by Anna Maxted
Then a tall man with curly brown hair and a smiley face appeared at the door and said, ‘Ms Appleton?’
I jumped up, and he shook my hand. ‘I’m David Goldstein. How are you?’
A trick question, surely.
‘I’m alright,’ I replied, deciding that, in the circumstances, ‘fine’ was the wrong answer. I didn’t want him to think, ‘yeah, really!’
Dr Goldstein led me into a large airy office and showed me to a comfortable chair. This small courtesy was enough to bring a lump to my throat. There were a lot of fat books squeezed onto bookshelves and even more in towering piles on the floor. This reminded me of something Nige once said, when I asked if he was breeding a library on his lounge floor. ‘I like piles of books. They remind me of how intelligent I am.’ I wondered if Dr Goldstein thought that too. I noticed that his secretary was right next door, sitting like a large squirrel in what appeared to be a cubby hole, and that he’d left his own door ajar. This struck me as thoughtful and made me feel safe. I gulped. He had a box of tissues on his desk too, like Issy. I hoped Kleenex gave therapists a discount.
The end of my nose must have turned pink because Dr Goldstein asked if I’d like a glass of water. I nodded, and he sprang up to ask his secretary to bring one. I sipped the cool water and tried not to cry. Dr Goldstein looked concerned, which made it impossible. Then he said gently, ‘What’s the problem?’
A great woolly tangle of anxieties tumbled out.
The rape . . . I have had a few problems but I feel I’m getting through them . . . I hadn’t told my parents because I didn’t want to upset them . . . there are a few things I’ve done which are now concerning me . . . the fantasy baby . . . my sister had been so supportive but now she was angry . . . my fiancé would end it when he found out . . . I’d so wanted to begin again . . . I feel frightened at the state of mind I’m in . . . out of control . . . the CPS believed him, not me . . . and now he’s suing me . . . I do have fun but I feel as if there’s no heart in it . . . I’m better than I was but I am so not good . . . I don’t like how I am . . . the fear that everyone is Stuart the world is full of evil . . .
I blew my nose. If he could make sense of that lot, he was worth what he charged. I was too ashamed to make eye contact so I looked everywhere but at him. But there was very little to fix on. No photographs of his family, no school pictures of kids with gappy grins. Reluctantly, I met his gaze.
Dr Goldstein paused. ‘You’re worried,’ he said, ‘that the trauma is still unresolved and influencing your thinking, your behaviour and your understanding of yourself in relation to the world around you.’
I nodded. He clasped his hands in front of him on his desk, which was neither too small nor too suspiciously big. I supposed a therapist couldn’t have his patients think he was compensating. His nails were neat and not bitten. The nails of an untroubled mind.
‘Okay. It sounds to me as though you’ve adopted a defensive posture, Holly. You’ve invested all your emotional energy in something that’s distracting. This stems from unresolved feelings surrounding the trauma. You’ve not really processed the rape experience, you’ve not fully come to terms with it. Which is why you’re wanting to create a new life in terms in motherhood. In a sense, it would have given you many gains. You would have been able to avoid sex, stay in more legitimately – there would have been a social sanctioning of behaviours which get you off the hook.’
I listened, wide-eyed and wet-nosed. It was, I thought amazing, that I could walk into a room and tell a stranger my deepest, weirdest secrets, the terrible essence of my fucked-upness, and that he wouldn’t make an embarrassed face and say in a silly voice, ‘Interesting.’ You could acclimatise quickly though. It was like visiting a gynaecologist. A middle-aged man in a suit foraging wrist deep in one’s vagina – a brief second of mortification, then you think, ach, seen one, seen ’em all.
Dr Goldstein smiled, and added, ‘We have to help you get a better understanding of that trauma. To use the technical jargon, to process it.’
I nodded. I liked the way he talked to me as if I wasn’t an idiot. Mind you, as I’d spoken, he’d taken notes. I couldn’t see what he’d written which, for all I knew was, ‘what a fruitbat’.
‘Can I ask, what came into your mind, when you started crying just then after mentioning Stuart? Were there any pictures in your mind? Any thoughts?’
I hesitated. A small part of me was tempted to lie to make myself sound good. But there were cheaper ways of showing off, and better ways of wasting my time.
The thoughts and pictures in my mind were inexplicable. ‘I was twelve and forced to take part in this miserable youth club treasure hunt, because my mum’s friend Leila ran it and both my sisters refused to go. I had no friends there, and I remember trying to be friendly about this stupid clue, “M07S”, to some of the teenagers. I said, “I can’t think what ‘M07S’ means,” and they laughed at me in a mean way. It turned out to be the sign on the road – SLOW.’
I fully expected Dr Goldstein to roar heartily with laughter, but he scribbled and said, ‘What would it feel like to be twelve and alone and laughed at by other children?’
‘It was horrible. Humiliating. I felt they were laughing at me because I was slow. When I think of Stuart, I am that twelve-year-old, I haven’t progressed. It’s the . . . the being stupid and helpless, taken for a fool. It makes me feel worthless. And I thought I’d grown out of that. Until I met Stuart, I was pretty pleased with myself.’
‘Why is feeling helpless such a bad thing?’ said Dr Goldstein. ‘I know that sounds like a silly question.’
I crumpled my tissue and reached for another. This was proper therapy! ‘I don’t like being helpless or out of control,’ I whispered. ‘It makes me panic. It makes me panic that something terrible is going to happen. I don’t trust other people to take care of me. I need to take care of myself. So if I’m out of control, I feel that something terrible will happen. And [snivel] something terrible did happen.’
‘Mm-hm. So, if you can’t control things, that kind of automatically means that something bad will happen. Right. And within that, is the idea that you can’t trust people.’
Having your feeble state of mind played back to you can make you feel foolish. But this was reassuring. It clarified my fears, popped them into boxes.
‘Yes. I used to trust people. I used to be very trusting. But after this, I’ve found it hard. I feel that everyone is like Stuart, and the world is a horrible world full of cruel people, it’s really affected how I live my life.’
Dr Goldstein leaned forward. I hoped this meant he thought I was of psychological interest. ‘Holly, you’ve had something bad happen to you, and so you see the world as a far more dangerous place than it actually is. It’s what we call elevated risk assessment. But this is a consequence that we can explore in a later session. The first thing we need to do is find out what that experience meant to you.’
Gloom descended. I saw myself, sitting there, unable to get on with my life. My unhealthy state of mind wasn’t tangible, not like a broken leg, so it was hard to feel justified spending wads of cash on a brain doctor. A part of me felt I should be able to get on. I couldn’t get away from the nasty suspicion that talking about myself to a person who I financially rewarded for not running away was a luxury. It was like having a massage. An indulgence which makes you feel better but you won’t die without it. There was no immediate danger, the bulk of my unhappiness belonged to my past. So why was I still in bits?
‘This is what I’d like to do,’ said Dr Goldstein. ‘I want you to relax, close your eyes and talk through the experience in a very, very detailed, structured way. I’m going to ask you questions. You see, when a traumatic memory has not been processed, it does influence behaviour, and that behaviour is not in your interest, by your own admission. What we need to do is help you to come to terms with it, and this is the theory. If you go over it a certain number of times when you’re in a relaxed state, it has a beneficial effe
ct. The memory can be packed away, and you learn that you don’t have to avoid these emotions, that they won’t destroy you or kill you, that they’re just bad feelings that you can come to terms with. At the end of the session you’ll feel stronger, in fact. It’s really building your confidence to manage your own mind.’
What an appalling idea. I said in a small voice, ‘The last time I talked about it, with Caroline, the policewoman, I had a panic attack.’ My heart juddered. That terrifying sensation of lacking the apparatus to breathe, the hideous conviction your lungs had shrivelled to the size of two kidney beans.
Dr Goldstein fixed me with his kindest eyes. ‘Right now, Holly,’ he said, ‘your thinking is, “I can’t deal with it, it’s too much”. You avoid it and because you avoid it, you never test out your capacity to cope with the trauma. By getting you to stay with it, I’m skilling you. Nothing terrible will happen. The memory is frightening, but you’re safe now. It will be very emotional, you will cry, and yes, you may have a panic attack. But I’ll make sure you breathe properly, and at the end of the session you’ll get up and walk out. You’ll realise you can cope, you can deal with it. Whereas, if you avoid things to do with the experience, you never provide yourself with the opportunity to learn that you are more resilient than you think.’
I bit my lip. I realised with a start that Dr Goldstein was treating me like an adult. A capable, intelligent adult. All this time I’d deluded myself that it would be a relief to be treated like a child – shrugging off responsibility, letting others take care of you – when, in fact, being treated like a child at the age of thirty can only ever be infuriating and insulting. This was greatly preferable. ‘What sort of questions would you ask?’
Dr Goldstein’s smile was apologetic. ‘Questions that will make the rape experience as vivid as possible. That way, we access your emotions which you can then deal with. So, questions like, “Where was his hand at that point? What did it feel like?” Go through the experience like a film in slow motion in your mind – and pause. Okay, what can you see? Can you feel anything on your skin? How hot is it? Can you smell anything? What can you hear?’
I stared at him. ‘I thought you were a nice man,’ I said. ‘You’re a monster.’
He tapped his pen, smiling down at his desk. ‘I don’t do this with every client,’ he replied. ‘Only the ones who I feel understand the theory and can cope with it.’
Oh, he was clever.
‘Alrighty,’ I said. (Because if you say ‘alrighty’ about something, how bad can it be?) ‘We’ll do it.’
Chapter 40
WHEN RABBITING ON about understanding and forgiveness, it never occurred that the same principle might apply to myself. I’ve always been harder on myself than on others. I presumed that if I wasn’t, I’d never get anywhere. I didn’t realise that the opposite is also true. If you don’t tolerate error in your life, you eventually wilt in the heat of your own self-loathing.
‘Rape can happen to anyone,’ Dr Goldstein had said.
I floated through the next day, serene. It was as if the worries swarming around my brain like ants on sugar had been doused in bleach. I certainly felt that Fate, God, Bagpuss – some higher power – was trying to tell me something.
For instance, Issy was excitable because the previous night she’d nearly been mugged. She’d visited a girlfriend in a rough area, and at twelve the friend had seen her to her car. She’d just locked herself in, when four men appeared from nowhere. Three white skinheads, one black guy wearing a hat. The hat guy tapped on her car window and said ‘’Scuse me, love.’ Issy was about to buzz down the window. But her girlfriend reappeared at the passenger door – for solidarity? protection? – Issy had let her in, and he’d run away. She’d stared after him as the pale soles of his shoes shrank into the distance, and the other men – were they even with him? – melted into the night.
‘I am so stupid,’ said Issy, again and again. She kept rolling her eyes in dismay, her usual sheen of confidence rumpled. ‘I thought, “He wants to ask me something, what if it’s important?” I felt so rude and racist not opening the window. I only didn’t because I was so flustered that I forgot where the button was. I can’t believe I was so slow-witted. What did I think four scruffy strange men slinking out of a basketball court wanted at midnight from a woman in a silver Mercedes?’
Nick and Claudia – shaken by this new, frail version of Issy – were full of kindly reproaches. ‘You learned a lesson,’ said Nick. ‘In future just remember that no stranger has any business asking you anything. And you did do the right thing, even if your instinct wasn’t as quick as you might have liked. No harm was done, there’ll be no different future because of this, so don’t obsess.’
I gazed at him, covertly, from behind my coffee mug. He was a kind man.
‘You mustn’t think of yourself as a victim,’ added Claudia. ‘In that sort of situation, you must think of yourself as a survivor, using whatever you have to hand to help you. And what did you have to hand?’
‘I could have beeped the horn.’
‘Exactly. Well done!’
‘Yes,’ wailed Issy, ‘but I only thought of that now, because you asked me!’
Nick squeezed her arm. ‘It would be ironic,’ he said, ‘if you thought badly of yourself for not wanting to think the worst of people.’
It can happen to anyone.
I was cleaning my teeth before bed, after another boisterous Date Night, when the phone rang. In the mindset of ready for anything, I snatched it up.
‘It’s me,’ said a dull voice. ‘Are you awake? Can I come round?’
‘Nick. Of course. What’s wrong?’
I was addressing dead air.
My heart thundered. Nick hadn’t attended work that night because he was meeting his birth mother, Malcolm and Russell. The chosen venue for this momentous occasion was a McDonald’s, near Malcolm’s office. I’d bitten back the comment, ‘Well, that will make it really special’. I hadn’t wanted to pursue my bad feeling about it.
When the bell rang, I peered through the fisheye, put down the knife, and heaved open the door. Nick stood there, white and drawn. He looked like a vampire’s leftovers. He stumbled into my arms, and I hugged him, silently. He was cold, from outside. I let him hang on for as long as he wanted, until his skin was warmed by mine. I took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen. Then I made him a hot chocolate with milk. He sat at the table, fingers curled around the mug, staring sightlessly at the wall, shivering in bursts. He’s in shock, I realised, physically and mentally in shock. I pulled Emily’s blanket out of her basket and placed it over his knees. She hopped on his lap and he raised a thin smile.
Waiting for him to speak, I remembered something he’d once said. ‘I prefer excitement to contentment.’ He’d thrown it at me during a row over money. He’d rather slit his throat, he’d declared, than save for a new kitchen, the very thought of it made him shudder. He wanted to live in Rome, winter in Zermatt, spend New Year in Barbados, meet thrilling people, do glamorous things, not save for kitchens. He made me feel like a dullard and I’d repeated his claim to Rachel who, like any good friend, pronounced it ‘a rotten, suspicious statement’.
‘Does the sweet thing not realise that contented people can also be excited?’ she’d drawled, killing a match and taking the first glorious drag of nicotine. ‘To need constant excitement, babes, it’s an escape, a fix, it suggests a person who is unhappy in life and unreconciled to reality.’
With dread I’d thought, was that Nick?
It wasn’t now.
‘They were so sodding unfriendly,’ he blurted. ‘I’d bought him this plastic dancing Elvis for his dashboard as a hello present – it twirls and jiggles as you drive – and Russell goes, “What the fuck would I want with that?” He’s my half-brother, and there was . . . nothing. It was like he hated me. He looks nothing like me, he’s really weird. I don’t know what you call it – arrested development? He’s twenty-three and he’s like a baby. Stro
ppy. Dressed in black, head to foot, and he smelt, like he hadn’t washed. He picked his nose openly. Our mother said his room’s all black, too, and he collects knives. He doesn’t look at you when he’s talking to you, but mostly he doesn’t talk, he grunts. He ate with his mouth open and laughed at how I speak, he kept snorting to himself and – get this – we’re halfway through eating, and Blockbusters ring him on his mobe to tell him what videos they’ve just got in! And I thought I was a loser. There’s no way he’s got a job. And even my mother was acting weird – Holly, she ate a Big Mac while smoking and chewing gum. She flattens the gum and stores it above her two front teeth: I went to hug her and she went stiff, it was like hugging a waxwork. She hardly said anything to me. I don’t know if she’s nervous of Malcolm or what. I’d taken my camera to get a picture of us all together, and in the end I didn’t even get it out of my rucksack. You know when you feel something just isn’t appropriate? It felt too . . . expensive, they’d think I was showing off. I just wanted a photo of me and my real mum—’
His voice cracked. Bolt upright on his lap, Emily purred and kneaded, her eyes wide with adoration. Cats have a reputation for being selfish but in my experience they show sympathy – well, polite curiosity, at least – when people are upset. Nick wrapped his arms round her solid little body and kissed her head.
‘And Malcolm’s a psycho. Ker-ist. He just sat there, his arms folded, staring at me. Like he was about to challenge me to a fist fight! Even when he was eating his Party Meal, he looked at me menacingly while he chewed. His nose is so red, it’s almost purple, with huge pores. There’s practically more pore than skin. I wanted to stare back but I didn’t dare. And I insisted on paying – I mean, it was McDonald’s, please – and now I think that was a bad idea. Malcolm thought I was trying to get one up on him. “Int you flush?” he said. Like I was flashing my money around. I mean, Hol, you know what I’m like – what money?! And even their clothes were different from mine in a noticeable and awkward way. I felt like Little Lord Fucking Fauntleroy in my stupid blazer and brogues. I mean, what did I think I was doing, dressing like Dad, Michael. Michael, I mean,’ he added.