by Pamela Cook
A few clicks and there she was: a clinical paediatric practice in Glebe and the contact number was right there on the screen. It was a Monday, early afternoon, so a perfect time to call, but the familiar feel of her phone in her back pocket was gone. Damn, she must have left it upstairs.
All was quiet as she approached Grace’s room, not that she’d expect anything else. She peeked around the corner to see what was happening. The plate was empty and the milk gone, and Grace lay on the bed, fast asleep with her bear, the book facedown beside her. She looked so peaceful, with her hand tucked under her chin. An ache throbbed inside Tess’s chest and she had to work hard to keep it there, stop it creeping its way up and out. Half an hour ago the picture in front of her would have brought a smile to her face, but now all she could see was a lost little girl whose mother had probably killed herself, sprawled out on someone else’s bed. Tiptoeing into the room, Tess picked up her phone from the bedside table, pressed two fingers to her lips and transferred the kiss to the corkscrew locks of hair falling across Grace’s forehead. So soft; so beautiful.
She dialled Eleanor’s number on her way back downstairs, before she could think too hard, ignoring the all-too-familiar tingling in her limbs. Psychologists weren’t her favourite people, but her own issues would have to be sidelined, her old doubts forgotten. Right now, Grace had to come first.
Seven
It was a relief to finally be alone in the waiting room now that Eleanor’s receptionist had clocked off. The woman had made her feelings more than clear about Grace being squeezed onto the patient list at the last minute: her boss was highly respected, had a waiting list ‘as long as your arm’ and was doing an enormous favour by fitting Tess in to her already overloaded schedule. Why did medical receptionists always treat their employers like some kind of divine being who needed protecting from the mere mortals who dared to enter their sanctum? Now there was an irony. In her younger years, Eleanor Carter had been far from celestial. At uni she’d spent most of her time drunk, hopping in and out of bed with their male classmates and barely passing her undergrad courses. Which only went to show how much people changed. Eleanor was now one of the most sought-after paediatric psychologists in Sydney. Tess, on the other hand, had achieved only HDs in the same subjects then opted out.
But that was another story.
The waiting room was exactly what you’d expect. Subtle hues of blues and greens, black-and-white images of beach scenes dotting the walls. Did Eleanor still surf now that she was a hotshot psychologist, the woman to see if your kid had a problem? If the décor was any indication, the answer was yes. Grey velvet chairs were arranged around a small round table decorated with shells and one of those transparent glass paperweights with a wave curling inside. An aromatherapy jar with a bunch of skewers protruding from the top smelled suspiciously like reef oil. A few kids’ books and magazines were strategically placed on a side table, with a lamp setting off a gentle glow. Calm and relaxed. The sort of feeling you always got around Eleanor herself. Hopefully, Grace would react to her in the same way.
Tess tossed the magazine she was blindly flicking through onto the table. What was going on in there? She’d begged to be allowed into the office for the session, but Eleanor was adamant she wait outside, citing the importance of patient confidentiality and trust building. She got it, of course, but the whole point of this exercise was to find out how Grace was feeling about her mother’s death, and if there was a chance she might actually say something, Tess wanted to be there.
The hour was almost up. Not much time to sort out the problem, but that was the limit on the session, and according to Eleanor, about as long as children Grace’s age could handle. She picked up her phone and thumbed through her messages, all work related, stuff she could deal with later. There was radio silence from Josh. No checking in about the appointment, or Grace. Or anything.
The office door swung open before she could process that thought any further. Grace emerged, eyes down, a book tucked under her arm with Eleanor standing behind. ‘Can we have a chat?’
Grace sat in a chair and peeled open the book. Was it okay to leave her out here on her own?
‘She’ll be fine.’ Eleanor tipped her head in the direction of the office and Tess followed her in, taking a seat on the patient side of the desk.
‘So, how did it go?’
Eleanor moved her head from side to side as if she had a crick in her neck. ‘So-so.’
‘What does that mean?’ Tess hadn’t made it as far as the clinical studies in her psychology degree, but she’d done enough to have her warning antennas twitching at Eleanor’s ambiguous response.
Eleanor gestured towards the desk, where an assortment of picture books cluttered the surface.
‘Books?’ Tess raised her eyebrows. ‘You spent the session reading books?’
‘Not entirely. You said books seemed to be the only thing she was interested in, so I thought I’d try something different.’
Tess picked up the one closest to where she was sitting. Possum Magic. An old favourite when she’d been a kid. A very young kid. ‘El, she’s ten. Isn’t she a little old for this stuff?’
Eleanor’s eyes lit up and she sprang from her chair, gathered up two piles of books and placed them side by side. ‘Yes, but if Grace is into books it means she’s been exposed to them as she’s grown up.’
Okay. Maybe she had a point. Tess nodded for her friend to continue.
‘So, I was hoping that presenting her with some of the books she might be familiar with could spark some kind of reaction, facilitate conversation, since she wasn’t very forthcoming.’
‘Not very forthcoming’ was a polite way of saying ‘mute’. Eleanor was the real deal now with all her talk of ‘exposure’ and ‘facilitating’. She obviously knew what she was doing. Tess sat up straighter, a tiny hummingbird of hope fluttering inside her ribcage. ‘And did it?’
‘Yes and no.’
Urgh. ‘El, did it work or didn’t it? Did you get her talking?’
Eleanor let out a loud sigh and moved around to the back of her desk, going into ‘doctor’ mode as she slid into the chair. ‘It’s not that simple, Tess. I told you there might not be a quick fix.’
‘I get that. But did you manage to find out anything?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘The books she chose were quite revealing.’ She pushed one of the piles across the desk, arching one eyebrow without moving the rest of her face, a skill of which Tess had always been inordinately jealous. ‘Take a look at these. Note the illustrations in particular.’
The first pile contained five picture books and the theme emerged very quickly. A talking tree. A grasshopper. Paddocks dotted with black-faced sheep. Clouds floating across a crayoned sky. A quaint old cottage perched high on a hill surrounded by wide green fields. Tess closed the last book and returned it to the pile. ‘They’re all set in the country.’ You didn’t have to be Einstein to work it out. Or Freud.
‘Touché. And these …’ Eleanor picked up the second pile. ‘Are all set in the city.’
‘Did you give her these books deliberately? Did you know what she’d choose?’ Tess held up a cautionary finger. ‘And do not say yes and no.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘To begin with I just gave her random books, but then I noticed there were quite a few with rural scenes and I started thinking about where Grace came from, what she might be into … so I let her choose them herself.’
‘And it worked? I mean, she reacted in some way?’
‘Her expression changed as she was reading them, became less distant. Softer. She even giggled at one point.’
‘Giggled? Really?’ In the three days Grace had been with them, Tess hadn’t seen her smile, let alone emit any sound even vaguely resembling a giggle.
‘Yep.’ Eleanor made a popping sound, emphasising the ‘p’. ‘And the one she has out there with her she pretty much refused to part with, so I told her she could keep it.’
Where was Eleanor going with this?
Of course Grace was a reader. The collection of books Tess had bought were about the only things she seemed interested in, but it didn’t exactly provide any clues as to how she was feeling. ‘Did she actually say anything about her mother? About what’s happened?’
Eleanor clasped her hands together.
‘El, what?’
‘I think she wants to go home.’
‘Home, as in Weerilla?’
A slow nod. ‘Grace is pining. She’s in a totally foreign environment. Everything she’s ever known is back where she grew up.’
‘But that’s where her mother died. Where she found her in the bed.’ How could going back there help? Wouldn’t it just make the trauma worse?
‘Yes, she did die there. But she also lived there. It’s where all Grace’s memories are, where she feels comfortable, and based on her reading preferences and reactions, she’s missing it.’
Tess’s heart stuttered along with her breath. ‘Are you saying I should take her back there to live?’
‘Not forever, just until the two of you get to know each other. She’ll feel more comfortable there and you might have more chance of connecting. I know you said you have to organise the funeral, and I do think she needs that closure. Staying on there for a while afterwards might help.’
So much to process. There was work to consider. And Josh.
Eleanor shifted her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s up to you, Tess. I’m just giving you my professional opinion as to what might work.’
Tess dropped her chin and looked down to where her hands nestled in her lap. Her rings were twisted and she spun them back around, rubbing her finger across the diamond-crusted surface of her wedding band. Weerilla was way over the other side of the Blue Mountains, a four-hour drive. A tiny country town in the middle of New South Wales, and from what the caseworker had told her, Skye had a property somewhere in the surrounding district, out of the town precinct. She’d bought there when Grace was small, when she’d decided to escape the city. Now it had all been left to her daughter, and as her guardian Tess was the one responsible for the property. ‘There’s a lot to think about.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘There is. I’m heading overseas for a holiday, so I won’t be around for the next week, but if you need me you can email.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Lying on a beach in Fiji.’
Tess followed Eleanor’s gaze to the photo on the desk—a family shot at the beach, with her partner, Kayla, and their two young kids. Who would have thought?
‘I’m guessing that involves surfing?’
Eleanor’s face split into a toothy grin. Underneath the professional façade, the beach bum still lurked. ‘Can’t keep an old surfer off her board.’
‘Enough with the old. That would make two of us.’ It was good to connect with her friend again, even if the circumstances weren’t exactly social. ‘Have fun. And thanks for fitting us in. I really appreciate your help.’
‘No problem, Tess. It’s good to see you again.’ Eleanor opened the door, then paused, her eyes narrowed. ‘I always wondered if you’d change your mind and finish your psych degree, go into private practice yourself.’
A too-loud laugh broke out, but she reined it in with a shrug. ‘Turns out HR was my calling.’
They stepped out together into the waiting room, where Grace was hunched over the book Eleanor had given her, the shadow of a smile fading as she closed its covers.
‘Let me know what you decide.’ Eleanor placed a hand on Tess’s back and kissed her cheek. She still wore her signature scent of patchouli, mixed now with something a little more refined.
‘I will, thanks again.’
Grace headed straight for the door, book in one hand and her treasured bear in the other. The cover of the book was facing out: two small children sitting on a patch of grass looking out over a canvas of hills and sky, the title floating above it in flowing white script. All the Places to Love.
The traffic was annoyingly snail-paced, but it gave Tess a chance to observe Grace, post-counselling session. Securely seat-belted on the passenger side, she was looking down at the pages opened out on her lap, her fingers tracing over the illustrations, almost caressing them.
‘It looks like a beautiful book. Maybe we could read it together later on?’
Grace blinked a number of times before turning the next page. Was Eleanor right? Would Grace be different in her own environment? Would she feel secure enough to start to open up? This was a little girl without a mother, or father, or grandparents. Not a soul in the world who cared about her.
Although that wasn’t exactly true.
Skye had known that Tess was the one person she could trust. Completely ironic considering how that trust had ended up eroding their friendship, and yet Skye had never changed her wishes. Tess’s own future had become inextricably bound to Grace’s. To all intents and purposes she was now someone’s mother. Her pulse raced and she sucked in a quick draught of air. Whatever it took, she had to help Grace. Even if it meant uprooting herself and, for the time being, moving west. They both needed to say a proper goodbye to Skye and a chance to get to know each other in a place where Grace felt safe.
Finally, they reached their street and Tess slowed to a stop inside the carpark. She let the engine idle as she focused her attention completely on her passenger and spoke as softly, as gently, as she could. ‘Grace, would you like to go home?’
Grace’s hands fell to the centre of the open book and she hooked her fingers around the top edge like she was clinging to a life raft. For a few breathless moments, it seemed as if she was going to speak. Then, without looking up she gave a silent but definite nod.
Tess clasped her hands together to stop them trembling and a shaky laugh fell from her lips. ‘Okay.’
Inviting her mother shopping might not have been the best idea, although in reality, she had pretty much invited herself. She was in an absolute tizz over the christening, happening in two days’ time, so Tess had avoided announcing that she was taking Grace back to Weerilla, just as she’d avoided telling Josh. The last thing she needed was an interrogation about the ins and outs of the funeral, which she’d managed to set a date for after speaking to the mortician. Today was all about playing nice—and as long as her mother did the same everything would be fine.
Grace walked along beside her like a well-trained puppy, minus the enthusiasm. Reading her body language was getting easier the more time they spent together. That old saying about eyes being the window to the soul was definitely true. Grace’s had widened more than should have been humanly possible as the train rattled into Redfern station and screeched to a halt. Once they were on board, the panic seemed to fade. There was a brighter light as she scanned the signs on the wall of the carriage, and studied the faces of their fellow commuters. And there was no doubting the mild amusement shining out as she watched the toddler sitting opposite in his pram stick his fingers into his mouth, pull it watermelon wide and waggle his tongue. Now, heading down King Street, Grace’s eyes shifted from stranger to stranger, and every now and then her hip bumped against Tess’s leg. Not exactly a huge deal, but one Tess couldn’t help smiling about, at least on the inside.
‘So, my mum’s really excited to meet you.’ Tess leaned down as she spoke, reeling Grace’s attention away from the crowds.
Nothing.
‘We can have lunch first then do some shopping. There’s a great kids’ clothing shop up the road.’
Nada. Not a thing.
The visit to Eleanor had made up Tess’s mind about taking Grace back to Weerilla, even though it hadn’t made a dent in the cone of silence. None of the recommended books or websites she’d consulted had been much help on this whole non-communication thing, either. Even the guidelines for adopting parents didn’t explain how to deal with a child who had recently found her mother dead. The best advice she could glean about ‘damaged children’ was to persevere, be patient, give them space. So that was the new
plan. Carry on as normal, make conversation even if there was no response and take some time off. Claudia could manage everything at work for the next month: throwing your trusty assistant in at the deep end was certainly a way to find out if she was good under pressure.
The ornate gold lettering of the Wicked Sips sign quieted the chatter of Tess’s monkey mind. Her mother, ever punctual, was already seated at a table. Her light-brown hair was cut into one of those blunt mum cuts, longer at the front and cropped shorter at the back. In her turquoise shirt, smart black pants and leopard-skin loafers, she was the epitome of retiree chic. A love of shoes was the one thing Tess and her mother had in common. Lifting her head from the menu she was studying, her mother waved so furiously it was clear she was in one of her potentially overwhelming moods. Grabbing Grace’s hand and bolting was tempting. Tess plastered on a smile and went with the next best option: pushing through.
‘There you are.’ As if they were half an hour late instead of right on time. She stood and held her arms out towards them, signalling her intention to engulf them in a group hug.
That was not happening. Tess stopped short, pulling the strap of her bag across her chest, elbow out.
A cloud fell across her mother’s face, but she caught it before it darkened too much, arranging her mouth into its brightest smile.
‘Grace, this is my mum, Beth.’ Tess hovered a hand vaguely behind Grace’s shoulder. She wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but this whole distance thing was so weird. And if she found it hard, her mother was going to be positively horrified by the no-contact rule. If she could keep her hands to herself it would be a miracle. ‘And, Mum, this is Grace.’
Beth bent down, both hands resting on her knees as if she was midway through a yoga pose. ‘Hello, Grace, it’s so lovely to meet you. Welcome to our family. You can call me Nonna.’ She straightened up, continuing to talk. ‘It’s such a beautiful day out there, isn’t it? And look at that lovely jumper you’re wearing.’