of reporting a story which, for once, did not concern the lambing season or yet another school fete. As horrific as the boy's suicide was, for the local reporters it was like finding a diamond among rocks.
The morning the village woke up to such terrible tragedy was unusually bright. It had rained throughout the dark hours and now, the sun began its task of mopping up the long pools of water that had formed between plough lines in the surrounding fields.
Emily had not slept. She had spent the evening at the cramped police station in town, answering question after question, forming a lengthy statement of the day’s events.
No charges would be brought against her, the interviewing female officer assured. Emily knew her very well. Her name was Lucy Tregoweth and they had grown up together, which made the proceedings all the more unbearable.
“We were all very sad to hear about your mother. And we all know how much you gave up to care for her at the end,” Lucy told her, not quite able to meet Emily's deadened gaze.
“No one came to her funeral.”
It was impossible to ignore the collective way in which Lucy spoke, as if she represented the whole village. Emily supposed that she did. In spite of them all feeling sad, in spite of them all feeling empathy, it was suddenly very clear that we meant Emily was now very much on her own; cast out and left to forage in the wilderness, the gates of that harmonious little community firmly sealed shut.
And why not? One moment of lost control had resulted in the loss of life. That was what had happened, wasn’t it?
That morning, sat in her kitchen with the sun's rays exposing her actions in a golden blaze, and her fingers clasped around a whiskey-filled mug, Emily felt nothing. Not even the burn of alcohol as it gushed down her throat. When the first of the national reporters arrived, hammering on her door and stealing pictures through her kitchen window, she could only sit and stare back at them. It was Lewis who pulled the curtains closed. It was Lewis who disconnected the incessant ringing of their home telephone. And when he was done, he slipped into the chair opposite her, filled a mug to the brim with whiskey, and drank it down without stopping.
In truth, she should never have returned to work. Going against her doctor’s advice, she had managed to convince the school principal that she was fine to return—that she needed to return. Even Lewis, who lately was unable to unplug himself from his job at the bank, had been concerned. But what did any of them know? How could any of them have an understanding of how it felt to give up everything that made them happy? Teaching had been her life. Those children had given her hope every single day. And they had been stolen away from her. They had been replaced by months of isolation, and by long, gruelling hours spent at her mother’s bedside, administering medication and watching her decay. Her mother never much wanted to be part of this world, so why was she stubbornly clinging to it now? Why couldn’t she just let go?
Everyone knew Phillip
Gerard was having problems at home. The signs were there—the unexplained bruises, the unkempt appearance, the erratic behaviour—and yet no one was willing to come out and say it. This was a small school, a small community. You had to be careful with how you dealt with things because actions had consequences, and consequences caused ripples like stones thrown into a river.
The communal way of dealing with Phillip Gerard was to pretend none of it was happening. This made him angry.
The children all knew what had happened to Miss Swanson’s mother. They had been told to be on their best behaviour when she returned. That morning, when their beloved teacher greeted them in the playground, they were shocked by her haggard appearance, but delighted to see her nonetheless. They flocked around, cooing and cheering, arms outstretched for warming hugs. Their smiles melted the veil of sorrow that had fallen across her face. Phillip Gerard remained where he was, rooted like a tree as his teacher embraced each of his peers.
Back in class, Emily thanked them for all of their home-made cards and told them how pleased she was to be their teacher again. The other children clapped and cheered and began to whip themselves into an excited frenzy. Emily called for quiet in a gentle voice.
Anger boiled in Phillip’s eyes. He turned his head, deliberately exposing the finger-shaped bruises on his neck. No one noticed them. Most people rarely looked at Phillip Gerard. They would smile and say hello, but it was always while staring into the distance, or at the ground by his feet, as if he was invisible. Even Emily was guilty on occasion. As much as she cared for him, letting him stay in class with her most lunchtimes, there was something so wretched about the boy that to look in his eyes left her wanting to be as far away from him as possible. And she knew why. And so did everyone else.
As Emily began to hand out a stack of activity sheets, Phillip Gerard curled his fists into two furious balls and began punching the surface of his desk in slow, rhythmic measures.
“I know we’re all very excited, Phillip, but making that noise will give everyone a headache, not to mention hurt your hands. Stop it, please,” Emily said.
But Phillip would not stop. He brought his fists down faster. The other children stared at him. One of the more vocal girls in the class told him he was being rude. Phillip continued hitting the desk. He glowered at Emily and caught in his gaze, the smile faded from her lips.
“You need to stop that right now, Phillip,” she said.
Philip brought his fists down harder. Thump, thump, thump!
“I said stop it!” Emily had never shouted in class before.
Phillip began a loud, terrible chant, which made the other children clamp hands over their mouths: “Your mother’s dead, your mother’s dead! Fell out of bed and bumped her head!”
Emily grew pale. Any trace of happiness was now gone, replaced with shock and disbelief.
“Your mother’s dead, your mother’s dead! Fell out of bed and bumped her head!”
It was a childish song, something a five-year-old might sing, but its words stung like acid on her skin.
Emily marched towards him, her face contorted with anger.
“Stop it!” she screamed. Her eyes bulged. Veins stood out on her forehead. “Stop it right now!”
But Phillip Gerard could not stop. A kind of madness had taken him. His fists rained down of their own volition. Those vile words spat from his mouth like a demonic incantation.
“Your mother’s dead, your mother’s dead! Fell out of bed and bumped her head!”
“Stop it Phillip!” Emily shrieked. “Will you stop it!”
And before she could register what she was doing, her hands flew into the air and brought the stack of worksheets down hard against the desk. Papers scattered into the air and onto the floor. Phillip Gerard fell silent. A child at the back began to cry.
Then, it was as if Emily had woken from a dream. She stared down at the mess of papers, at Phillip Gerard, whose face had hardened like stone. Before she could say she was sorry, Phillip leapt from his desk and bolted from the room. Emily turned to the rest of the class. Wide, frightened eyes stared up at her.
“Get out your books,” she whispered. “Fifteen minutes of silent reading.”
She returned to her desk and sat down. The child at the back continued to sob.
They heard the screams soon after. Phillip Gerard had leapt from a top floor window and landed in the playground at the feet of the school caretaker.
***
Emily’s mouth hung open in a silent scream.
“All that unendurable pain you feel right at this moment,” Doctor Adams said. “It can be taken away.”
“How?” She was broken, a ship smashed onto rocks. Nothing could ever take away the pain. It was constant and unrelenting, and she deserved every second of it.
“You tried to end your life. You failed. This leaves you with two choices—to live the rest of your life in a continual, futile state of self-flagellation, or to try again. As your psychiatrist I highly recommend the latter. I don’t believe in ending a life when it can be saved, Ms Swanson. And I believe yours can be saved.”
She tried to stop the tears, but they were remorseless and wilful, sliding down her face.
“I want to go home!” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be here!”
“I can see this is upsetting for you. Perhaps a little more sleep will settle those nerves.”
“No, I want to leave.”
Emily wrapped her fingers around the arms of the wheelchair. Her joints were painful and stiff. She tried to push herself up, but gravity held her down.
She looked at her legs, concentrating. Her left foot slipped from the foot rest and hit the carpet like a slab of dead meat.
“You’ve been asleep for some time,” Doctor Adams said. “Your body needs to reacclimatise to the conscious world. Your muscles need exercise to strengthen.”
Hysteria was coming. She could feel it building inside her, growing in momentum. And when it grew too great for her to contain, it would erupt like the guts of a volcano and her mind would be instantly incinerated.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked.
“Perhaps we should discuss this when you’re in a calmer state.”
A horrible sense of déjà vu clawed at her insides. “How long?”
Doctor Adams cleared his throat. “I really think—”
“How long?”
Doctor Adams leaned back in his chair. He stared at her for a moment. “With the exception of two events of waking, and give or take a day or two—”
“Tell me!”
“Almost twelve weeks.”
The room swayed from side to side. Emily gripped the edges of the table.
“You’re lying to me!” she cried. “You’re trying to confuse me!”
The doctor stood, flexed his fingers, and pulled on the chord of the window blinds. Dazzling sunlight blanched the room. Emily squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, her gaze fell upon a garden.
Rich heads of pink and white blossom flourished on tree branches. Shrubs and perennials sprouted from tended beds. Thick golden buds of daffodils had woken from their wintry slumber and were stretching open their petals. Birds sang out from the trees. Above the canopies, hung a tapestry of blue sky.
Emily trembled uncontrollably.
“It must be a shock,” Doctor Adams said, picking up the telephone receiver, “but think of it this way—you’ve missed the worst of winter, you’ve avoided weeks of unhappiness, and in time you’ll reap the benefits.”
Emily wasn’t listening. She stared at the lush green lawn, watching a lone Goldfinch search out fallen seeds. The rest of the world disappeared. There was only Emily and the garden and the bird. Nothing more.
A door opened somewhere behind her.
Nurse Stevens’ soothing voice floated between the clouds. “Everything is going to be all right.”
Outside, the Goldfinch spread its wings and leapt into the air. The window was moving away. Doctor A
dam’s office was moving away. Emily drifted through a long corridor, watching strips of florescent light pass overhead.
She closed her eyes. Sleep embraced her. As she burrowed into its arms, she heard a voice cry out in the darkness. Alina.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Days passed. Her conversation with Doctor Adams played over and over in her head. Three months of her life were gone, each day taken from her without consent. An empty chasm separated her past and her present. And it would never be bridged. It would never be filled in.
Emily dragged herself into a sitting position. Her limbs ached. Her head felt as if she were underwater. She looked through the window, at the expanse of lawn and the red brick wall that bordered it.
Sleep and medication had pacified her frantic mind, deadening the edges of the depression that nestled inside her. More memories had begun to piece together: her childhood spent alone with her mother; her relationship with Lewis, which had been wonderful until her mother had fallen ill, until she had needed him most; and poor, poor Phillip. She knew she wasn’t the reason the boy had taken his life—no matter what the newspapers had written about her—but hadn’t she stolen his last ray of hope? Wasn’t that why she had allowed herself to be the scapegoat for the community’s guilt?
Feeling the dull throb of a headache, Emily rubbed her temples. Looking down at her legs, she willed them to move. They twitched. The big toe on her left foot began to spasm.
Other, more recent memories had begun to return to her. There was that name. Alina. The woman in the painting. The painting she had found in her apartment. She had been searching for Alina. But why? Had she known her? There were still so many blank spaces, as though her memories had been papered over like old walls.
Emily’s toes creaked as she flexed one foot, then the other. Her ankles protested with aches and pains. Her right leg began to move, bending at the knee, bringing her foot towards her body. A thin line of perspiration beaded her brow.
Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) Page 15