“I gave you a week.”
“Perhaps I forgot.” I am determined that something stopped me other than insanity.
“I spoke to you each day to remind you.” I have no answer. “The words were just words, Charlotte. There was nothing emotional about any of them. You picked four words that you thought I wanted to hear and that would get you out of my office. You didn’t want to deal with it, or with me.” He is reaching across and he is taking my hands in his. “It is very important that we hang on to the work we have done in recent months. I don’t want you to fall back into this level of emotional numbness. Even if you are feeling bad, hopeless, or terrified, we can work on it together. You just have to be feeling something, and be able to express it. Here, with me. You must come to our sessions.”
I feel cheated. I want to tell him this. I want to tell him that I was doing well. I want to tell him that I was having a baby and that I was delighted about it. I want to tell him that it made life easier, because finally I was something other than crazy or depressed or suicidal or post suicidal or anything else people have called me, including slut, whore, easy, fragile, weak, wrong, damaged, and forgotten and I want to tell him that it is only because Gregory doesn’t want the baby or me for that matter and that all he wants to do is screw our housemaid that I feel that I am fucked and have no hope left so that this week, I haven’t even tried to talk to Gregory, and he is now avoiding me too.
Cheated. And Fucked.
I sit in silence.
To tell him about Gregory means that it is over. If I remain the only one who knows what he is doing it means that it is less real. If it doesn’t leave our house, our minds, our knowledge, it means that what he is doing with Ishiko can end as if it never began. Until it becomes something real like Marianne and John Wexley it can be snuffed out, extinguished like a tiny spark. A bubble in the ocean is nothing if it never breaks the surface. If it is never seen it is simply an imagined reality, consumed by the mass of ocean around it, the life of it sucked out until it becomes the nothing that it was destined to be. I thought for a while that to have my baby, to hold it, to cradle it, to protect it, meant that there was something of worth inside me, and the call that I hear to end it all would quieten and I that I would become something other than insignificant. I wanted for this call to craziness to quieten. I wanted for it to disappear. In the days after pregnancy and before his cheating I may never have been happier in my sorry and miserable life and I was trying to cling to that feeling of hope that I felt during those days when I felt something good, but ultimately I fear in every passing moment that it is becoming impossible.
Betrayed. Worthless.
“Why did you come here today, Charlotte?”
Because Gregory made me come. Not through force, but I felt his pressure in the mass of silence that has overtaken our house. Those who have been incapacitated at some point in their lives leave some of their autonomy behind, they become malleable, and Gregory knows this is true of me. When I was in the electric bed, connected through tubes and wires and straps and restraints, I waited for the craziness to be excised from me into the solid walls of the hospital. I felt it leave for a time, but after it had gone I felt the loss like the absence of an abusive partner. I knew it was supposed to be better that way, with the threat removed so that I could become something other than the person that I was before, but still the void left behind was never entirely filled. It didn’t matter how much they tried to fill it with good thoughts good love good work or just anything else that they had to offer, there was always that small part of me that missed my companion, no matter how much it hurt me. The ‘recovered’ pretend that they have moved on, that they don’t crave it anymore. They pretend that life is better without the chance of a beating, that to sleep alone in a bed where half the sheets remain cold but risk free is easier. But the void is still there. Only now I keep the void hidden. But there will come a day when this void opens back up. I know this because I have stood on the edge of this precipice before, at fourteen, and at twenty one, and at many moments between when they told me I was better and I knew that I wasn't because I didn't even want to be. I knew what I really was, always was, and will always be. I am sat here in this chair because I am told to be here. I’m here because it is a good idea to come here. I wish more than anything that there was a bubble that I could sit inside, my own bubble, like my baby wrapped up warm and protected. But like I said, even bubbles can burst.
“It is the best idea to come here, Dr. Abrams. There is no reason to stay away.” Because it just doesn’t matter.
“Good. Good.” He is so genuinely pleased by my answer I want to hold him and hug him and tell him that I am sorry. I have pleased him and I didn’t even try to. I said that because I know it is the truth, and I want to tell him the truth, even though every part of me knows that it is pointless.
“We have to continue to widen your reality, Charlotte. Your world caved in around you to the point there was nothing left but you and your misery.” And Beethoven. One boat. One bottle of vodka. A whole bunch of pills that they gave me. “We are pushing it back out. Slowly. Together.” I smile. Bless him. He really believes that together we can do anything. He should be on stage doing motivational speeches, or be a politician. Together.
Yes we can.
“Yes,” I say.
“Charlotte, there is just one more thing I want to ask you before we finish today. Is that OK?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t mentioned the baby. On Saturday you were very focussed on the baby. Why is it that you haven’t spoken of it today?”
I sit and stare for a while at the lines on his face and trace them as they move as he continues to speak. He must be in his late fifties by now and has lived almost twice the life I have lived. And yet I know nothing of it. I have never asked a question of him because I never cared to learn about his life because I understand now that there is no such thing as a real connection to another person. My eyes wander above him and I am sure he is still talking but I do not hear the words. On the shelves behind him there are books that reflect the life he has created. To list a few: Psychology and Social Sanity; The Science of the Mind; The Games People Play; Mindfulness and Psychology; and one that is obviously his favourite because he displays it on a stand so that the cover faces out, A Graphic Guide to The Mind. It has an iceberg on it with somebody chipping away on the top. This is how he pictures himself, I am sure, sat atop my head, hacking his way in. He has a gramophone on another desk, and the remaining shelves are scattered with periodicals, ornaments, and photographs designed to make this place feel like the home that most people who visit here don't have.
“Does that work?” I ask whilst he was mid sentence. I point to the gramophone, the big bell like a set of open, inviting arms. “Do you ever use it?”
“Yes.” He smiles, not bothered by my interruption. “Would you like to hear it?” I stand up and move over to the gramophone and he follows me in a series of quick movements as if he is trying to get in front of me in a queue, perhaps so I don’t touch it inappropriately. Not in an unkind or uncomfortable way. He cares about this machine. He wants to protect it from my clumsy gloved fingers. The same way that he is trying to do with me.
“There is a record already on here,” he says as he opens the lid, surprised. “Oh yes, one of my favourites.” He cranks it up by winding the handle with a daft smirk across his face, which he is trying to conceal by biting his lip and contorting his cheeks. I wish he wouldn’t, because his enthusiasm is nice and although I cannot share or feel it I can at least witness it. The bird is still singing outside, its fervour never once subdued. Perhaps I should have been a bird. “Here take this in your hand.” Touching only my glove, he guides my hand across the arm that moves back and forth and helps me move it towards the spinning record. I feel a sudden pressure as he pulls me back. He picks at the needle and cleans away a small collection of dust. He looks at me with raised eyebrows and puffs out his cheeks as if to sa
y, ‘Phew, that was nearly’. Such care over a machine, a record player, a thing which is outdated and obsolete. Unless you like hanging on to the past there is no need for this machine. No wonder I am interested. “Carefully. Yes, that’s it. Wait.”
I listen to the crackle as the needle rocks over the imperfections of the old vinyl, the scars of years gone by. He is smiling like a little boy. I smile too without even realising it. We listen together as the music starts, him lost in a dreamland full of smiles and happiness and I watch him, trying to work out how he did it.
“Where did you get it from?” I ask.
“It was my father’s, and before that it was my grandfather’s. I inherited it from my father when he passed away.” I can see his hand tapping and foot bobbing as he speaks. We are both aware of the differences between our stories. His father gave him a legacy, history, possessions that make him smile when he thinks of times past. My father left me to drown. My throat hurts, like it is swollen. I can feel his memories of past and family weighing down on me and suddenly I feel cold and reach for my coat. I wonder if his grandfather used to play it on a Sunday when his parents took him to visit and he would sit by his knee in front of a roaring fire. It’s a cliché, but suddenly I want it.
“Do you have your own family, Dr. Abrams?”
“Yes. Two sons.” He takes a photograph down from the shelf and hands it to me. Both are handsome. Somewhere in their late teens, but it must be from a while ago because he is too old for teenage sons now. They have been placed together for a joint photograph and their pose is forced. But they are smiling. “They are grown up now. The eldest, Thomas, this one here,” he says pointing at the taller of the two, “is married and living in London. The youngest, Joe, he is our free spirit. He is currently in The Netherlands. Not sure he will settle down, but he might end up giving us some grandchildren nevertheless, if you see what I mean. He is a good boy though. Works hard. Has a great job, something in finance.” He is so animated whilst telling me this story that for a second he pays no attention to me, lost in his own memories. I might as well not be here for all he is aware of my presence in the room at this moment, this very moment when I see what having a connection to another person means. He realises that the retelling of his own history has answered his original question. History is why I haven’t talked about the baby. Excitement and hope has given way to reality. Truth. I hand him back the photograph and he takes it but doesn’t look at it again, as if not to draw attention to it. “History doesn’t always repeat itself, Charlotte.” He is quick to try to reassure me, but I know now that hope is for losers.
“But it might.” We both take a big breath in, he offers me a seat but I motion to the clock suggesting that time is almost up. The music is still whirling along and I am comforted by the knowledge that nobody can hear what I am about to say on the other side of the room. “Gregory doesn't want the baby.” Dr. Abrams face remains unchanged as he digests this latest thought.
“I have known Gregory for many years. His father was a friend of mine. Gregory will come to terms with the idea of baby. You will be a family, and have all the things you never had, Charlotte.”
“You can’t promise me that, Dr. Abrams. You know you can’t.” He pulls his lips together as if he wants to stop himself speaking again. “I know he doesn’t want it.”
“He has always wanted it. It is just a little bit hard for him right now.” He looks like he really believes what he is saying to me.
I hold his upper arms and although I want to kiss him on the cheek in awe of his willingness to believe I do not. He is a sweet man, and he wants so much to help me. He really wants my life to be good. I smile at him, but I think it comes out looking sadder than I anticipated before turning to walk away. Gregory is waiting for me on the other side of the door.
“I forgot to ask,” I say turning back to Dr. Abrams just before he closed his door. The waiting room is empty and the fire is about to go out if somebody doesn’t attend to it. There are logs at the side and I am sure Gregory must have noticed them. He could have thrown one on, but he didn’t. “I like the song. It’s very upbeat. What is it called?”
He looks slightly embarrassed before saying, “Crazy Rhythm.”
My almost real smile fades a little, before Gregory places a hand at the base of my back and pushes me towards the door. Of course it is called Crazy Rhythm. We should be skipping out like dancers from the 1920’s, legs and arms flailing back and forth like we haven’t a care in the world. I can almost hear the trumpets with their muted bells, the oompa oompa of the tuba in the background, and the rhythmical crash of a cymbal. It is almost impossible to be unhappy when you hear music like this. And yet I, we, still manage it. We walk out of the building along a perfectly clear path, the gardener no longer in sight. I cannot hear the bird anymore.
Chapter seventeen
We arrive home and Gregory suggests I take a rest in a way that doesn’t seem optional. I lie on my bed for a while thinking about the session with Dr. Abrams. My trip to the psychiatrist's office has done little to lift the silence filling the rooms of this house. There are no sounds to count the passing seconds. I am amazed that Dr. Abrams manages to remain so positive with me. He never fails to see the possibility in me, which I fail even to see myself. Hopeful, pleased, joyous, happy. Pathetic. Could it be possible that I ever felt this way? It was never possible, I know this. Right before I went in the water, on the day of the 'accident', I hit my head. I had chased down the tablets with almost a bottle of vodka. If I hadn’t waited so long there would have been no chance they would have pulled me up. I would have sunk to the bottom and stayed there. They would have had to dredge the lake to find me by that time, or wait until I popped out amongst the tree roots and foliage, bloated and pale like a puffer fish, bits of me chewed or rotted away. But they got me. They pulled me, blood pouring from my scalp staining my hair and my face until it was pink and looked artificially alive. They breathed for me until my lungs realised the plan had changed, and my heart was shocked back into action. A full about turn.
When I woke up with a tube hanging out of my nose and another one collecting my pee, I had no recollection of what had happened. They had already pulled the tube from my throat. I could feel the scratched flesh that it left behind, and this pain confirmed for me that I was alive because I couldn’t begin to allow myself to believe that there was still pain after death. What a terrible thought. Some people peered in at me, all smiles and best-friend falseness. Others didn’t want to look after me. They thought I deserved it. It was what she wanted, they said. I liked and appreciated these people more. One distinct memory is of throwing up thick black vomit because of the charcoal they were feeding me. I remember somebody telling me that I would be alright but that I had to cooperate. Another memory is of the delirium in the seconds immediately prior to my body giving in, when it shook as my brain malfunctioned and I had a seizure. That was the last thing I remember. Until Gregory. I woke up and he was there. Smiling, crying, shaking. He was at my side. He loved me so much in those moments and was so happy I had survived. He was dressed in an old jumper even though it was August. His eyes dark and droopy, watery too. He squeezed my hand so much I thought he might pull it off. But after that my memories get chaotic and confused. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember my first meal or my first shower. I don’t remember my first day back at work, although I remember Gregory insisting that I shouldn’t go. I remember the freshly baked food that appeared in my kitchen that Ishiko insisted she hadn’t cooked and I remember wondering how it had arrived there. I don’t remember meeting Dr. Abrams. I don’t remember making love to Gregory. I don’t remember when he stopped loving me. I only wish I couldn’t remember that there was a time when he did, because somehow knowing this makes things worse.
I hear a knock at the door, and it opens a crack, the unmistakable black fringe of Ishiko standing in the shadows.
“What is it?” I look at the clock. It isn’t time for dinner yet.
“Your friend left something in the dining room.” She held out her hand to reveal a neat pearl bracelet. Marianne had been showing off this bracelet on the night of my birthday, a gift from her lover to show that she was important. That she was more than a secret. She was worth something. She wasn’t kept in a bubble. She wasn’t nothing. I wonder how many gifts Gregory has bought Ishiko and where she hides them. What if he bought her a bracelet like this? When would she wear it? Would she keep it in her handbag and put it on her wrist when she leaves the house and then remove it before she comes home? I wonder if he has taken her away, to Glenridding to his other hotel for secret liaisons. I wonder if he has kissed her in the garden, shrouded by mist with a false sense of freedom because they are out from behind closed doors. I wonder if he has made her promises like John has made to Marianne. I wonder if that’s why he doesn’t love me, because I have ruined his plans. This baby has ended his chances to get rid of me and now he is stuck with us both in the house and he doesn’t know what to do.
“Give that to me.” I sit up and as she walks forward I snatch the bracelet and tell her to get dinner ready. I wait for her to leave. I listen at the door to check that I am alone. I hear them both downstairs discussing, probably about dinner because it is 4:18 pm. I open the drawer of the bedside cabinet and take it out, placing it on the bed. I take the table lamp and bring it down to the floor where I am now sitting and it casts a shadowy light into the space. On the left there is a small shelf, on which there is a row of Prozac tablets, forty eight of them. They sit evenly spaced and aligned, green half to the back, white half facing in like an inspection parade of camouflaged soldiers. On the opposite side, a replica shelf of the first, I lay out the pearl bracelet. I look inside for a while, realising that something is not as I expected. Something is missing. I dart across the room to the wardrobe, rummaging through the clothes until I see the dress that I wore the night of The Sailing Club dinner folded into a pile. Underneath is a handbag. I open it, willing it to be there. It is. I take out the picture of Ishiko and smooth out the crumples. There is a new fold that dissects her in half, right through the head. I put it back in the drawer space next to the bracelet and in front of the CD which I took from her room. An evidence haul of betrayal. Property of Judas. I take out today’s Prozac capsule from the bottle which sits on top of the bedside table and place it on the shelf. I put the drawer back in and remind myself, Marianne first. This one is easier. I wonder if forty nine tablets will be enough to kill her. I wonder if Ishiko will need less because she is smaller. I wonder if what I am going to do will scare Gregory enough to make him realise.
PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Page 18