Her Greatest Mistake

by Sarah Simpson

  ‘Okay, so now you’re living in Cornwall?’

  He shrugs. ‘Kind of, yes, at the moment I am anyway.’ Have I touched on something here? His confident eyes are reflecting a little caginess.

  He clearly feels uncomfortable with this line of discussion, but it’s not exactly relevant to his treatment. I decide to leave it, for the moment. Maybe the referral team can throw some more light on the matter. Though it’s odd something so everyday can evoke this reaction. We continue to discuss his symptoms, how they impact on his health and quality of life, then I talk through the treatment options for trauma, the neurobiology of how it manifests and subsists. At all times, William is polite, appearing to take an interest. We talk about the brain and its many disobliging behaviours, physical and psychological; he listens with interest. Perhaps he is here with genuine needs.

  ‘Interesting,’ he utters.

  ‘The thing is, I believe, if people have a better understanding of the science, why they’re feeling, reacting the way they are, it allows it to feel more correctable.’ He nods. ‘Your brain is a most powerful computer; your ultimate control centre but also a creature of habit. Like all new learning, we can also learn bad things, even build new neural pathways to support the bad things. Yours possibly manifest from trauma of some form. Not allowing you to move on, always alert. Always hyper-vigilant. Sitting dormant waiting to prod you into action.’

  ‘Can you change these pathways? Or am I stuck with them for good? Knackered?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘Yes, definitely you can. Your brain’s like a malleable chunk of plastic; it can be moulded and adapted to new learning; new responding and new thinking.’

  ‘And the old bits? The bad pathways?’

  ‘Like the old adage says, if you don’t use it you lose it. That said, we need to deal with the trauma first.’

  He tilts his head to one side. ‘But what if I don’t want to talk about it?’ I’ve the message loud and clear: he doesn’t want to discuss his traumatic experiences with me. This isn’t unusual in itself. It’s not exactly pleasant conversation and, in some respects, discussing the bad things can make the trauma worse; especially if the client is anxious at the time. Creating yet another anxious-to-be-avoided experience can only compound the trauma further.

  ‘It’s not a problem. We can treat the trauma specifically; there are techniques that do not require you to discuss it with me. Non-invasive techniques. You will still need to recall the experiences in your mind’s eye, though. I’ll give you more information about this before you leave so you can go away, think it through.’ I wonder why he’s so anxious about sharing it with me. He asked for the referral himself. He must already know I’ve worked with many serving and non-serving people. What could be so bad? Or what did he not want me to know?

  Eventually, we move on to talking about historical patterns. How we learn to respond and react to circumstances and people, based on past patterns of behaviour. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, intermittently swigging from his bottle of water. Little beads of sweat appear on his brow. Where has the self-assured man gone who entered my room? This isn’t supposed to happen in this order. Something I’ve said has triggered his response and he’s struggling to refind his footing.

  His left leg jigs up and down in time to his tapping heel. I can’t ignore it any longer. ‘Are you okay? Before we go on. You seem a little on edge. Is it something I’ve said?’

  His eyes dart from me, to the desk and back. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ He tugs at the collar of his polo shirt. ‘It’s pretty warm in here.’

  I’ll oblige him. ‘It is, isn’t it? I’ll open the window.’ I begin battle with the window once again, conscious this is not the cause for his anxious moment. It isn’t overly warm at all. We’ll both be freezing in a minute. I sit back down, deciding to change the subject.

  ‘What about family, William?’

  ‘What about it?’ he challenges.

  ‘Do you have any close family or friends to support you at the moment? A partner maybe?’ I’ve noticed the absence of any ring.

  ‘Nope, I don’t. No family. No partner,’ he shuts me down.

  Interesting. Why such a sensitive topic? Another one.

  ‘Okay. Any close friends? Anyone to help you through this? Someone you can talk things through with?’ He exhales, lifting his chin to me. ‘It’s not a problem. This is simply background information. So I have an understanding of your support system.’ He sits tense, almost defiant, as if I’m judging him. I’m not.

  ‘No.’ He sighs deeply, rubbing his outdoor hand through thick dark hair. ‘Look, if you don’t mind me saying, I can’t really see how this helps. But, in answer to your questions, no. I don’t have anyone. A life in the forces can do that to you.’ I’m not mistaken; his eyes take on a deep look of sadness. I think we’ve encountered another knot in the tissues here.

  I hold my hands up to him. ‘It’s fine, William, we can move on.’ A glimmer of relief washes over him as he physically relaxes into his chair. ‘Just so you know,’ I say, ‘you’re not the only one. Many people are without support. It must be tremendously difficult to build relationships when you never really know where you’re going to be based. Always on the move, overseas, out of the UK so often.’ Or sometimes people choose not to involve friends or family. It’s not too often I come across people who are completely alone in the world. How sad. ‘Anyway, that’s what I’m here for, so it’s no big deal. Let’s just move on.’

  Clearly he doesn’t wish to talk about his family or his past. It could be a personal privacy issue, but I sense this time it’s more than that. I stand to give him a moment. ‘Think I’ll pull down the window now, if it’s okay; it’s getting a little chilly in here.’ I begin to bump down the pig-headed window.

  ‘My parents are dead,’ he blurts at my back, so as to get the stuck words to release. I turn to acknowledge him but remain silent. I don’t want to interrupt his flow. I nod at him whilst sitting down. A few breaths later he adds, ‘The thing is, I’ve never known my parents. They died before I got the chance to know them. I can’t even remember them. Sometimes I think I see them. Hear them too in my memories. But I’m not sure if they’re actual memories, or if they’re just in my imagination or my dreams. Other than that, I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’ I smile and nod at him. Before he adds, ‘I can assure you, though, it’s not really a problem for me; I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it.’

  The sadness I witnessed earlier is no longer with him. I think he probably is okay with it. ‘Of course, whatever we talk about has to be because you want to, or need to. Not always the same thing.’ He would appear to have no history, no roots and no current base. It’s not what he’s saying, but what he’s not saying, that concerns me. I glance at the clock on the shelf to the left of the door, purposely placed so I can keep my eye on time without alerting the client to it. ‘Do we have an address for you, William?’ I flick through my paperwork. ‘For some reason the referral form was incomplete.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I had a fixed address at the original meeting.’ He rubs his hand through his hair, still in the same position from before. ‘I told them I’d be heading down to Cornwall anytime soon for a while. So they suggested I booked in with you.’

  ‘Fine. Can you please give Ruan your full details before you leave? It’s quite important. Are you registered with a GP down here?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Can I suggest you do, when you have a moment? Whereabouts are you living – in Truro?’

  ‘You can suggest I register at the GP’s, yes.’ He grins; confidence is back in the room. ‘Just outside Truro, on the outskirts.’

  ‘I’ll get Ruan to set up our next appointment and then—’

  ‘What kind of experience do you have with trauma, Eve?’

  ‘I’ve worked with trauma cases for many years. What would you—’

  ‘No, I mean personal experience?’

  ‘I see. Sorry, William; I don
’t express details about my personal life in clinic. It’s a—’

  ‘I just wondered as you appear to have such an innate understanding.’

  I feel the beginnings of a blush. I could be wrong, but it sounds as if he’s challenging me; digging at something. ‘That will be my training. That, and my experience of working with it,’ I explain.

  He nods, smiling. ‘Understood.’ He jumps to his feet, holding out his hand. ‘Well, it’s been… insightful, Eve; thank you.’ I stand to shake his hand. He embraces my hand for a moment too long, before adding, ‘Do you have anyone to support you, to talk things through with?’ I stare blankly at him; what is he trying to say, imply? He continues, ‘Of course, I’m referring to the difficult cases you must work with.’

  But this is not what he meant at all. What does this man know about me and who is he? Does he know you? Have you sent him? ‘Don’t you worry; I can look after myself,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yes. Yes, so I believe. Thank you, Eve.’ He turns and leaves my room, before one last turn, his eyes meet mine. Unsaid words meet somewhere in between us, and he closes the door behind him. I fall down to my seat, rest my elbows on my desk and place my head in my hands. What the hell was that all about? My eyes fall once again to the A4 envelope.

  A few minutes later; I’m broken from my thoughts by a gentle knocking at my door, followed by Ruan’s head.

  ‘Coffee? You’ve time now for a quick break.’

  ‘Please, Ruan, thanks.’ He backs out of the door.

  ‘Ruan?’

  ‘Yeah, I know, strong! Already on it.’

  ‘No, not that. Did William leave his address, before he left? Did he give you his details?’

  ‘No. Should he have?’

  ‘Yes, I asked him to.’

  ‘No. He just said, “Can you tell Eve I’ll be in touch?”’

  I have no way of contacting him, no mobile number, no address. I know nothing about him. Was he even a genuine PTSD referral? More importantly, what did he mean, ‘tell Eve I’ll be in touch’? Was that a threat or a genuine comment? Why do I feel as though he came here under false pretences? All that outlandishness – have I ever experienced any trauma? – what was all that about?

  I prod to silence the rumble from my empty stomach. I feel too nauseous to consider food. I finger the brown envelope, hoping for enlightenment, then tug the insert out again. Tell me, does this have something to do with you? Along with the phone calls, the car following me, and those dark shadows I feel at night. But how could it have anything to do with you, given I unearthed it in my briefcase? The only people with access to my briefcase are the people I care about and trust the most in the world. I can’t go down this dodgy road; I can’t allow myself to suspect any of these people. But if they didn’t plant it, either I’m losing my mind and I put it there myself, or someone else has gained access to the clinic or, God forbid, my home, without my realising. For the life of me, I cannot see how it could be possible.

  I jump and turn as Ruan kicks the door open with a mug of coffee in one hand and a box of Jaffa Cakes in the other. The sheet of A4 paper floats in slow motion to the floor.

  ‘I forgot to mention…’ He places my supplies down on the desk. ‘I’ll get that, don’t worry.’ He begins to bend down.

  ‘No, it’s fine, leave it. It’s for the bin anyway.’ I bend forwards to scoop up the sheet, before he attempts to help me again. ‘What did you forget to mention?’

  ‘Someone got hit this morning.’

  ‘Hit?’

  ‘Yeah, by the cranky traffic warden. Made his day, probably. The best thing was, the woman was sat there for ages. I thought she was coming in here to begin with. She was looking our way for some time.’

  ‘Sure,’ I respond, but Ruan’s words are drifting around the room, as I only have eyes for the sheet of paper now in my hands.

  ‘About… thirty minutes, I reckon. She must have decided to run down to the public loo. She was only gone, what, five minutes…’

  ‘Really.’ For the first time, on the back of the sheet, I notice a handwritten note.

  ‘Then, he hit her, didn’t he? I tried to intervene, but he wasn’t having it. She must have been back literally seconds after he got her. She didn’t look very happy.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ I quickly shove manila folders on top, to cover the paper. I’d recognise that handwriting anywhere. ‘I bet she wasn’t.’

  ‘Eve, are you even listening to me?’ He sways back to get a better look at me. ‘You okay? You’ve gone real pale.’

  ‘I’m fine. I was listening. What a shame, poor woman. Bet she wasn’t expecting that the moment she wasn’t looking.’ I stand, reaching for my jacket. ‘I’m just popping out, won’t be long.’

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I just need some fresh air, Ruan. I’m fine.’

  I’m not fine. I wasn’t expecting this. How did I not see it before? It doesn’t make sense – why now? I crash out onto the pavement, a deep breath battling for space within my constricting chest as I fight back the rising taste of bilious disorientation. How would she even know about it? Know about you?

  It doesn’t make any sense at all. After all this time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Before

  Over time, I became less absorbent, more unflinching by the lessons I was taught; the rules I was required to learn. The punishments, though painfully damaging, had a perverse numbing effect on my conscience. It needed to be this way; to be my coping mechanism, essential for reaching my ‘get out of jail’ card. Fortunately, your incredibly protracted work hours gifted me and Jack bursts of normality, left to our own devices. The interludes that kept me afloat. The nights were the worst as the ghosts of past and present desolation made nightly visits, just at the point my head merged with the pillow. During the daytime, I became expert in burying our living reality deep beneath the surface, invisible to the naked eye; only known by the heart. Always holding my breath.

  If you knew how I felt, how I saw you, what I was thinking, you didn’t show it; I suspected it was more because you didn’t care. So long as I behaved myself and played the part; and from time to time showed gratitude for the life you provided us. Most of the time I obliged your rituals and behaviours, plodded along with your conditions. I tried as best I could to keep any consequential upsurges private. It was part of a giant learning curve. I soon learned of the penalties of doing otherwise.

  Deception and lies. I became as practised as you. I almost forgot who I was.

  My sanity and Jack’s well-being were running on borrowed time. As Jack developed so did his need for regularity, decent archetypes. I found myself continually monitoring him for unwelcome signs; praying that so far, his environment hadn’t tarnished his memory templates, and misinformed his psyche of how to behave. I desperately wanted him to feel ordinariness but didn’t want him to absorb his environment as normal. I decided to go ahead and return to work on a part-time basis; much to your disgust.

  ‘Pathetic. Preferring to spend your time at the hospital, than time with your son.’

  ‘Can you not see how it may help us – my ability to hold adult conversation? I’m referring to the many corporate events, every other week. I don’t feel I offer anything near intelligent conversation.’ I lied through my back teeth. I didn’t give two hoots about your corporate events. It was going to kill me being separated from Jack. But somehow, I had to rebuild my confidence in an alien world.

  ‘Your life is somewhat dull. Now you mention it, what do you manage to talk about?’

  I don’t, I thought; you just don’t notice. Or, I lie mostly. I’d noticed how I would blush, feel a slight tremble, be aware of my quickening pulse; I was becoming so self-aware and so horribly distanced at the same time. Losing ground.

  Returning to work was essential for the steps I needed to take, but a total wrench; we’d become such a close unit, Jack and me, I cried myself to sleep the night I informed the hospital of my return. I hadn’t
cried for a long time, not externally. The following morning, I sat Jack in his favourite spot, on the kitchen work surface, our usual wrestling match tying the laces on his soft boots. Chaotically kicking his legs about, chortling at me trying to catch them. I tried to explain to him as best I could; he was after all just two and a half.

  I gently lifted his chin, so his brilliant blue eyes met mine.

  ‘Listen, Jack; Mummy has some exciting news. I’ve something important to tell you.’

  ‘We’re gunna go to de farm?’ His eyes lit up further.

  ‘No, not the farm, sweetheart, not today. Maybe on Friday though.’

  ‘Doh, me loves de farm.’ His little angel-like face fell sullen as he shrugged his shoulders dramatically.

  My heart panged. ‘No, listen, it’s something else, just as exciting. Mummy’s going to go back to work, Jack. Just for a little while anyway. Not every day.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘At de hopipal?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, at the hospital.’ He searched my face for clues, with no idea what this meant for him. I wanted to tell him not to worry, I’d changed my mind; I wouldn’t be going anywhere. But I couldn’t do that, not for either of our sakes.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you, Jack. I will miss you so-o-o much.’ I knew his understanding was limited, but I needed to try, for my own sake. Especially as I couldn’t explain to him just how much hung on my decision.

  I tapped his tiny button nose. ‘You may not understand now, but I hope you will one day, when you’re a big boy.’ I smiled as he sat up straight, pulling his shoulders back and holding his head high. ‘Yes, a big boy, just like that but even bigger! This is very important for Mummy to do, but especially for Jack.’

  ‘Speshaly for me-e-e,’ he emphasised, without any real idea of what I was talking about.

  I kissed his soft pink nose. ‘Yes, speshaly for you, my beautiful boy!’