by Camilla Way
‘But why would you have lied?’
‘I don’t know! I was barely eight … I just don’t remember …’
Miranda takes a notepad from her desk and writes something down, then says, ‘Often patients who are dealing with buried trauma and the resulting psychological pain – whether manifested in upsetting flashbacks or nightmares or panic attacks – self-medicate with the use of alcohol, or drugs, or sex. It’s all armour against having to deal with the upsetting event itself.’
Viv thinks about this in silence. ‘I had a flashback recently,’ she says. ‘It was one I’d never had before, about our old neighbour, Declan. I thought of him and immediately this horrible, sick feeling of disgust and shame came over me … but when I tried to remember more it was as though my brain had shut down, and I couldn’t go any further.’ She looks at Miranda. ‘But I think that he’s a part of it all, that he’s got something to do with Ruby’s death.’
Miranda listens without comment, then asks, ‘What’s your relationship with your family like? Your mother and your daughter?’
She swallows the lump that forms in her throat at the thought of Cleo and says, ‘I think I’m a good mother. Cleo and I are very close … or at least I thought we were …’ She remembers the shock of finding out about ‘Daniel’ and a familiar self-reproach spills through her. ‘To be honest, I only feel completely safe when I’m with my own mother. She looks after me, always has. Sometimes I think I’m far too dependent on her,’ she adds.
‘That’s understandable. She was your one constant in a time of great turmoil.’
Vivienne leans forward. ‘So, can you help me?’
Miranda regards her frankly. ‘Well, as I’ve already told you, I’m not happy about introducing this therapy when your current situation is so stressful, but I told Alek that I would help, so I will.’
‘And do you think I’ll remember what happened that day?’
Miranda puts down her notepad. ‘EMDR is about working through current memories, it’s not about unearthing lost ones, but it’s true that some patients are able to remember more details of a traumatic event as the therapy progresses.’
Vivienne nods. ‘OK, that’s good enough for me. I just want to try.’
Though Cleo’s finger throbs with pain, the bandage, so expertly administered, remains a pristine white; whatever it was that he poured on the wound, it certainly stemmed the blood. Still numb with shock, she remembers how carelessly he’d gathered up the scraps of rubbish when he’d finished, sweeping the bloodstained cloth, the cleaver, the half-full bottle of ointment into a dirty plastic carrier bag. The top of her finger, puckered, bluish-white and bloody, had been included in that discarded debris, and the thought of that makes sickness lurch up inside her.
Presumably he is outside somewhere; she hasn’t heard the van drive off in the hour or so since he left her. Perhaps your mother will do as she’s told now. What had that meant? Instantly her heart pounds harder at the thought of Vivienne in danger, and it is this that makes her rise unsteadily to her feet. The movement brings on a dizzy spell, nausea slipping and sliding in her belly, but it’s nothing compared to the fresh spasm of pain that shoots from her finger to her elbow. It is all-consuming, stopping her in her tracks, and she clenches her jaw hard and makes herself wait it out, holding on to the table with her good hand, willing it to pass.
She hesitates at the toilet door. Does she dare turn on the light? Her fingers graze the switch, then on impulse she presses it. If he sees the faint flickering glow from outside it hardly matters at this point; he will not know what she’s planning. She pulls the hinge from her pocket and puts it to the first screw holding the Perspex in place, crying out in relief when she sees that it fits. As she starts to apply pressure she hears a sound from outside and freezes in panic, but it’s only the wind blowing so hard that it’s lifting the board on the other side of the Perspex. The sight fills her with renewed hope: it must be looser than she thought.
At first she makes poor progress, the hinge slipping and sliding uselessly, but she keeps trying until at last the screw turns. Tears of relief spring to her eyes and she renews her efforts. Within twenty minutes she has managed to loosen all four screws. She gives the Perspex sheet an experimental tug, slipping her hand beneath it when it gives way to press against the hardwood that blocks the cavity. To begin with it holds fast, but summoning up her last ounce of strength she leans against it and shoves, and is rewarded by a mighty crack as the hardboard gives way.
The noise seems so loud that she jumps back in panic, her heart pounding as she listens for a reaction from outside. Quickly she turns the light off and returns to the bench where she sits down to wait, her eyes wide with fear. But a minute passes, and then another, and still there is no sound of activity outside. If she can push the hardboard away completely, the hole should be big enough for her to fit through. Hope begins to rise inside her. All she has to do now is wait for him to drive away.
Miranda gets up and draws the curtains against the torrential rain and wind that’s now battering against the window panes. In contrast, her practice room, with its plush cream carpets, pale green walls and subtle low lighting is still and quiet. Viv sits back in her chair, waiting apprehensively to begin.
‘Have you read much about EMDR?’ Miranda asks her when she’s seated.
‘A bit.’
‘Well then, you’ll know it’s a therapy commonly used to help those suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, or indeed anyone whose past experiences are affecting their mental health in the present. It allows the patient to revisit the traumatic experience, whatever it might be – a car accident, childhood abuse, or whatever – in a safe place and with the use of something called bilateral stimulation that neutralizes the feelings of panic as the patient remembers the traumatic event.’
‘But how can you make revisiting the memory easier to cope with? How am I going to be able to go back to that day without it bringing on a panic attack?’ Viv asks.
‘We’ll begin by exploring what happened immediately before you started to feel afraid, and continue from there. It’s important to remember that you are in charge here. You can stop the process at any time you need to. You will not be forced to revisit anything that you don’t want to. Most importantly, you will be aware that you are no longer the child you once were, that you are here, now, in the present, completely safe.’
Viv watches as Miranda gets up and fetches a black case from beneath her desk and returns to her seat. Opening it she sets up a tripod and attaches it to a slim, horizontal LED panel.
‘OK,’ Miranda says, ‘as I explained, the lights will stimulate your brain in a way that replicates the rapid eye movement of the deepest phase of sleep.’
Viv eyes the LED panel doubtfully. ‘And how exactly will that help me?’
‘During this phase your brain achieves the deepest state of rest and self-healing. The stimulation of the left and right hemispheres promotes the brain’s natural self-soothing mechanism. By replicating that state while you recall the traumatic event, the memory is reprocessed. This will enable you to gradually become desensitized to it, so that eventually you will be able to revisit that same memory without it triggering the anxious or panicked response it once did.’
Viv digests this in silence. ‘And I might remember details I’d forgotten?’
‘It’s possible. As we gradually neutralize your panicked response, you might be able to move on from the memory and recall details that had previously been too traumatic to face.’
Vivienne looks at the clock. ‘How long does it take, on average?’
‘For some it can work very quickly, for others it could take a few sessions. But it’s not something we can rush.’
Viv nods, her mouth bone-dry. ‘OK,’ she says nervously. ‘Can we get on with it?’
At last, an hour after she’d pushed the hardboard from the window and felt it give way, Cleo hears the sound she’s been waiting for: the slam of the van’s do
or, followed by the growl of its engine fading gradually into the distance. Immediately she gets up and runs to the bathroom where she turns on the dim light. Then she sets about turning the already loosened screws, a task made more difficult by the trembling in her fingers, but at last she is able to pull the Perspex away. Next she presses hard against the chipboard, which again falls forward with a satisfying crack. It remains attached to the caravan, however, and though she pushes with all her might with her non-injured hand, she can’t dislodge it. She will need to use both hands and all her strength if she’s going to move it clear away.
She pauses to brace herself before stepping up onto the toilet, placing both hands on the hardboard and pushing as hard as she can. The pain is so excruciating it makes her cry out, but she persists until the board gives enough to reveal a glimpse of the dark and rainy world outside, and a gust of cold air stings her cheek. Panting with effort, she hauls herself up and propels herself forward. Her hand throbs as she knocks it, but she barely cares as she slides through the narrow gap, the ragged edge of hardboard tearing at her jumper and her skin until she lands on the wet and muddy ground outside in a heap.
She looks around her. It’s pitch-dark and the rain is falling hard, her hair whipping around her face in the wind. The builder’s yard is fenced in with a combination of high wooden boarding, wire fencing and slats of corrugated iron and she scans them rapidly, squinting in the darkness, to see if there are any gaps that she might climb through. And then she spots something that makes her heart leap. There, in the not too far off distance, are the lit-up towers of Canary Wharf. She’s in London. Not only that, she’s on the south side of the river. She had been so frightened that she might discover herself to be somewhere far from home, but she’s here, in South London, and relief surges through her.
Her joy is short-lived. Before she can make good her escape, she hears the familiar sound of the van’s engine, sees the sweep of headlights, and her heart drops.
The rain continues to pound on Miranda’s window; they can hear the wind howling, pummelling the trees in her garden. ‘I want you to try to clear your mind of the difficulties you are facing,’ she tells Vivienne. ‘Instead, I’d like you to think of a time and place where you felt happy – your home, or a favourite holiday, for example. Anywhere you like, as long as it’s somewhere that you felt completely safe. Think of that place for me and try to relax.’
Vivienne nods, breathing slowly and deeply as Miranda has told her to. Searching her brain for a happy memory is harder than she would have thought. Her own home just makes her think of Cleo. Holidays, likewise: she can only picture ones she and Cleo went on together. She thinks of Stella’s kitchen, but even that makes her feel panicky and anxious. And then she thinks of Unity House, of being around ten years old and sitting in the garden with Margo, picking beans from the vines. She feels a flicker of surprise, even shame, that this is what has occurred to her, considering what happened later, but nevertheless it is a moment in time when she remembers feeling truly relaxed and content, and she allows herself to savour it for a while, feeling again the warm sun on her arms, the comforting nearness of Margo.
‘How anxious do you feel right now, on a scale of one to ten?’ Miranda asks her.
‘Um, not very, I guess. Three, maybe?’ Nervously Viv clears her throat.
‘Good. I want you to remember that you can return to this happy memory whenever you want. You are in charge here, Vivienne. You are completely safe.’ Miranda leans over and switches on the LED box and a small green light moves from left to right, slowly and repetitively. ‘Can you see the light?’ she asks.
When Viv nods, Miranda continues, ‘I want you to relax and watch the light and think back to the day when your sister died. Let’s start by recalling the period immediately before anything upsetting happened, before you sensed any danger, OK? What were you doing, can you remember?’
‘I was in the living room,’ Viv answers tentatively. As her eyes focus on the moving light, she pictures the small, white-walled, low-ceilinged room and shivers; it was always cool in there, no matter what the time of year. Faded red velvet curtains hang at the windows, and the carpet is brown and worn. She smells the cottage’s long-forgotten scent – a mixture of mothballs, dust and something else that’s sweet and unidentifiable, but then it dawns on her that she smells the same thing in Stella’s house in Peckham. It must come from Stella herself.
‘OK,’ Miranda says. ‘Tell me what you’re doing.’
‘I’m watching TV,’ Viv replies. ‘I’m alone. Ruby’s upstairs.’
‘And what happens next?’
Viv tenses, her hands balling into fists as the first tendrils of fear grip her. Miranda leans over and turns off the lights. ‘OK, Vivienne, that’s brilliant, you’re doing really well. Can you tell me how you’re feeling at this minute?’
‘Frightened, anxious,’ She coughs nervously. ‘On a scale of one to ten? About a seven …’
‘OK. I want you to breathe deeply and think of your happy memory, can you do that for me?’
Viv nods, but says nothing. Miranda waits until her breathing returns to normal and then says, ‘You are safe here, Vivienne, completely safe. What you were remembering happened a long time ago. I’m going to turn the light panel back on, and I want you to watch it as before, casting your mind back to the point you just remembered.’
This time, when Viv pictures herself in the room, she’s surprised to find that the panic has faded a little. Encouraged, she allows the memory to unwind a little further. ‘There’s a knock on the door,’ she tells Miranda. ‘Ruby comes down from her bedroom to open it, because she thinks it’s Jack. She says to me, “Don’t tell Mum, OK, Vivi? Don’t tell Mum that Jack was here.” But when she opens the door it’s not Jack, it’s Morris.’
‘Are you sure? How do you know, do you see him?’
‘No, but I can hear them talking. And then he goes away.’
Miranda, who has been watching her closely, turns off the light panel and again asks Vivienne how anxious she’s feeling.
‘About an eight, it went down for a while, but it’s gone up again,’ Viv tells her. ‘My chest feels tight … I’m frightened of what’s going to happen next.’
‘OK,’ Miranda says calmly. ‘But look, you’re here, with me, and you’re a grown-up. Whatever happened that day can’t hurt you any more. It’s all over. Here, today, you are a strong, adult woman, there is no danger here, you are completely safe.’
When Viv nods, Miranda says, ‘OK, I want you to think of your safe place again, and I want you to breathe deeply. Can you do that for me?’
After a few minutes, Miranda turns the light panel back on and directs Viv to think of the same memory she’d just relived of Ruby running down the stairs, the sound of Morris’s voice when she answered the door.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks, as Viv retraces her steps along the memory.
‘Better,’ Viv says, relieved. ‘About a six.’
Miranda nods and smiles. ‘Well done, do you see what happened there? Before, when you were recalling this part of the memory, you rated it as an eight in terms of stress. But the next time you recalled the same memory your stress level went down to a six.’
Miranda looks pleased with her so Vivienne gives her a cautious smile. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘It’s because your brain is creating new pathways through which to recall the memory while being conscious that you’re now in a place of safety, many years after the event.’ She gives Miranda a reassuring smile. ‘So, are you ready to go on?’
For the next hour they continue in this vein, edging along the memory inch by inch, Miranda turning off the light at each new remembered detail to bring Vivienne back to the present, ask her how she’s feeling, direct her to her happy memory before returning to the day of Ruby’s murder. Each time she does so, Vivienne finds that the level of fear has reduced, enabling her to edge forward to the point where previously her pa
nic had prevented her from venturing.
But when they reach the moment where Ruby goes back upstairs, Viv feels the icy dread begin to soar, an inexorable rise of panic. Her breath gets shorter until she’s almost panting.
‘What’s happening?’ Miranda asks.
‘Ruby’s gone upstairs to wait for Jack. And then … and then …’
‘You’re OK,’ Miranda says soothingly. ‘You’re absolutely fine. Let’s stop for a break.’
But this time when the light panel has been turned off, the panic doesn’t subside. Viv sinks her head in her hands. ‘I can’t do this,’ she whispers, ‘I’m too frightened.’
‘Tell me what you’re feeling.’
‘Terror,’ Viv whispers. ‘I feel terrified.’ She searches for the words to explain the sense of dizzying, vertiginous fear that has filled her, as though she’s clinging to a cliff edge by her fingernails, her heart racing faster and faster. ‘I’m terrified because I know Jack is going to come and knock on the door and he’s going to go upstairs and …’ She looks at Miranda, her face stricken.
‘OK,’ Miranda says reasonably. ‘But the fear you’re feeling isn’t rational, is it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Jack isn’t here, now, is he? Nobody is in danger in your current situation. What you’re talking about happened a long time ago, when you were a child. You’re no longer a child. You’re an adult, sitting in a room in London with me. Nobody can hurt you. You are completely safe, aren’t you?’
Mutely, Viv nods.