I stared at her, clenching the soggy tissue in my hand. ‘What do you mean?'
‘Well, we don't know yet. But it sounds as though there were probably a lot of issues that had been building up inside you, bothering you for a very long time.'
I looked down, shredding a corner of the tissue. ‘Like … like what?'
‘It's hard to say. Maybe to do with your father, for instance.'
‘My father?’ My stomach dipped. I had hardly even mentioned him. It was like she was reading my mind again, like she had done with my phoney dream!
Dr Perrin nodded. ‘It's a possibility. I know from your history that your father died quite suddenly, after you and your mother left the family home. It would be surprising if there weren't unresolved issues there.'
I crumpled up the tissue and threw it at the bin. I missed. ‘But that doesn't, like – give me an excuse to beat up Tina, or whatever it was I did!'
‘Of course it doesn't,’ she said gently. ‘But people don't always behave in reasonable ways when they're in pain, and you have to make allowances for that. It's a matter of understanding, not excusing.'
I rubbed my fingers together, taking this in. I sort of got what she meant, but it still sounded like making excuses to me.
She went on. ‘Given your amnesia, I think it's likely that something has been bothering you for a long time, something that has nothing to do with Tina at all. Perhaps she was the catalyst, but I doubt she was the cause.'
I looked up, the breath clenched in my throat. ‘What do you mean?'
Dr Perrin smiled sadly at me. ‘That's what amnesia is all about, Kat. The mind has a way of burying what it finds too painful to deal with. These things just fall away into the cracks, until the person feels strong enough to handle it.'
I sat on my bed listening to the Bach violin concerto, willing it to take away the events of the day. But they kept whirling about in my head, until I wanted to crawl away under the duvet and never come out again. How could I have done all that to Tina? How could I have stolen her violin? No wonder she hated me. I'd hate me too.
And now she and Jade had my cat statue. I swallowed. I wasn't totally sure why it meant so much to me, but it did. What if they didn't give it back to me? What if I never saw it again?
I picked up Barney the panda, stroking his matted fur. He stared at me with his single yellow eye. It looked worried. ‘I don't blame you,’ I muttered. I sat back against the wall, hugging him to my chest. He felt weirdly comforting for some reason.
The orchestra pulsed slowly, steadily, as the violin dipped and soared above it. I let out a breath as the music came to an end, wanting it to linger on in my mind. Instead I just saw Tina again, her cheeks reddening in the changing rooms as she glared at me.
Was Dr Perrin right? Was all this about Tina? Or something else? Suddenly I sat up straight, staring at my desk. These things just fall away into the cracks ….
My pulse pounding, I threw Barney aside and scrambled off the bed. A moment later I was crouched on the floor, yanking all of the drawers out of the desk. The bottom one stuck a bit and I jostled it, wrestling it out of the unit.
Underneath where it had been there was a space about fifteen centimetres tall, hidden by the wooden front of the desk. It was the perfect hiding place. Lying on the carpet was the CD that had dropped down … and a book.
I reached for it in slow motion. It had a shiny black cover with multi-coloured flowers on it. I touched one of the flowers, feeling the smoothness of the cover. The book felt heavy in my hands.
My ribs tightened in my chest. Part of me didn't want to open it. Part of me really, really didn't want to know what it said.
But I had to.
Sitting with my back to the desk, I opened my journal and began to read.
Chapter Twenty
Kathy
2 March
Later
Oh God.
I feel so ill, so horrible. I just keep seeing her face, over and over in my mind. And my face, in the mirror. I looked … No. I can't think about it.
When I got home from school today I was actually sick. Mum said something to me, and I just threw up, all over the floor. I couldn't stop retching. I think I threw up everything I've ever eaten. Then I came to bed, crawling under the duvet, just wanting to hide forever. Mum thinks I have food poisoning or something, because I'm shaking, and cold and hot at the same time. She can't find our thermometer, so she's gone to see if a neighbour has one she can borrow.
She just came back and took my temperature. I don't have a fever, apparently. ‘Are you OK, angel?’ she asked. She hasn't called me angel in years.
I shook my head, crying. Can't stop crying. She looked so worried. She'd hate me if she knew. Everyone would hate me. Everyone who doesn't already.
Later
Mum just came in again. She brought my dinner on a tray. There was a pink rose in a bud vase that she said Richard had brought home for me when she told him I wasn't well.
Why are they being so nice to me? Why?
I keep expecting someone to ring. Tina's dad, or the police or something. Nobody has. I'm so scared they will, but at the same time I don't think I'd even care.
I feel so ill. I hate myself so much.
The look on Tina's face … I don't even remember exactly what happened. I just know she said something like, ‘Oh, thank God! I thought I'd never see it again!’ Then she said, ‘Just in time too. Dad's been wondering why I haven't played any duets with him lately.'
I hadn't given it back to her at that point, I had only just taken it out of my bag. And when she said that – I just froze. My hands felt clammy, and suddenly I thought my head might explode. And … that's when I did it.
I took her violin out of its case and smashed it against the sinks. I kept smashing it until the casing cracked, and then I threw it on the floor and stomped on it, again and again. And then I ran out. I don't even know how I got home – I can hardly remember it.
I've got Cat out from his hiding place and I'm holding him now, but he isn't helping. I keep thinking of that night. Over and over, the horrible noise it made. In fact, sometimes I think that Cat doesn't prove anything at all. Dad couldn't have loved me and did what he did. He couldn't have.
I'm so stupid. I shouldn't have written all this down. I hate it that it's in naked black and white forever, where anyone can read it. I just want to wipe it all from my mind, forget it ever happened.
Never mind. It doesn't matter anyway, because I'm going to get rid of this journal. I've just decided. I'll throw it away or burn it or something, and get a new one. I can hardly wait.
Fresh, empty pages, with nothing written on them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kat
When Beth came up to tell me that tea was ready, I was still sitting by the desk, with the journal on the floor beside me.
‘Kat?’ She quickly closed the door behind her and crouched beside me, brushing my hair back from my forehead. ‘Kat, what's wrong?'
I looked at her, and couldn't stop the tears coming. I shook my head, leaning against her, and she put her arms around me, holding me tightly.
‘Darling, what is it? What's wrong?'
I struggled to talk. The words felt soggy in my throat. ‘Mum … Mum, I've done something awful,’ I whispered.
And I handed her the journal.
A long time later the three of us sat on the bed in Mum and Richard's room, with the journal lying beside us. Mum wiped her eyes. ‘You were going through all that, and I didn't even know! Oh, Kat, I don't see how I can forgive myself.'
‘Beth, you didn't know,’ said Richard, touching her hand.
‘That's the point! I should have done!'
I leaned against the headboard, hugging my knees to my chest. ‘What … what happened the night we left? What did my father do?’ The question felt cold, dangerous. Like dipping my hand into a box of snakes. But I had to know.
Richard glanced at Beth. ‘Should I leave?’ he as
ked softly.
‘No!’ I told him. ‘No. I want you here.’ I looked at Beth again. No … not Beth. Mum. It felt right now, calling her that.
‘What happened?’ I repeated.
She rubbed her hand across her eyes. They looked red and raw. ‘The – the doctors said to let you remember everything on your own, but – oh, Kat, I'm just going to tell you. You deserve to know.'
I waited, watching her. She looked down, playing with a corner of the duvet. ‘It … it was a very unpleasant scene. Well, to put it mildly.’ She swallowed hard, glanced at me.
‘Kat, your father could be violent,’ she said softly. ‘He used to hit me sometimes. I don't think he ever hit you, or hurt you physically, but … in a way, he did something worse.'
I felt like I'd shatter into a million pieces if I moved. Richard reached over and squeezed my hand. His eyes stayed on Beth's face, warm and gentle, but with an undercurrent of helpless anger I had never seen before.
Mum took a ragged breath. ‘He – he didn't know we were planning to leave. I had to – get my courage up for a long time to do it, and then do it quickly, without him knowing, so he wouldn't be able to stop us.'
She looked down at her hands. ‘We did it when I thought he was going to be out one afternoon; he was meant to be playing golf. But there was some sort of problem with his booking, and he came home early. In a foul mood already … which wasn't improved by catching us with our bags packed, loading up my car.'
Mum gave a funny little laugh. ‘I was so scared, but I tried to stand up to him. I told him we were leaving, that the marriage was over … and he was calm about it. That scared me worse than anything else, that he was so calm. He let us keep loading up the car, and then, just when we were about to leave, I – I thought we should say goodbye to him, because I didn't know when you'd see him again. And he could be good to you, he really could … So we went back inside, and I saw that …’ She stopped, closing her eyes.
‘Stop,’ I said shakily. Images were swarming into my mind, bursting out of the black hole like they wanted to devour me. ‘I – I remember.'
It had taken ages for Mum and me to drag all our things out to the car. Usually Dad was the one who packed everything in the boot, arranging it so picture-perfectly that it all fit together like puzzle pieces, but now Mum was just sort of flinging stuff in as fast as she could.
She kept glancing back at the house with wide eyes, her lips tight. I remember that so clearly. And I wanted to help her, just so that things would go faster and whatever explosion might come from Dad wouldn't come after all, but I didn't know what to do. So I just stood there in the street with my arms folded over my stomach. I didn't say anything, or ask her anything about where we were going. I thought I might be ill if I tried to talk.
Finally, finally, all our bags were in the car. Mum turned to look at me. ‘Is that everything?’ she asked.
And I nodded, because I thought it was. I hadn't realized yet.
Mum looked up at the house. ‘Well – I guess we should go say goodbye,’ she said. She sounded doubtful, like maybe she was hoping I'd say, ‘No, actually, we really shouldn't, let's just go.'
But I didn't. Suddenly I was remembering all the good stuff about Dad. I looked up at the house and I wasn't sure about leaving any more. Maybe all dads were like this, maybe it was just how it was supposed to be. And it wasn't that bad, really, was it?
‘Come on,’ said Mum, holding her hand out to me. ‘It won't take long, and then we'll go. It'll be OK.'
She looked like she hoped she was right.
So we went back into the house. And peeked into the lounge. And Dad's chair was empty. The TV was still on, but he was gone.
We both just stood there, staring. I don't know why it seemed like such a shock – so ominous, even. But it did. It felt very, very bad, in fact, and I was just about to say, Let's forget about saying goodbye, let's just go, when Dad appeared in the corridor leading from the bedrooms.
‘You forgot this,’ he said. He was holding up my violin case.
Mum went pale. ‘You said you packed everything!’ she hissed at me.
I couldn't move, couldn't speak. Because I had packed my violin. I would never have forgotten it, never in a million years. Dad must have found my packed bags the night before. He must have known all along what Mum was planning.
‘Well, don't get any bright ideas about taking it,’ said Dad. He pulled it out of its case and strummed a few chords, plucking his fingers over the strings. ‘Because I paid for it, didn't I? Like I paid for everything else. Well, take the rest of it, go on. But you're not taking this.'
Mum glanced at me. You could see she was so terrified that I was going to make a scene, that I was going to start sobbing that I had to have my violin.
‘Kathy, I'll get you another one,’ she whispered. ‘It's OK, I promise.'
I nodded. Staring at my violin in Dad's hand. He swung it about lazily, like he was pretending to play tennis. The tears felt hot and prickly against my eyes, but I wasn't going to cry. Wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
He looked right at me and smiled. ‘Going to say goodbye to your dad, Kathy?'
‘Goodbye,’ I whispered. It was my violin I was saying goodbye to, not him. I stared at it in his hand, swinging back and forth. What would he do with it? Would he sell it? Throw it away?
‘ Goodbye,’ he mimicked. ‘Is that it? The big goodbye scene? Come on, love – haven't you got a kiss for your old man?'
I hesitated, glancing at Mum. I was afraid that he'd try to grab me or something if I went near him, and I could see from Mum's face that she was scared of the same thing. ‘No, we have to go now,’ she told him loudly. ‘We'll sort out visitation, and … all that later. OK?'
I knew that she meant to sound all bold and emancipated, but that final OK? showed her speech up for what it was – a plea for him to let us go. He wasn't holding us, he wasn't even touching us. God, he was standing about six metres away! But somehow we still needed his permission to leave. We were like helpless statues without it.
Suddenly Dad's face twisted. He pointed the violin at us like a curse, and I flinched. ‘Fine then, just get out!’ he shouted. ‘Leave!'
‘Hurry, Kathy, come on,’ said Mum. She pulled at my arm, and I stumbled after her, still staring at my violin.
‘Wait, Kathy! Wait a minute.'
His voice sounded so pleading suddenly that I turned back despite myself. Mum froze in the doorway, watching me. And then it happened.
Dad swung his arm back and smashed my violin against the wall.
I flinched so hard that it was like my skin tried to jump off. I couldn't look away, couldn't move. Staring straight at Mum, he kept swinging his arm, bringing the violin down again and again, until the casing started to splinter. Then he threw my violin on the floor and stomped on it with his big foot. The strings twanged as it broke.
Giving Mum a final glare, Dad kicked the violin at her. It skidded across the floor, banging into the settee. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So go. Good riddance.'
As we drove away, Mum wiped her eyes and said, ‘Kathy, don't worry, love. I'll buy you another one. OK? It'll all be all right, I promise.'
‘OK,’ I said.
But I knew I never wanted to see another violin again.
Richard made hot chocolate with whipped cream for us, and we sat cross-legged on the bed drinking it. It helped, somehow. Not much, but a little. Maybe chocolate always does. I sipped mine slowly, savouring the rich sweetness.
Now that that bit of my memory had come back, I wished it would go away again; crawl back into the hole it had come from. Nothing else had come back yet, just that one snippet. The worst one; it had to be.
But there was still something I had to know. Glancing at the journal, I cleared my throat and said, ‘Why … why didn't you let me go back to see Dad again? Before he died?'
Mum sighed. ‘Because he didn't know where we were, and I didn't want him to find out. We were officially sup
posed to be dealing with each other only through lawyers, but he had got our new phone number somehow, and was being very unpleasant – ringing up, harassing me. He said he was going to take you away from me, and never let me see you again. And I believed him. Or at least I believed that he'd try if he could. I couldn't take the chance, Kat, I just couldn't.'
‘You should have told me,’ I whispered. Another bit of memory was floating back. Not a complete one, just remembering how angry I had felt, how frustrated that she wouldn't let me see him. Because despite everything I had wanted to, so badly! I knew that he'd be sorry, that he'd want to apologize for what he'd done. And – I needed him to. I needed that a lot.
‘You're right,’ said Mum. She took a ragged breath. ‘I guess I was trying to shield you, but – but you're right. And then he had the heart attack before the divorce became final, and—'
‘It was too late,’ I finished. The lump in my throat felt like a rock.
Mum nodded. ‘It was too late,’ she echoed. ‘And you had to live with the fact that the last time you saw him, he did that awful thing to you.'
She stirred her cream slowly, watching it dissolve. ‘I guess I always knew that that was why you stopped playing,’ she said softly. ‘But I didn't want it to be the reason. It was such an awful thing to have happened, and I felt that I had bungled things so badly … After we moved here you had a new school and new friends, and you didn't seem bothered by it. That sounds so ridiculous now, but … but at the time it was easy to pretend that maybe you had just lost interest.'
‘Stop blaming yourself,’ said Richard, pressing her hand.
‘Oh, I do,’ said Mum grimly. ‘But the important thing now is you, Kat. How are you feeling?'
Battered. Confused. Like a train has just run over me. I lifted my shoulder. ‘I don't know.'
Richard cleared his throat and said, ‘Kat, I don't think it was directed at you, daft as that sounds. I think it was Beth who your dad was really trying to get at – it was a power-play, a control thing … I'm sure he loved you very much.'
Kat Got Your Tongue Page 13