Life Shift

by Michelle Slee

  “Five. I’m going to need to find another job.” Her mother was pacing now and pulling anxiously at her sleeve.

  “Hold on. Hold on. You don’t know that yet. There’ll be an early retirement package won’t there? You don’t even know what that is yet.”

  “I know it won’t be enough. I’m sure of that.”

  “You don’t know that Mum. What does Dad say?”

  “He says we’ll cope and I’ve just got to stop buying nonsense. But what about Christmas?” Her mother started to cry again.

  “Christmas will be fine. Find out about the retirement package first and then see what you can do. Dad could always get another job I’m sure.”

  “Who will take him on at sixty?”

  “You don’t know Mum, you’re just fearing the worst. You have to be strong now.”

  Her mother took a breath and looked at her.

  “But remember what it was like before. I can't face that again.”

  “You won't Mum, you won't. Wait and see what happens. Dad was going to retire in a few years anyway. It might be better for his health to do it sooner.”

  “Maybe.” Her mother sounded unconvinced, but she had stopped pacing so that was a start. “I'm sorry Chris. Come on. Let’s get started on lunch. Might as well eat some food while we can still afford it.”

  Christine smiled. “I won't let you go hungry Mum,” she said. Her mother smiled back. She looked calmer now. Standing up Christine caught a glimpse of one of the photos on her mother's dressing table - she and Paul as children. Immediately the memory of the dark-haired girl flashed into her mind. She remembered why she had come over to see her mother today. But how could she talk to her mother about that now when she was so worried about other things.

  But Christine’s mother could read her daughter well.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “I knew when you rang me something was wrong and now I’ve gone and taken over with my troubles. Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing Mum, don’t worry.”

  But her mother would not be deterred.

  “It is something. Tell me what it is.”

  Christine knew she had no choice. Her mother would never give up now. So she told her about the Tuesday night when her entrance hall had changed and then the walk back from the gym and the encounter with the little girl. She did not tell her about Matt. She couldn’t say why she kept that bit to herself - it just felt like something she shouldn't share.

  When she had finished speaking she looked at her mother. Her mother was staring at her, a concerned and anxious expression on her face.

  “What do you think Mum? Do you think it’s just tiredness?” she asked.

  “I don’t know love. But you need to go to the doctors.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. It could be chemical. Maybe your body chemistry is out of whack. You don’t eat properly. But only a doctor can find out. You can have a blood test.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes you have to go Christine. I’ll worry myself sick otherwise. What does Damien say?”

  Christine looked sheepish. “I haven’t told him. You know what he’s like.”

  “Well he’ll worry obviously,” said her mother, “But you can’t go keeping things like this from him.”

  “I’ll see the doctor first and then tell him if it’s anything,” said Christine.

  Her mother looked at her for a moment and then said, “Okay, if that’s the way you want to do it. But honestly Christine, secrets are never a good thing in a marriage.”

  Another image of Matt and the way he had looked at her flashed into her mind.

  “It’s not a secret. I’m just not telling him anything until I know what's going on.”

  “Okay,” said her mother, “But promise me that you’ll go to the doctors.”

  “I promise,” said Christine, “But I was hoping you’d tell me it was just stress.”

  Her mother hugged her in reply and then turned to open the bedroom door. But just as she was about to leave she turned around and, with a strange expression on her face, said “Chris, are you hearing the buzzing again?”

  “What buzzing?” said Christine, confused.

  “Don’t you remember?” said her mother. “When you were about nine you had it.”

  “No, no buzzing,” she said, “Nothing like that. Why would there be buzzing? What happened when I was nine?”

  “Oh it was nothing,” said her mother quickly. “You had problems with your ears. You started hearing a buzzing that's all. We sorted it out with drops. I just wondered if this could be something to do with your ears – knocking your balance out, making you dizzy? Ask the doctor to take a look anyway. Ok?”

  “Ok,” replied Christine.

  “Promise?” pushed her mother.

  “I promise.”

  Satisfied her mother left the bedroom.

  Christine remained sitting on the bed. Problems with her ears. That didn’t seem right. Buzzing? What had that been about when she was nine?

  And then she remembered it. She felt a wave of nausea pass over her again. Quickly she stood up. She couldn’t think of all that now. But her mother was wrong. It was important. Or at least had been then. Very important indeed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was only later when back home pretending to watch TV that Christine allowed herself to think about it. It hadn't been buzzing. Her mother was wrong about that. She had just told her parents it was a buzzing because telling them the truth was unthinkable. It had been voices that she had heard, not buzzing. Voices that had chattered in her head and made her fear for her sanity.

  It had first started one night in bed. Her father had been downstairs watching TV. The theme music of The Rockford Files had drifted up the stairs. She had been trying to get to sleep but was feeling hot and uncomfortable. And then suddenly she had heard whispering in her ears. Not a voice as such, not to begin with. But a whisper, then a chatter, then a whisper again, tone and rhythm changing, varying, disconcerting. Her head felt displaced, her mind almost dislocated from her body. She had sat up. What was happening? It continued. It was now clearly voices. Talking, jumbled voices. She could not identify any words, could not hear anything that made sense, but still it continued in her ears.

  She had left her bedroom and called down the stairs, “Dad, Dad!”

  “What’s the matter?” came his reply.

  “I don’t know. I’m hearing something.”

  He appeared at the foot of the stairs.

  “Is the TV on too loud?”

  “No it’s not that…it’s….” She had stopped herself. What could she say. He’d think she was mad. “It’s a buzzing,” she had finished, meekly.

  “Buzzing! What do you mean buzzing?”

  “Just something weird in my ears.”

  “You don’t clean them. Go and get yourself some cotton buds.”

  She sighed. It was pointless trying to talk to him. She’d tell her mother in the morning.

  “Okay Dad. I’ll do that.”

  She had made her way to the bathroom although she had no intention of cleaning out her ears. The voices had now stopped. They had stopped when she had started talking to her father. She looked at her face in the mirror. She looked pale and anxious, her usual look - or so everyone told her. As a child she was constantly being criticised by her parents for being too serious, too intense, too cold.

  As she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered again at the image of herself that she gave out to the world. Was she the sort of person no one wanted to be around? Why was she always alone?

  And now this – voices. She was mad and cold, she was one step removed from marrying Mr Rochester and going to live in the attic.

  She went back to her bedroom and got into bed. Her feet were cold. She was scared. She didn’t want the voices to return. She hated the dark anyway but now that she knew other things were waiting for her deep inside her fear intensified.

  The next day she ment
ioned it to her mother, but talked about it again as a buzzing. She did not want to mention voices. She did not want to be thought insane. Her mother peered into her ears with the torch her father used to look in the cupboard under the stairs.

  “I can’t see anything,” she said.” Perhaps you need your ears syringed.”

  “No! I’m not having that done. What about drops?”

  “Hmmm. Yes. Drops might work. It’s probably a bit of wax. I’ll call into the chemist on my way home from work tonight.”

  And that had almost been the last of it. Drops had been bought. Christine had pretended they had sorted the problem and life had moved on.

  But the voices had continued for the next few months. And they didn’t only come to her at night, in the darkness of her room. No they started to come during the day – when she was in class, in church or out riding her bike. All of a sudden the whispering and chattering would begin. She’d try to ignore it and carry on doing whatever she was doing. But it scared her. And often it would be accompanied with waves of nausea. It used to feel as if her head was somewhere else, not really in the same place as her body. But she'd taught herself techniques to deal with it. She’d take deep breaths. She’d focus on something tangible around her. She’d touch something real and concrete. And she’d talk. Talk to anyone standing nearby because that always seemed to help, always seemed to silence the voices.

  Then after about six months they'd stopped. Suddenly. And then she forgot about them.

  Until now. Now she remembered. Now when other things were starting to make her question her sanity.

  What if there had been something wrong even back then, she wondered. Should she have gone to the doctors then? It could be too late now.

  Stop. Don’t think like that, she chastised herself. That won’t help and you don’t even know yet if anything is wrong. Stop thinking about it. You can’t do anything until you see the doctor anyway so wait and see.

  She looked at the TV. What were they watching? She had completely lost track. She looked over at Damien and saw that he was staring at her.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked him.

  “Nothing’s the matter with me,” he said, “More to the point is what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’ve been miles away for about half hour. You haven’t been watching this at all and we only put it on for you.”

  She looked back at what they were watching. She could see now it was Sex and the City.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about work,” she lied, “I’m a bit stressed with some things.”

  He got up off his chair and came over to the sofa and sat beside her.

  “Come here,” he said, holding out his arms.

  She slid over and curled up beside him, her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her and held her close.

  “You’ll sort it, whatever it is,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, “I just worry.”

  “Don’t. There’s nothing you can’t sort. You’re amazing.”

  She looked up at him. “Thanks Damien. You’re so sweet.”

  “I’m not sweet. You’re the one whose sweet.” He leant over and kissed her softly. She felt a shiver run up her spine. “And you taste so sweet too.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too. Always,” he said, kissing her again, and then tightening his arms around her.

  This was where she wanted to be. She never felt safer than when she was in his arms. Yes they argued. Yes they fought. But he felt so strong when he held her like this. He was the first person with whom she had ever felt she could let her guard down. And once it had come down it had changed her. It had changed her with others too. No one would ever describe her as cold and standoffish anymore. He had changed that forever. When she had let his love in, back at eighteen when she had feared she would never know love, it had opened her up to others in a way she could never have expected. By loving her and showing her she was lovable she had grown in confidence and willingness to show her love for others – for Damien, for her family and her friends. And it had made her a warmer person, a friendlier person, a happier person.

  And now as she snuggled in his arms and felt herself start to relax she felt happy again. But as so often these days other images then appeared unbidden in her mind – images of a hallway not her own, a child not her own and a look from a man that made her shiver with fear and apprehension. What did it all mean?

  CHAPTER SIX

  She had to wait a week for her doctor’s appointment. In the meantime she tried not to think about it. Work was busy. She was still trying to avoid Matt and so far had not run into him.

  And then something happened.

  It was Thursday morning. She was getting ready for work - in the kitchen filling up the coffee machine. Without warning the piercing pain shot through her head again. She dropped the coffee pot and heard it smash. She was on her own in the house. Damien had left early to see a client.

  Colours danced before her eyes. The world around her seemed to move, shift and change. She closed her eyes and put her hands on the counter to steady herself. When she opened them she was not in her kitchen.

  She was standing in a garden looking over a wall – a river flowed beyond, the water shimmering in the sunlight. Three boats were moored there, moving gently with the water. She turned around. She was in the garden of a house she had never seen before and yet somehow was familiar. It was a three storey detached house. The windows, Georgian style, stared back at her. Then she saw it - a glimpse of a figure at the top left window. Someone was looking out and watching her.

  There were French windows leading into the house. They were open. She walked towards them. She had to see inside this house. There was something she was looking for.

  She walked through the doors and entered the living room. She recognised it but to be certain she had to see the entrance hall. An arch - as she knew there would be - led to the entrance hall. She walked towards it. Yes there it was. The white staircase, the burgundy carpet. She was back where she’d been that Tuesday evening when everything had started to change.

  She heard movement on the floor above her and looked up. She could hear someone coming. Her heart was racing. What was happening? Where was she? One part of her mind reminded her this was trespassing. The other part reminded her that trespassing was the least of her problems - she should be in her own kitchen now making coffee, life continuing as normal.

  She looked up. She could see a figure at the top of the stairs. It started to descend. And then she saw him and the world as she knew it seemed to slip away from her again. It was Matt.

  “You’re back,” he said, reaching the foot of the stairs.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, “How did I get here? What’s going on?”

  He looked at her. “Do you remember anything?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Come and sit down Christine, I don’t know how long we’ve got.”