‘Get it. Now.’ Jessica hadn’t meant to scream, but that’s how it came out, high-pitched, uncontrolled. She regretted the lapse instantly.
Faith placed the coffee mug on the desk and turned towards the filing cabinet. She opened the bottom drawer and from the back, wrapped in brown paper, took out the photo.
‘Put it on the desk.’
‘Are you sure you want to, Jessica?’ Faith asked as she put the photo of fourteen-months-old Damian Pearce on the side of the desk where it had stood for the last three months. ‘It’ll be a constant reminder. You’ll see it, his face, every time you…’
Blue eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Do you think I don’t see his face, hear his voice every bloody second of the day and night? Do you?’ Again, the pitch. She sighed. Too high. No control. A hand flicked across her eyes, pushed the tears back. She took a deep breath, strove for a balance she was fast losing. ‘I’m sorry…’ The words sounded lame even to her own ears.
‘Are you all right, Jessica?’ Faith’s frown returned.
Jessica felt Faith’s gaze on her, watching her struggle to maintain her composure. The woman knew that self-control had always been one of her strong points. In the past such strength had won her many a court case. What was Faith thinking? she wondered. That Jessica was on the brink of something, she didn’t quite know what?…Or was she mentally berating Simon for letting her come into the office when she wasn’t up to it? Oh, hell, what did it matter! She shook herself out of her mind games and stared at her secretary.
‘No, I’m not all right but’—Jessica took in a deep calming breath—‘I will be.’ She looked at the brief she’d been reading. ‘Would you check with Max, see if he’s free in half an hour? I want to familiarise myself with the Smithers case, then discuss it with him as he’s done the preliminaries.’
‘I’m sure he’s free until twelve. He’s working on a court presentation for tomorrow. I’ll tell him ten o’clock, shall I?’
Jessica nodded. She kept her eyes downcast until Faith had left the room. Then slowly, almost unwillingly, her gaze rose to the gilt-edged photograph of her son. Blue eyes so like her own looked back at her from the two dimensional photo. He had Simon’s—his father’s—blonde hair and olive skin, and his smile. Damian’s smile. She shut her eyes tight as tentacles of pain grabbed at her. They invaded every muscle, every tissue inside her body. She couldn’t bear it…there was no relief from the ache, the sense of loss. It was eating away at her internally, destroying her muscles, tissues, energy, paralysing her ability to think. From her throat came a guttural, sobbing sound, and she swallowed it unreleased, unrelieved. She had to bear it.
Gone, her son, and with him every vestige of happiness, of future joy, even the desire to live.
Living. She rocked backwards and forwards, her arms embracing herself, trying to hug the pain, keep it in, keep it under control. This wasn’t living. This was surviving, but only just. And what for? All so pointless, without him. She blinked rapidly as the question came to her. Why bother?
She took another breath and her tortured mind imagined the delicious sweet smell of his baby skin, the freshness of his shampooed hair. Stop doing this to yourself! a voice inside her head said. This torture will get you nowhere, accomplish nothing of worth.
But there is nothing of worth any more, a separate voice argued back. Without Damian what did she have to look forward to? At thirty-eight, closer to thirty-nine, there would be no more children. Damian had been a small miracle for her and Simon after eleven childless years of marriage which had included three miscarriages. Besides, no one could replace Damian. He had been so…special—her little son had made the miracle of motherhood worth the wait. She drew in another breath, and willed the control back…
She put her glasses back on and recommenced reading. For several minutes she maintained a level of concentration, but when a single tear slipped from her cheek onto the printed page, she acknowledged defeat and took her glasses off. Her hand reached for the photo and she put it against her breast, where the pain was centred. The coolness of the glass and metal frame permeated through the thin material of her blouse to her skin. She remembered how warm he had felt against her, how he had loved to be cuddled. Tears began to stream down both her cheeks and drop onto her blouse.
Memories…
Laughter. His tottering gait, his few words: ‘Dadda,’ ‘tar,’ ‘Mum’. And how adorable he had looked asleep and when absorbed by something that captured his interest…She closed her eyes and myriad mental pictures flooded her brain.
The pain intensified, her breathing laboured through throat muscles constricted by emotion. More pain. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Good. That might end the suffering. But then she thought of Simon and a deeper sadness enveloped her as his image swam before her closed lids. Simon. What good was she to him anyway? She could barely function, didn’t want to function, didn’t want to live with this kind of misery. Her body began to rock in the chair again, backwards and forwards, little moans escaping her lips and evaporating into nothingness. Blot out the pain, blot out the pain, she intoned the mantra over and over. Blot it out. For all eternity.
Then, inside, something snapped and her body went limp…
Seconds, or it may have been minutes later, Jessica opened her eyes. The stare was vacant, fixed on no particular object. Her breathing evened out and an eerie calmness descended upon her like a welcoming blanket. She knew what she had to do. Damian, remember Damian.
Placing the photo of her son on the desk blotter, she began to undo the chignon she had rolled her hair into this morning, placing the pins neatly on the desk top. She ran her fingers through the chestnut locks, which had a tendency to curl at the ends, especially in wet weather. Her lips moved as she crooned a lullaby, one of Damian’s favourites…‘Hush, little baby, don’t you cry, Mamma’s gonna sing you a lullaby…’
In a jerky, automated movement she opened the top right-hand drawer of her desk and took out a pair of scissors. With trancelike precision she began to cut chunks of hair off and place them around Damian’s photo, in a form of homage. She spied a lipstick in the drawer and, still crooning, her concentration returning to the photo, she rolled the lipstick up and began to outline her eyes and her mouth in wide circles of bright red. Once that was accomplished to her satisfaction, she then drew lipstick circles on her pristine white blouse, but that wasn’t enough, and so she took the scissors and, pulling the blouse out from her skirt, began to slice pieces out of it and place them around the photograph. The itch beneath her skin intensified. She scratched, and scratched and soon ugly welts appeared on both forearms.
‘They’re changing guards…’ Hum, hum, ‘at Buckingham Palace…’
The intercom on the phone beeped. She ignored it but, in a single, angry gesture, stretched out her arms and cleared her desk. Files clattered to the ground, as did the phone, pens, paperclips. Everything, until only the desk blotter and the photo of Damian remained.
Accidentally, the sharp end of the scissors pricked the underside of her arm, and she began to bleed. Seemingly fascinated by the blood running down her fair skin, her fixed gaze watched it make a miniature rivulet along her arm. Blood was life. Of course! She chuckled maniacally, she knew that. She stared at Damian’s photo, then bent her arm over it and pricked the skin again, allowing the droplets to fall on his photo. Then, carefully, she put the scissors aside and waited. Damian’s image didn’t spring back to life, and a low wail erupted from her lips. She began to rock again, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, faster, faster.
Max Lowe, the firm’s senior partner, rose from his office chair, checked his watch and strode outside and down the corridor. Jessica hadn’t come to talk to him about the Smithers case, which was odd. She was usually very punctual with appointments. He’d see what was keeping her…
Max’s forehead furrowed in a frown as he heard a strange sound, coming from Jessica’s office. Had she hurt herself? His hand grasped the knob and he pul
led the door open.
A seasoned lawyer, well into his fifties, not much could shock Max, but his mouth dropped open at the sight of his junior partner. Jessica looked like a mad woman. Her chestnut brown hair stuck out in strange chunks—she’d hacked it unmercifully. There were red spots all over her face, and her blouse was ripped in several places. And, almost as an afterthought, he noted the God-awful mess all around her desk.
But what sent a chill through him even more than how she looked was the unblinking stare, the non-recognition in her eyes. Jesus, she’s lost it!
He eased back from the open doorway, turned his head and caught the movement of Mandy, the receptionist, strolling across the foyer. ‘Mandy,’ he barked, ‘get Faith. Quick!’
CHAPTER TWO
The man stood at the foot of the bed, his figure finely illuminated by the wall light above the patient’s bed. Tall, dressed in a hand-tailored pinstripe suit, the white shirt, muted pattern tie and Italian shoes proclaimed him as a person comfortable with a certain amount of power and respect.
His trained gaze took in the patient’s appearance. The hair had been brushed into a semblance of order, so it didn’t look too bad. His fingers twitched as he recalled the thick lustrousness of it, how it could shine like burnished copper in certain lights and how he loved to run his fingers through it. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it would regrow. The remains of the lipstick had been removed, but her skin remained blotchy and, enveloped in an ill-fitting hospital gown which disguised her shapely body, she lay in deep sedation, breathing evenly. But even though the slumber was deep, her limbs would occasionally twitch, evidence of her disturbed mind.
Dr Simon Pearce picked up the chart board hooked over the end of the bed, and reached into the breast pocket of his coat for his glasses to read the obs sheet. The light failed to pick up the tightness around his mouth as he held back his sense of frustration. His wonderfully capable wife, who had up to now met every challenge in her life and triumphed over them was, the chart said it all, brought to this—an emotional wreck. A muscle in his jaw spasmed, his Adam’s apple bobbed as his throat tightened. Jessica had had a complete emotional breakdown—at least he had to assume that’s what it was until Nikko told him differently. He quickly forced the words from conscious thought, unable to deal with it at this point in time.
He put the chart back and continued to stand there, staring, the muscle flexing in his jaw as his mind replayed the events which had led to his wife being in a hospital bed in a private sanatorium for the mentally and physically unstable.
Damian…Dead. There was no disputing that, but he had to squeeze his eyes shut to hold the moistness back. His son. So little, so precious. And he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing to prevent it, him with his honours medical degree, his FRCS and his years of experience.
Death had come in the still darkness of night and claimed its charge painlessly…for that he had a small amount of gratitude. Very small. But he would never forget Jessica’s scream—it had reverberated around his brain almost constantly until he’d buried it in his subconscious. Otherwise he couldn’t have functioned. It had ripped from her lips in the predawn light as she’d called him to the nursery.
God, how he’d worked. Frantically. Yelling at Jess to get his bag. Ramming the stethoscope into his ears, trying to find a heartbeat. Nothing. Feeling the tiny neck for a pulse. Sticking his fingers into the child’s mouth to make sure the airway was clear. He’d stripped the terry towelling jumpsuit off, laid the little body on the change table and, refusing to acknowledge the blue tinge to his skin, applied mouth-to-mouth, then heart massage. He remembered his hollow yell for Jess to call the emergency number and then, continuing CPR until the ambulance had arrived.
And later, on a perfect, sun-drenched day, carrying the white lacquered coffin adorned with a blanket of white roses, laying it beside the yawning hole…He swallowed the lump in his throat and the muscle in his jaw worked agitatedly for several moments until, slowly, he began to calm.
Simon’s fingers tightened around the base of the bed, the knuckles whitening as skin strained to contain the muscle, bone and tissues beneath. SIDS: sudden infant death syndrome, every parent’s potential nightmare. And absolutely no bloody warning until it was too late. His right hand moved to pinch the bridge of his nose as one thought tumbled after another. Had there even been minimal signs and he’d missed them? Had the baby monitor been on? Had they both slept through the alarm? How often had he gone over every minute detail, wondering, wishing…Jesus Christ, his son, their son. It wasn’t fair.
‘Dr Pearce?’ The night sister queried from the doorway.
Simon turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Dr Stavrianos will be with you in a few minutes. Perhaps you’d care to wait in his office, it’s at the end of the corridor.’
Simon nodded in brief acknowledgement. Nikko, his old university buddy,—the man who’d brought him and Jessica together, was being extraordinarily diligent as usual. ‘Thanks, I will.’ He moved to the side of the bed, reached down and dropped a kiss on his wife’s forehead, smoothed the hair back, then turned and left the room.
Alone in Nikko Stavrianos’ cramped office, where files were spread untidily across every available surface, Simon allowed the control to slip a little. He sat with his head cradled in his hands. Shock waves raced through him as he mentally recapped the moments from the phone call from Max Lowe, delayed because he’d been in the theatre, to now. He’d insisted that the ambulance take Jess to Belvedere Sanatorium, where she’d get the best of attention, and had come as soon as he’d given instructions for the suturing of his patient by the hospital’s registrar.
Coping with Damian’s death had stretched his inner resources to the limit, especially as he partly blamed himself for not being able to save his baby son—no matter that the autopsy had shown clear evidence of SIDS. Deep down he would always believe he should have been able to do something. His head shot up in sudden contemplation: he wondered if Jess thought that, too?
And now she had fallen apart. God, he was a doctor—why hadn’t he recognised the signs of her inability to cope?
Had he been too caught up in his own grief to see that she had sunk into a deep depression, resulting in a complete emotional breakdown? Jessica, who had such strength! It was hard to comprehend, even though he knew well enough that the death of a child could unhinge the most intelligent mind, the strongest will and…in Jess’s case, there was the family’s hereditary factor. He sighed. Christ, another worry.
He heard the door click open and stood up to shake Nikko’s hand.
‘Rotten luck that we have to meet like this, old mate,’ Nikko greeted Simon as he moved around to sit at his desk. A black-haired, swarthy man dressed in a creased, ill-fitting suit, Nikko appeared the antithesis of the man opposite. Squared-off hands shuffled papers from one pile to another, pulled out one folder and spread it open before him. He made a series of facial expressions as he speed-read the contents. Then he looked across the desk to Simon.
Simon waited for Nikko to speak. He knew it was pointless to mentally pre-empt the eminent psychiatrist’s diagnosis.
‘About Jessica. I only did a brief preliminary, she was too distressed for anything more intense.’
That Nikko said little allowed Simon to fill in the gaps. She’d probably babbled incoherently, then broken into fits of tears followed by helpless, uncontrolled laughter that sounded more like a crone’s cackle than a responsive, intelligent laugh. Oh, yes, it would have been that bad, he didn’t doubt it.
Nikko studied Simon’s bleak expression for a few moments before saying, ‘She needs rest, Simon. I’d say she’s had little therapeutic sleep since…Damian died. I prescribed a sedative that’ll put her into a deep sleep for close to thirty-six hours. That should give her body and her mind a chance to relax. Then we’ll see.’
‘Hell, can’t you be more specific than that, old chum?’
‘Fraid not.’ Nikko’s black eyes snapped at
the tone, understanding his friend’s concern, but then he shrugged his shoulders and scratched the stubble of dark whiskers growing about his chin. ‘Until I talk to her, gauge the level of her mental distress, I’d be medically irresponsible to try to give you a prognosis. You know that.’
‘So…?’
‘We wait. I’m putting a grief counsellor on standby. Penny Matheson, she’s the best. She’ll work with Jessica when she’s calm enough to deal with the more painful aspects of Damian’s passing. Of course, that may be weeks away.’ He glanced again at his old friend—the Pearces’ were godparents to his daughter—and seemed to take pity. ‘Simon, what Jessica’s going through is not uncommon. Many women have been broken by the grief which accompanies the death of a child. Sometimes it’s the strongest who are the most affected…’
‘I know, but I’m a little concerned about…about…well, you know, I mentioned about her grandfather. I don’t know too much about him, but evidently old Henry Ahearne spent the last four years of his life in a mental institution. Jessica was twelve, and in the house when attendants came and carted him off in a straitjacket, with him foaming at the mouth and yelling obscenities like the madman he was. That memory has had a profound effect on her and I believe that deep down, though she’d never admit it even to me, she and her sister, Alison, may fear Henry’s weakness is in them, too.’
‘There’s no absolute proof that insanity or more precisely schizophrenia is hereditary though, occasionally, there’s a predilection for mental weakness in some families. I’m checking into the details of Henry’s case. But remember, that occurred nearly thirty years ago. Psychiatry has come a long way since then.’
Simon’s mouth creased in a wry smile. ‘Thank God for that.’ Agitatedly he ran a hand through fair hair, which showed signs of receding at the temples. ‘God, I wish I hadn’t given up the smokes three years ago, I could do with one now.’
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