I’m still stiff as a board. It’s a daydream that feels like a memory. But it can’t be a memory. It can’t be. I’d remember. It’s just a funny drifting thought. One of those strange imaginings that visit us all in the day. Maybe they’re all I have now.
So here we are. Now I’m still. Frozen still in my bedroom. Unable to move a thing. It feels like it’s been hours.
My fingers wriggle. I’ve been telling them to for a few minutes now and they finally submit. The pins and needles are so painful in my elbow, I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. My legs flop around as if they’re not part of my body. I punch them for a bit, but they’re dead. Then gradually they thaw and come back to life.
I lift my body and feel the air around me. It’s thick, so I open a window. My brain is telling me I’ve had a shock. But my body is just glad to be alive. I jump up and down a couple of times. I’m free. I’m so relieved. I duck under the blind, lift it over me like a sheet and open a window so I can put my head out of it. And let the air flow over me.
I suck in the cold outside. Then after a few seconds, I lift the material back over my head and step backwards into the dark of my room. I’m still for a moment. Then I pull the cord to raise the blind, just a touch, just enough to get some light in. But not enough to see the windows of the other apartments. I feel that would be dangerous. I’m not ready for that yet. I hear my own footsteps echo off the tiles and around the kitchen. I am alone. For the first time I feel fully alone.
I grab at the Post-it note stuck to my shirt. I’m going to use the home phone. It’s a novelty. I type in the numbers. The numbers above the word ‘Helen’.
The day it comes. Evening.
Jack Snipe – Scolopaci, Lymnocryptes Minimus – Wetlands – Overcast, 10 deg – 3 flock – 22 cm – Two pale, lateral crown-strips, healthy dark plumage – Foraging
I look out the window. I allow the phone to ring, the receiver to my ear. It went on for what seemed like an age. I stood and waited. Come on, pick up. I considered what was beyond my blinds. What was going on out there. But I stopped those thoughts in their tracks. I need to stop looking out there. Keep the shutters down. Cut off the impulse before it all starts again. I waited for someone to pick up.
‘Hello,’ the voice came back.
Not for the first time, I told my body to do something and the body kicked back. I ordered my brain to talk, but the words refused to come out. Speak.
‘Hello,’ the voice came again.
I put the phone down. I don’t know whether I thought I didn’t need Helen or I was afraid to speak to her. My body was making decisions on pure impulse.
I feared her bringing a bit too much reality with her. I’d had too many shocks for one day already. Enough was enough. So many epiphanies. It’s all come at me so hard.
I see Aiden’s laptop on the floor. Where it’s always been really. Him tapping away on it, an imagining. I touch the bathroom door; he used to hide behind doors sometimes, in my mind. I look at the bed sheets I slept next to him in. And didn’t.
For so long he was never here. I touched myself and imagined we were making love. I grasped the air and made myself believe it was his body. I could smell him here, on the pillows. When the scent would die I’d spray his aftershave around again to keep his ghost close. To convince myself.
I recollect the conversations I had with blank walls. Imagining he was talking back. My imaginary friend. I pictured him cleaning the blood off the windows. The blood and water appearing to run down his body. As I envisaged him on that rainy night. After the collision. As his body lay on the tarmac and the rain came down on him. Almost serene. I am back in the living room. I lie on the sofa. And meditate on the lies I’ve told myself to keep going every day.
Then there’s a knock at the door. My body tells me to ignore it. Whether it be police, a friend, or foe. My instinct says put your head under the covers and wait for it all to go away. Go back to bed. Wait for another day.
But the knock comes again. I could chance the enlarged eye viewer. My flat’s fish eye lens. If my home were a camera.
But I’d rather not know. If I count to fifteen and breathe through my nose. I breathe out for ten through my mouth. Do that three times. Then by the time I’ve finished they’ll have given up and go home. In for fifteen. Out for ten.
Knock. Knock.
They’ll have to go and get a search order to get in. They’ll have to get a battering ram. I’ll stack up all my furniture. I’ll make a barricade. I’ll clog it up. I won’t go quietly. I’m sticking here. Not answering, they can’t make me.
In for fifteen. Out for ten.
Knock. A single knock. Solitary. My mind is cast back somewhere. A special knock. Just one was all it needed, for me to know it was them. Our secret knock. I’d knock once back, to let them know my tempest was over. Whenever I had a tiny storm inside my head. I breathe in the memory. They knew to leave me alone. Then they would knock just once to check I was OK. To check I was ready to come out.
I return a single knock. One rap from my knuckles to the wood. I wait. Nothing. Then I remember to count to ten. That’s how it went – four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Then knock. Knock. Two slow ones, with a full gasp of air in between them. Then I’d make my choice to be seen. If that’s what I wanted. If I was ready. That’s how it used to work. I remember how this goes.
I don’t bother with the peephole. I close my eyes. And open the door. I open my eyes. Gently, like a newborn baby, as if for the first time. And there he is. He’s back.
There you are. Dad.
We stand and look at each other. I want to hug you. You seem to want to hug me too. I don’t know. I think you do, you’d have to tell me.
But instead we stare. You outside, me inside. A precipice between us. It’s only been a year. But you look a fair bit older. I hope you don’t mind me saying. I know you’ve not been well. Your sinuses, like mine, go on the blink quite heavy sometimes. It gets worse as you get older, you told me. Things that were little pains, stick around and get worse. They’re there to stay. They don’t shift so easy as when you’re young. Maybe they’ll be the death of me, you said. You do look older. You’re an old man now. It’s taken some time away from you to see it. But you’re still handsome. Objectively. Still Dad.
Then a creeping fear comes over me. I feel like I want to say ‘sorry’. Or even ‘I’m so sorry’. For not letting you into my life. My feelings. I wrote you a letter. The day Aiden died. Because I couldn’t face the phone call. Because I was so angry and stubborn. I wanted to keep you out. I thought maybe it would hurt a little less if I did that. If I decided to resent the little things. Or maybe I was afraid someone kind might say something nice that would make it feel even worse. But it didn’t work. I’m still afraid. And now I’m ashamed too.
You step inside. We still don’t say anything. You have a suit on. You always like to travel formal. I assume you’ve just stepped off the plane. The dark-suited man. The expat. Already lightly tanned.
I imagine you’ve set up somewhere not far from a beach. Maybe near a cliff. A place to yourself. People to nod to, but not to speak to. Solitude. A bridge club on Tuesdays at most, if they do that over there. Then you sit in the sun drinking gin. Father’s ruin. Somewhere you can watch the birds. I imagine it all. I don’t need to ask. I don’t need to know the details.
I’m so afraid at what you’re going to say next that I myself can’t speak. I show you the bedroom, wordlessly. Aiden’s papers are strewn everywhere. The bed is a mess. Binoculars out of their case. Grounds for a grounding. You say nothing. Then the bathroom. Spacious and modern, tidy enough. A bath that I once pictured myself crying into, but never did.
Then the living room and kitchen. Strewn with charts and paraphernalia. I’m not so ashamed. This is where I am. Best to be honest about it. Best to wear it. Wherever you go, that’s where you are. I don’t want you to speak now. For a while it hurt me to delay the inevitable. Your judgement. I quickly make a wish that pe
rhaps we can stay in silence like this for ever. I feel like you’re about to speak. I don’t want to hear it. Inside, I tremble.
Then you hug me. It catches me off guard. And warms me.
‘Oh, Lily Anna. I love you so.’
And inside I let it all go and I weep with relief that you’re here. But, in reality, my tears carry on gripping tightly. I can’t quite speak yet.
‘I got the journal. I read it. Every word,’ you say.
‘What did you think? Did I tempt you back with English garden birds?’ I mutter.
‘No. No, I had to come. Because of how far away you’d got. From how things really are.’
The same thing that happened to Mum. I read your implication. Your careful steps half warm me, half make me nauseous. I don’t need any more silence and careful talk from Dad. I want you to make it better. I wonder why you aren’t making it better. I remember now that you used to. You always did.
‘I thought you were going to be OK. I thought it would be safe to leave you. I thought it wouldn’t happen to you,’ you say.
You’re talking about a particular incident. I’ll spell it out for you. A period of a few months in particular when Mum had wild delusions and spells of forgetting who we all were. She thought I was the neighbour’s child. Who came around for toast and jam. That, I remember. That hurt. That was the beginning of the end of it all.
‘That’s unfair. That’s so unfair, Dad. Of course it was safe to leave me. I’ve always done things alone. Why wouldn’t I be OK? Why wouldn’t it be safe,’ I say, raising my voice.
‘That’s what I said. Don’t misunderstand me. There were little echoes from you. Eccentricities. But nothing more. Then this trigger. Aiden, you see, triggered it all. I see that now. I’m sorry. I am. So sorry. I shouldn’t have gone away. I think in some ways you never… dealt with Mum… dying. I should’ve talked to you more about it. I should’ve made sure… you were OK.’
I thought this was what I wanted. All this time. Now I don’t even know why you’re apologising. I know it’s me.
From the moment you walked in. Maybe for my whole life that’s what I’ve wanted. A sorry, from someone. For Mum being the way she was. And then going the way she did. Maybe we should’ve talked about it. But it’s not like we didn’t spend time with each other. We always did. Always. You made time for us to be together. Even if in silence. Us and the birds.
But when you say sorry it means so little. Because you don’t have to be sorry for anything. You’re my dad. And you’ve done so much for me. I couldn’t wish for anything else, I know that now. I say it here because it’s hard to say it to your face. But thank you.
But anyway, you do say sorry. For what it’s worth. And it’s strange, getting what you want sometimes. The earth doesn’t shift on its axis. Everything is just the same. Like after a death. A butterfly flaps its wings and the world does fuck all.
But something has changed. My dad is back.
‘Are you going to offer me tea? Do you have Lady Grey?’ you say.
‘Yes. Take a seat. You must be tired.’
We play pretend. Act like it’s not awkward that I have refused to answer your calls, avoided you encroaching on my new reality. We’re well practised in pretend.
‘Lily. Lily Anna. It’s so good to see you.’
Your words warm me. You’re even warmer than I remember.
‘Lily Anna. You’re so smart. So smart when you’re all together. But I’ve told you. If you have any illusions. If you have even the smallest hint that they’re coming on then you must call me right away. Then we can sort it out together.’
Then we really do talk. Maybe for the first time ever. About Mum. And us. We talk. As adults and equals. I won’t bore you with the details. You were there. We talk of Mum before she was ill. My earliest memories. We talk of Aiden and make some plans for how I move forward.
We talk of the birds. We tidy up. A good deep tidy like we used to do every Sunday. Until everything is almost as good as new. I know you know all of this, Dad. I know you were there. But it’s important to remember the tidying up. Because this journal has become a record. A kind of timepiece and apology. I’m writing this down as a record now. I’m just trying to make sure this all sticks in my mind. If I ever happen to relapse again.
Then I fill you in about the past few pages of my journal. The ones I didn’t send you yet. The seven days when it really got real. I tell you about it all.
I tell you about the search for the blond-haired man. Your face turns. You look at me, gravely.
28 September. 9 a.m.
We sleep on it. You on the fold-out sofa. The next morning we’re awoken by the home phone. Its ringing is not such a novelty at this point. I hurry to it. You’re probably tired from the flight. You look well though, lying there contently as my eyes wander over you. For a second, I admire the impression the continental sun has made on your complexion.
I don’t want you disturbed, you need your rest. Your head sleeps sound on the pillow. So I dash to the phone. I pick it up and take it into the bedroom. Waiting for the recorded voice to ask me about PPI. Or an accident claim.
‘Ms Gullick?’
I wait. It’s not recorded. They need a response.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s me,’ I say.
‘I have Helen on the line for you. Are you free to speak?’
I consider the choices. I suppose I am. I’m not sure who Helen is but I have an inkling now.
‘Yes. I suppose I am. How did you get this number?’
But that voice is gone. Hold music takes its place. I raise the blinds and look out. Rich’s blinds are closed, luckily. I won’t bother with any of that. I’ve promised. Not unless Dad says it’s OK.
People are going about their days. There is a small festival on at the other side of the lake. They do them every so often. I think it’s part of their remit. To bring the two sides of the complex together. The apartments and the estate. There’s face painting. Jerk-chicken wraps. People kayak on the reservoir. It’s for the children mostly. But most people show their face. Whatever their age. The hold music ends.
‘Hello, Lily.’
‘Helen?’
‘Yes. We received a call from your number. Don’t be alarmed. We tend to do that. We know it’s hard to call and harder still to speak sometimes. We like to reach out and give people a helping hand. Tell me. Please. How are you? I’ve been wondering.’
Her voice is warm and smooth. If it was a colour it would be a fresh, light blue. I remember thinking this as I sat in a chair in her office for the first time. When I was a therapy virgin. Her voice drifting over me like a breeze, making everything gradually more manageable. Her voice is a safe place.
‘I’m not great actually. Not great.’
‘Well, that’s OK. You must tell me everything on Monday. Can you come in and see me Monday. Just be gentle with yourself over the weekend and come and see me then.’
‘Yes. It’s far worse than before. Something’s happened.’
‘That’s OK. Just tell me something. You don’t have to tell me everything, but tell me something now,’ she says, so calm and bright.
Soon I’m giving her the outline. The delusions. Far more vivid than before, I tell her. Full-blown. Then I tell her what I saw in the other apartments. How I’m not sure if any of it is real or not. But it feels real. Realer than Aiden.
I tell her I don’t want anyone to tell me it isn’t real. I’m afraid of that. Because they don’t know for sure either. And I don’t want the rug pulled out from under my feet again.
I’m not sure if this sounds clear and reasonable. But that’s what I’m aiming for.
She has a suggestion. She sets me some homework. She always liked to do that. Back to school. She says she likes the fact I’ve kept a journal and I must number the days within it. The days running up to my fit. Count them down. To when it came. Yesterday. When I shook so hard. Then couldn’t move at all. It’s a useful middle point. We have to see what led up to
it. Become comfortable with it. Then work on what comes after, she says. This will help, she says. I’ll be able to refer back to it and she will too. We can look at it together. And use it as a reference.
So I do. I rearrange it a bit. So it doesn’t look entirely how I sent it to you. So it’s in the best shape for her purposes. I read back everything I’ve said. It’s my project for today. Turning my journal into a record, as I’ve been told to do. I skim it and try not go too deep, not yet. I don’t want to get confused, I still could be a bit fragile, I don’t know.
But if I can just get through a couple more days. Then it’ll be Monday and Helen can start putting things right again. Helen who sits me down and lets me talk in her office. A couple more days to stay on the straight and narrow. Then I can start getting fine again.
You get up and I make breakfast. I still feel so much better addressing this all to you. Though it feels funny now you’re here.
We have eggs Florentine. I make it so well. I feel good. Healthy. Today is Saturday and the late September sunshine pours in through my windows. I pull back the door to the balcony and let the air in. I see my neighbours at the other side of the lake. Dots in the distance. Almost too far even for binoculars.
I think about bringing it all up. Everything. But you do it for me.
‘I know what you think you saw, Lily. I want you to consider that it was another illusion. I’m not going to push the fact. But I think we can agree that it is quite likely.’
The Watcher Page 19