by A J Waines
Rosie stared at the floor as if she was watching the rest of that image unfold. She blinked fast and I knew something awful was going on inside her head, but she stopped there.
‘Do you like Christmas?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Um…I think it can be a difficult time for lots of people.’
‘When most people picture their family Christmas,’ she continued, ‘they see a sitting room with worn comfy chairs and a bunch of happy people wearing party hats, opening presents. Most people, no matter how miserable they are, or how low they have sunk, can find an uplifting memory from their past.’
She looked up, her face entirely neutral.
‘I don’t have any memories like that. Not one. Instead, I see dark hallways I don’t recognise, people asking me to leave the room while they argue about not having space for me or about it not being “their turn”. Instead of the twinkling fairy lights on a Christmas tree, I see the headlamps of a taxi catching the light on the buckle of my suitcase as I look forward to another hour in the station waiting room. No one wanted me around to spoil their festivities.’
‘You had nobody? Your mother and father…?’
‘They died – on the same day,’ she said simply. ‘When I was seven years old.’
Those words jolted me like an electric shock, but Rosie didn’t look as though she wanted or needed any compassion. She was just filling me in, telling me how it was, so I’d get a better idea of the sort of person she’d become. All the same, it made me crumple inside for her.
‘Rosie,’ I said. ‘You’ve had such a hard time in the past. We might need to talk about that a bit more, sometime, if it feels okay.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, her voice thin, flimsy. ‘I don’t think about it much. After they died, though, it felt like I was being punished. I didn’t know my grandparents; Mum was an only child and Dad’s brother died in a motorbike accident, so I have no proper aunts or uncles either. Doing the trawl of distant relatives and being farmed out to foster homes when they didn’t want me – that was the really crap bit.’
She blew into a tissue from her sleeve. ‘Can we go back to the crash?’ she said.
I nodded and changed tack, but I knew at some stage I’d need to dig deeper into her shattered past. Sometimes in working to retrieve recent memories, old ones pop up to the surface unexpectedly and I needed to know what I was dealing with. Rosie appeared to be coping well, but my instinct was telling me there was something beneath the surface she wasn’t yet able to let me see.
Chapter 5
Rosie
I’m sitting in my dreary flat near Streatham Station, listening to the trains from Victoria thundering past. My cheapskate landlady has just told me she won’t pay for the cracked toilet seat. She says I must have done something to break it. Unbelievable! I never touched it – it must have been the cold. This dump is like an icehouse. I haven’t told her the shoddy plastic base of the shower is cracked too; there’s water running through it, doing all kinds of damage out of sight, no doubt. But I don’t care. I don’t intend to spend much time here, if everything goes to plan.
That last session with Sam was tough. She asked me about growing up. We only have six sessions and they’re supposed to be about getting my memory back, so I trust that little diversion is all done and dusted. She said she has to ask, because it all has a bearing on my personality and she needs to know how I cope with things. I could have saved her the trouble by telling her I cope by blotting everything out and pretending it never happened. Only, I don’t think she’d have been the least bit impressed with that.
The worst part was that I could see she was upset by what I told her and I’d hardly even started. She doesn’t know the half of it! I didn’t go into any of the nasty stuff about what actually happened. I want her to care, but I don’t want to make her feel bad. She might not like me if I do that. I don’t want her to feel too sorry for me either – she needs to see what a strong and resilient person I am, to see that I’ve learned to cope and done a damn good job of it. If she thinks highly of me she’ll want to know me better.
Some of my therapists have turned all gooey when I’ve told them the heartbreaking stuff. One even burst into tears on me. I hated that – the silly cow had no control; she showed no consideration for how I might feel. I need someone solid. I can’t be doing with a wimp who’s going to go to pieces at the slightest sob story.
Sam isn’t like that, though. I reckon, if she caught me off-guard and the really dark stuff came out, she’d cope really well. Obviously, I’ll never tell her the stuff that has to stay safely locked away forever. She doesn’t need to know those details; certain things I’ve done that have nothing to do with her. They would only complicate matters. As long as I bear that in mind, everything bodes well. I think we’re going to get on just fine.
I wore my new dress, but I’m not sure she noticed. She didn’t mention it, anyway. She probably isn’t supposed to talk about things like that. I’m never quite sure what the rules are, but I think, as a therapist, she’s only meant to talk about the stuff I bring up first. That’s what I’ve learnt from my other shrinks, anyway. I know already she’ll be better than the last few; she’s softer and more gentle – more like a real person – so that’s a brilliant start.
I’ve decided I don’t like the room we’re in. It smells nice, but it’s got sickly yellow walls and too many office things in it; the filing cabinet, a laptop open on the desk, and that angle-poise lamp that’s like a giant stick-insect watching us all the time. The flowers have gone now, so there’s nothing personal. I suppose it would be too much to expect the hospital to provide nice touches like a few books and ornaments on the shelves and Sam hasn’t done much to make it homely. No plants or knick-knacks. So bloody clinical. I hate hearing people talking outside and trolleys rolling past; it’s like being at a bus station. I want more privacy. I want to feel like I’ve got Sam all to myself. Someone could walk in at any minute and disturb us.
I didn’t mean to cry, yesterday – the tears just bubbled up. Sam must have pressed one of my buttons without me realising. I’ll have to be careful. Can’t afford to let things run away with me like that. But I do like her – I get all goose-pimply sitting on this moth-eaten bed thinking about her.
I reach down to my feet and turn up the heater. It rattles like it’s about to take off. Another train roars past, shaking the windows. One day – soon – I’ll be out of here for good.
When we first met, Sam gave me her business card and I take it out of my purse now and place it in my lap. I run my fingers over her printed name, then I take a pen from my bag and write ‘Sam’ in curly writing on the back. I go over and over it, big and bold, making a soft swelling in the card. Sam’s card given to me, her name written by me, with my pen. All mine.
Chapter 6
Sam
I was standing outside the deli during my lunch break with a hot samosa in one hand, my mobile in the other. Miranda wasn’t returning my calls. It always unnerved me when that happened. If it was anyone else, I’d just assume they were busy or having trouble with their phone.
It was different with Miranda.
Straight away I had visions of her taking off on some wild rampage. Stupid really, because the new medication she was on had transformed her in the last eighteen months; but that’s the problem when someone close to you has schizophrenia – you always jump to conclusions.
A text finally arrived from her four hours later, just as I’d closed the door behind my final patient. She didn’t give a reason for not responding to my zillion messages, instead she sent an invitation to an exhibition that evening at the V&A entitled Modern Textiles as Art. She knew I wasn’t a big fan of modern art and she was probably expecting me to turn her down. I texted straight back and accepted.
I knew she’d be late; I’d never known Miranda to be on time for anything. I was half expecting she wouldn’t turn up at all. I’d been standing around for twenty minutes by the entrance to
the gift shop when she welcomed me with a low-key ‘Hi’ and a raise of her hand, before racing through the corridors to the right gallery. She didn’t even make eye contact. I spent most of the exhibition trying to keep up with her. She kept striding on to the next picture before I’d managed to focus on the one in front of me.
‘I’m thinking of adding hessian to my oil paintings,’ she said finally, as we made our way towards the exit afterwards. Miranda was due to have another exhibition soon at the Arts Project; the centre for artists with mental health issues where she’d made so many friends.
‘Great,’ I said, not sure how else to respond. ‘What’s led to that idea?’ We spun through the revolving glass doors out on to the street.
‘I want more depth to my pictures. I’d like people to want to touch them.’
Miranda’s pictures weren’t pretty. They were macabre and sinister; big bold explosions of dark colours. It was a big enough ask, in my view, to expect people to look at them, never mind get their fingers dirty. I gave myself a mental kick for thinking that way. Painting was her lifeline and helped her deal with her inner demons – none of which had taken root inside her through any fault of her own. Finding positive things to say about her pictures, however, was hard – they were abstract, ugly and full of rage – and I ended up resorting to comments such as how interesting, in a sickly, pointless kind of way. I’d have to do better.
We went on to a wine bar in South Kensington, ordering as if we were in two separate bistros. Me, a Mediterranean tapas with vine leaves, hummus, olives and a glass of Merlot. Miranda, thick-cut chips, a bowl of peanuts and a Diet Coke.
Our relationship had always had plenty of ups and downs. We’d been on an even keel for a while now, but something had obviously happened to send us on a downward slide again, though for the life of me I couldn’t work out what it was. Miranda denied there was any problem when I asked about it, which made things worse. And she’d stopped telling me things. In fact, when I was around, it felt like she was trying to keep all the important details of her life locked inside an iron vault.
Somehow I managed to keep putting my foot in it. I was ‘too full on’, too ‘in her face’ – her words.
She was frosty towards me most of the time: outspoken, hostile and downright hurtful. It was a strain, but I wasn’t giving up on her. It’s hard to wipe out a lifetime of misunderstandings and even harder to forget that, in spite of stabilising medication, there was always a label around Miranda’s neck that read mentally ill in bold letters. Nevertheless, I was determined to stand by her, to hang on in there and hope she’d turn to me once in a while. We were always going to be chalk and cheese, but I wanted a better relationship as siblings. Except, maybe I wanted it more than she did.
Miranda leant over and dunked a fat chip into my hummus without looking up. Had I done something to bring about this recent logjam in our relationship? Said something? I needed to find the right time to ask her about it again – to clear the air – but I wasn’t convinced now was that moment. I was tired and knew broaching the topic was likely to result in some kind of demonstrative outburst from Miranda – always best handled in private.
‘I know that look,’ she said. ‘You punishing yourself, again?’ When Miranda chose to address something, she didn’t beat about the bush. ‘It still gets to you doesn’t it?’
She was on the wrong track, but I didn’t put her straight. ‘That business last Christmas,’ she added, chewing with her mouth open.
That business last Christmas had nearly brought me to my knees.
‘It’s always going to be a big deal,’ I said, with a sigh.
‘What was her name, again?’
All of a sudden my head became too heavy for my neck. I rested my elbows on the table and let my hands take the weight. ‘Joanne.’ I held her gaze. ‘Her name was Joanne. I don’t really want—’
‘Can’t you just move on? Everyone knows it wasn’t your fault – can’t you just get over it?’
‘Can we talk about—?’
She cut me off. ‘How’s work?’ she said, making bubbles with her straw in the bottom of her thick glass.
‘Busy.’ She knew she’d chosen a dead-end subject; I wasn’t able to give her any details.
‘You’re always worn out and grumpy when I see you,’ she said, slumping back in her seat.
I drew my head back in shock. ‘I’m not grumpy…’
‘You don’t have feelings like other people, do you?’ she said, accusingly. ‘You’re hard. A cold fish.’
Despite knowing I needed to take what Miranda said with a pinch of salt at times, her words burrowed deeply into me. More so, as she wasn’t the only person to see me that way. The issue isn’t that I don’t feel, it’s that I don’t often show how I feel. I tend to scoop up my reactions and carry them away with me, so it looks like I have none. In reality, I let my emotions emerge once I’m on my own, out of reach of other people’s scrutiny.
Her mouth puckered as if she’d tasted something sour. ‘You’re all serious and distracted.’
Diners on nearby tables had started to turn round; Miranda delivered her comments several decibels above the general hum.
An unwanted memory rushed into my mind of her leaping onto the table in a top-class restaurant and taking her knickers off. Then I remembered her weaving her way around the chairs in a waiting room with a pair of scissors snipping off people’s hair. There were uglier incidents in fact, but thankfully not for a long time.
‘Actually, I’m worried about you…’ I said calmly.
‘Me? What’s wrong with me? I’m fine. I’m selling pictures. I’m great.’
It sounded defensive and forced.
I waited, hoping the heat around her would cool a fraction.
‘Are you free tomorrow evening, perhaps?’ I said, striking up a fresh tone. ‘I thought we could go to the cinema.’
Her eyes took a detour over my shoulder before she answered. ‘I’d love to, but I promised Amanda I’d help with her bridesmaid’s dress.’
‘Oh. Shame.’
Miranda looked like she was about to say something important; she seemed to be rehearsing her next sentence – but then she shrugged and folded her arms.
I glanced at my watch under the table. Two hours spent together and she seemed as estranged from me as ever. Miranda sighed as if she was bored and pulled a biro out of her bag. She folded up her napkin and started doodling on it.
When Miranda came out of residential care for good, we were both excited about renewing our bond. She’d held up amazingly well when unspeakable details about her past had come crawling out of the woodwork and the more I understood our dysfunctional family dynamic, the more I realised I shouldn’t be blaming her for making my upbringing such a bumpy ride. We’d grown closer as a result.
For a while we’d tried living together, but it soon became obvious that we both needed our own space. I’d never known Miranda as a proper older sister and I couldn’t get used to the idea. She’d always felt like the ‘child’ in the family. Unfortunately, in attempting to establish our new sisterly roles, we’d both started mutating into different versions of our mother! One moment I’d be admonishing Miranda, the next she’d be nagging at me. It was as if Moira Willerby had joined us in the flat too; the three of us squashed into that tiny space. It was a recipe for disaster.
Miranda moved in with Con briefly when he needed a flatmate, then Dad paid for her to rent the spacious one-bedroom apartment near the Arts Project, in Camden. It meant she could have more freedom creatively than she’d had with me. I’m a carpet kind of girl, whereas Miranda needs to feel rough floorboards under her bare feet. I’m not a big fan of oil paint in the bathroom and paintbrushes in the kitchen sink either, but in her own place, she could spread herself out and have her wet canvases dripping against every skirting board, if she wanted to.
Miranda reached over and pinched one of my olives, breaking my train of thought. ‘You seeing a new man, yet?’ she said.
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‘Er, no. I’m fine on my own.’
She took up the pen again and added swirls to the doodle. ‘Yeah – and I’m the Queen of Geneva,’ she said, without looking up.
‘It’s the Queen of Sheba.’
‘Whatever…’ She turned her head on one side, engrossed in her drawing. It had started off as a random squiggle, but was turning into a serpent.
Chapter 7
Sam
The most memorable consultation that week was with Rosie. She burst in and bounced down onto the correct seat this time, looking like she couldn’t wait to get started.
‘It must be hard seeing screwed-up people all day,’ she said, rolling her eyes knowingly, as if she couldn’t possibly be in that category herself.
As I clicked the button to record, Rosie started speaking. ‘Before we go back to my memories of the crash, can I tell you a bit about my viola?’ she asked. ‘It won’t take long.’
Rosie told me about the role music played in her life; how she’d left school with one A level – in English; an unremarkable grade – but in her music studies she’d risen well above mediocre.
‘I took up the violin at eight, then when someone else at school wanted to use the instrument I’d borrowed, I was given a viola instead. “Viola players are always in demand,” my Auntie said. “You don’t even have to be very good at it.”’
The woman she called Auntie Doris was her guardian at the time and had instructed Rosie to practise two hours a day after school. To keep her out of her hair, I thought cynically.
‘There was no television at her place and I didn’t seem to click with many of the other kids at school, so I just practised all the time. I kept practising when I moved from house to house. Much to everyone’s surprise I got into the Guildhall School of Music, but in the third year some idiot broke my little finger.’ She held it up and wiggled it. ‘The neighbour’s gardener slammed a blinking garage door on it during the college vac and even after it healed I had terrible pain in the middle joint. I could still play, but by the time I finished college it was clear I’d never make much of a go of it, professionally. I had to look for something different and I’d hardly played at all before going up to the Lakes again.’