Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into it now. It’s eleven in the morning here and I had to leave an important meeting in order to get hold of you. And, anyway, that’s not why I rang.’

  ‘So why did you ring?’ His mind was churning: Erica a woman, yet hating the very thought of it. Despite the fact this was a strictly female issue, he must do all he could to help.

  ‘Christine, are you still there?’ he asked, suddenly aware of the silence the other end.

  ‘Yes.’ Another pause. ‘Look, this is a bit … awkward to explain, especially over the phone. But Dwight’s divorce has come through, at long last, so, you see, we … we planned to marry during the Easter break, when Erica would be with you in England. We thought it would be better if she wasn’t at the wedding. She’s not herself these days; flares up at the slightest thing, or sulks for hours on end. In fact, she and Dwight have almost come to blows on several different occasions, so we didn’t think it wise to include her in the …’

  As the sentence petered out, Eric felt a shameful twinge of Schadenfreude. However generally superior the rich, successful Dwight might be, the guy had clearly made a total hash of relating to a loving and lovable stepdaughter.

  ‘Anyway,’ Christine added, ‘he has to go to Hong Kong, to see one of his top clients, so we thought the best idea would be to get the business out of the way, then stay on in Hong Kong and have the wedding there – make it a completely private ceremony, so Erica doesn’t feel she’s missing out on something close to home.’

  He nodded in relief. He could well understand how upset she might feel to witness her own mother making solemn vows to another man. He, too, felt excluded; even jealous, for God’s sake. Christine’s wedding marked the final, official end of his own marriage. He had now lost his wife for ever. It was too late for her to change her mind; return to him and give him a second chance.

  ‘OK,’ he said, disoriented by the depth of his resentment. Shouldn’t he have left all that behind, now he had a new relationship? ‘That’s fine by me,’ he said, determined to focus on his daughter rather than on himself. ‘In fact, if you want me to have her for longer, I’d welcome the chance.’

  No response.

  ‘So long as her school doesn’t mind, of course. And if they are a bit concerned about her missing lessons, I can set her up a programme of work, supervise her homework – all that sort of thing.’ He had already Googled her school and obtained the exact details of the syllabus, and was now enjoying the challenge of tutoring himself in a wide range of her subjects.

  ‘No, Eric, I’m afraid you can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m up to scratch in most things – not Spanish, or earth sciences, but I can always ask around and—’

  ‘She’s … not coming to England, Eric.’

  ‘What?’ The word came out as a yelp of pain.

  ‘She’s changed her mind and refuses point-blank to make the trip. Actually, I suspect she’s trying to get at Dwight and me, hoping we’ll be forced to change our plans. If you really want to know, she’s being quite impossible, and Dwight’s near the end of his tether. There’s no way we’re going to cancel the wedding and we certainly can’t afford to mess this client about. He’s Dwight’s most important customer, and a touchy sort, in any case, who’s easily offended. Besides, we’ve made all the arrangements, booked the hotel, paid a fortune for the wedding. So there’s only one solution: you’ll have to come over here and look after her while we’re away.’

  A cold, clammy hand closed around his heart and began squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Slowly, he lowered himself back into his chair, already feeling dizzy and dry-mouthed. ‘But … but you know I can’t fly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that won’t wash. I had to put up with your ridiculous fears all the years we were married, but Dwight is far less tolerant. He finds it incomprehensible that you can’t – or won’t – get on a plane, and says I shouldn’t encourage what he regards as just a feeble excuse. I mean, he and I are burdened with the full responsibility for Erica, while you faff about thinking you’re heroic because you see your daughter for two weeks every two years.’

  ‘That’s totally unfair!’ he shouted, roused to anger now. ‘You haven’t even been in the States two years. And the fact she couldn’t come last summer was nothing to do with me. She was ill, for heaven’s sake, and, in any case, we’d arranged for her to be with me a whole six weeks, not a measly fortnight. And I was gutted when she couldn’t make it, and—’

  ‘Forget last summer. We’re talking about now. This is a crisis, Eric, and we need you to pull your weight. You can’t just shrug off your duty as a father.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want. In fact, if Erica’s such a burden, let her come and live with me – permanently, I mean. Then you and Dwight can be free to jet off anywhere you please.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to go to England. I thought I’d made that clear. I can’t force her against her will. And, actually, both Dwight and I think it’s utterly preposterous that your phobias – or whatever you happen to call them – should have to rule everybody’s lives.’

  ‘They … they don’t.’ It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. He had restricted Christine all the years of their marriage; refused point-blank to travel outside England; refused to drive a car, or even learn to swim. And Erica had also been affected, of course.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m needed at this meeting, but I’ll ring again tomorrow – seven p.m. your time, if that’s OK. But, before I go, I want to make it absolutely clear that we’re expecting you in Seattle, fears or no fears. Dwight and I are leaving for Hong Kong on Saturday, 28 March, so you must be here by the Friday, at the latest, OK? And, remember, you need a passport. I’ve no idea how long it takes to get one, but I strongly advise you to apply first thing tomorrow, in case of any delays.’

  Please, God, he prayed, let the delays be endless, then I shan’t—

  ‘And you’d better have a look at flights and prices. BA fly direct, but it’ll cost you. If you’re willing to change flights at, say New York or Chicago, you’ll probably save a fair bit. Anyway, I’ll leave the arrangements to you. All I need is the date of your arrival.’

  Before he could say another word, she had bid him a curt goodbye and put down the receiver. He gripped the arms of his chair; knuckles white with tension. He couldn’t fly. It was physically and mentally impossible. The mere thought of it had turned him into a wreck. His hands were clammy-hot, despite the chill of the flat, and he could barely breathe for the obstruction in his throat. Ten minutes on the tube this evening had left him close to panic, so how could he endure being cooped up in a plane for ten hours minimum? Any plane was a death-trap; could crash, explode, be targeted by hijackers and terrorists. All the air-disasters of the last few decades were now playing on the wide-screen of his mind, in sickening detail and gory colour: Lockerbie; 9/11; the jumbo-jet ripped open at 29,000 feet, the summer of last year; the landing on the Hudson River, just five weeks ago. He closed his eyes; saw the crowd of hysterical passengers huddled on the wing of the swiftly sinking aircraft, awaiting rescue by frail and perilous boats. He was as scared of water as of planes, and, if it was women and children first, he was bound to drown – if he didn’t die of terror first.

  Nor had he forgotten the fatal crash in Buffalo, a mere six days ago; the plane dropping from the clouds and nose-diving into a house, killing every passenger on board. He had watched the all-consuming flames on the television News, and could feel those flames now scorching through his body, burning him to ash.

  He reached out for his phone. He had to speak to Mandy; share this news with her.

  No. He snapped the mobile shut again. How could he let her see him in this state? Both Dwight and Christine were contemptuous of his fears, so she might feel felt the same. He would lose her, like he’d lost so much already – his birth-mother, his foster-mothers, his wife, his daughter, even Charlie – and now beloved Mandy, too. And it wasn’t just his fears
that would appal her, but the fact that, if he did go to America, she might regard that as a betrayal, in that he’d be putting his first child first. Besides, did he really want to involve her in the whole messy business of an angry ex-wife and a sulky adolescent daughter?

  Erica’s photo was standing on his desk; her childish face and guileless smile reproaching him. Too easy to dismiss her as a sulky adolescent, when she was still only a kid of twelve and, for all he knew, might be deeply distressed. Why was she refusing to come to England, when he knew full well she’d been looking forward to it? And why should she mind so much about starting her periods? Could she be anorexic; want to remain a child for ever? He’d read about girls who starved themselves to death in the hope of avoiding puberty and all the challenges of womanhood. It was his duty as her dad to support her in this crisis, yet how, for heaven’s sake, when she lived 5,000 miles away?

  He picked up the photo, discomfited still further by her direct and trusting gaze. Dwight and Christine saw him as uncommitted father, and there was a grain of truth in that – latterly, at least. He’d become so besotted with Mandy, other things had faded in importance, including, to his shame, Erica herself. Mandy he would phone or text every hour of every day, yet he hadn’t rung his daughter for a month. OK, there were problems – the time-difference, for one thing, and the fact that if he did ring, she was often unavailable. But that should have been a warning that something might be wrong. Instead, he’d shrugged it off, assumed she was out with friends, when the reality could be darker altogether. By the sounds of it, she was seriously depressed. And, knowing Americans’ love of medication, she might be put on Prozac or some other unsuitable drug, unless he was there to intervene. Which meant he had to go and see her; play his part in sorting out the mess.

  Yet every fibre of his being was telling him ‘impossible’: the sickness in his stomach, the churning in his gut, his pounding, throbbing headache, the wild, arrhythmic capers of his heartbeat. Desperate, indecisive, he began pacing round the flat, pulled between fear and responsibility; Erica and Mandy; his daughter and the new child; his duty and his stupid, phobic self. Pausing for a moment at the window, he stared out at the snow, mesmerized by the swirl and spin of the flakes; wishing he could be a snowflake: something insentient and transient, which would melt away to nothing.

  Suddenly, on impulse, he grabbed his keys and ran full-pelt from the flat, slamming the door behind him and resolving to stay out all night. He would keep walking, walking, walking, just to calm the tumult in his mind and, if he froze to death, or fell and broke his back, well, that was infinitely preferable to getting on a plane.

  chapter sixteen

  Eric stared at the computer screen, overwhelmed by the enormous choice of flights. The price-range alone varied from a modest £266, return, to an astounding £9,172. First Class, of course, was for millionaires and thus not even on his radar, although he would willingly shell out nine grand, just not to have to fly – indeed settle for lifelong penury if it would let him off the hook.

  He zoomed in on the cheapest fare, but found it was hedged around with restrictions and had to be booked three months in advance. Even the day you travelled seemed to make a difference to the cost, and certainly the time of year. There was also a perplexing choice of airlines – at least seven different carriers – an equally confusing choice of airports and a variety of routes. Christine had advised him not to fly direct, simply on grounds of expense; what she hadn’t told him was whether he should change at Amsterdam, Chicago, Toronto, Dallas, New York or Minneapolis.

  Just looking at the different options magnified his fears. And the fact he’d been awake all night meant his mind was quite unequal to the task of cutting through the mass of detail and reaching a decision. Having blundered around for several hours in the freezing cold and funereal-dark, he’d finally come back in at two o’clock in the morning, feeling yet more overwrought.

  It was still only five a.m.; the black, murky sky pressing against the windows echoing the blackness in his mind. Fear itself was terrifying. Suppose he panicked in the plane and tried to force the doors? Or, worse, lost control of his bladder or his bowels? Even before he boarded, there might be total chaos at the airport. He’d read about it frequently: baggage-handlers’ strikes, conveyor-belts breaking down, huge delays caused by fog or storms; hysterical crowds of passengers forced to wait whole days for flights in conditions not that different from third-world refugee camps. Subjected to such stress, perfectly normal people could snap, so how would he survive? And, even if he found the courage to actually get on the plane, it might be grounded on the tarmac for petrifying hours, with no way of getting out or off.

  He darted into the bathroom. His bowels were already loose, from anxiety alone. How would he endure such mega stress-levels for five more weeks, without cracking up, collapsing? He might even lose his job. No way could he go to work this morning and function in his normal fashion. He would have to call in sick, yet the very thought appalled him. He was renowned for his good attendance-record; his determination to struggle in, even with a stomach bug or cold. If only he had some genuine illness; something physical and simple, which people could understand. Even cancer seemed preferable to this paralysis of fear. At least it would arouse a little sympathy, whereas if he tried to explain that he’d rather cease to exist than have to fly, he would simply be laughed to scorn. He longed for a switch that would turn him off; snuff him out like a candle; end his mounting panic.

  His haggard face stared back at him from the reflection in the mirror: dark circles etched beneath his eyes; tongue, furred; skin, ashen-grey. If Mandy were to see him, she’d be shocked – although he couldn’t let her see him, or it would all be over between them. No one could love a person who had more or less disintegrated on account of one transatlantic flight.

  He barged out of the bathroom, his anxiety still greater as he tried to think of excuses not to see her. He’d better pretend he’d gone down with some infectious disease that posed a threat to her pregnancy. The more lethal threat was the one to their relationship, unless he found some instant cure.

  Dragging himself back to the computer, he Googled ‘Fear of Flying’. A host of different sites came up, offering every type of remedy: hypnosis, psychotherapy, desensitization, neuro-linguistic programming, cognitive behaviour therapy. There simply wasn’t time for such long-winded techniques and, in any case, he had little faith in any of them. Cognitive behaviour therapy might be flavour-of-the-month, but it worked on the principle that most terrors were irrational – a principle he challenged root and branch. Fear was not only rational, it was also perfectly natural in a terrifying world. Many people deluded themselves by imagining they were protected by a benevolent, all-powerful God, or by persisting in the inane belief that nothing bad would ever happen to them. His own strategies had always been acceptance and avoidance. He could accept his fears, just as long as he didn’t have to face them. But now all that had changed.

  Beat the Fear of Flying with a Virgin Atlantic One-Day Course!

  He peered at the small print. The course included a fifty-minute flight, which was clearly self-defeating, since he would die of terror on that flight and so never get to Seattle.

  Except he had to go – there wasn’t any let-out. He couldn’t leave Erica with casual friends or neighbours, when she was already disturbed and might find her mother’s absence a further source of grief. Indeed, he was partly to blame for her present troubled state. Divorce was notoriously bad for children, and it was his fears and inadequacies that had contributed to the break-up of the marriage.

  Turbulence Explained …

  The very word made him dizzy and the details were worse still. You may feel as if the plane is falling from the sky, but, although this is uncomfortable, it isn’t dangerous.

  Not dangerous? Who were they trying to kid?

  Just after take-off, you may hear thumping and whirring sounds …

  No, he wouldn’t hear a thing. Long before take-
off, he would have collapsed into a coma.

  Rest assured that pilots are trained to land in an emergency, even if all the engines fail. The landing may be scary, but you are likely to survive.

  ‘Likely to’? What was that supposed to mean? Leaping from his chair, he dashed back to the bathroom and voided everything inside him – not just the contents of his bowel, but the entire length of his intestines; his liver, lungs, kidneys, heart and spleen. If he were as badly affected as this when he was actually on the plane, he might have a shameful accident. There were bound to be queues for the toilets, or they might be out of order, as they often were on trains.

  Horrified at the thought, he crawled back to his computer, desperate for some miracle cure.

  Cure your Fear of Flying in Under Twenty Minutes!

  Well, that was indeed a miracle – or else simple blatant hype. If the claim were actually true, it would mean he could go to work today; spend the night with Mandy, as arranged, and pass the next five weeks in a state of blissful calm.

  He skipped the details to find the cost: £499.99. Which meant each of those twenty minutes would set him back £25. He could hardly justify shelling out so much, when he believed in miracles no more than in God.

  Still shaky from the runs, he scrolled down the list of options to find something more affordable.

  Conquer your pteromerhanophobia with these three simple steps:

  Control your breathing.

  Relax your muscles.

  Stop thinking negatively.

  Yes, but how, for pity’s sake? If he could master those three steps, there wouldn’t be a problem.

  Suddenly kicking back his chair, he strode into the bedroom and stretched full-length on the bed. At least he had to try; not give way to utter hopelessness. Relaxing and deep-breathing wouldn’t cost a penny, and there was just the smallest, slimmest chance that they could transform his full-blown panic into normal – and endurable – disquiet.