They All Fall Down

by Tammy Cohen

  ‘And then, another time, they were round at ours and Hannah suddenly shouted out “now, feel!”, wanting him to put his hand on her belly, but he took too long to get to her and she went ballistic with him for missing the moment. She accused him of deliberately detaching himself from the pregnancy, saying that he didn’t want the baby. It just came out of nowhere. All this rage. Afterwards, she couldn’t stop apologizing. Sent us down a home-made chocolate cake. Said she was mortified. Blamed it on hormones.’ Marco said the word hormones as if it were something unpleasant he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. ‘We’ve been kicking ourselves for not noticing. I mean, the alarm bells were louder than Big Ben.’

  Marco was summoned over to the other side of the table. Corinne’s smile felt tight in her face. If anyone ought to have heard alarm bells, it was her.

  ‘So happy you could make it.’ Danny slipped into the seat just vacated by Marco. Corinne glanced over at him. He looked flushed and slightly drunk. Alive. So different to the strained look he habitually wore when he was visiting Hannah in the clinic.

  ‘I like the jewellery,’ she said, pointing to a slim silver band around his wrist.

  Danny shook down the sleeve of his shirt to cover the bangle.

  ‘Getting in touch with my feminine side,’ he said, but the stiffness was back across his shoulders.

  ‘I’m worried about Hannah,’ Corinne said. ‘She is still refusing to accept that the two deaths at the clinic were suicide. She now believes someone might be deliberately hurting the patients.’

  ‘That’s because she’s crazy, Corinne.’

  It was as if she’d been slapped.

  Danny continued, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But you must see she’s not getting any better. The rubbish she comes out with. Not surprising, I guess, when you see the people she’s mixing with in there, like that girl who can hardly move her face.’

  ‘Stella. Her name is Stella.’

  ‘Whatever. She’s not normal, Corinne. And Hannah’s head is being filled with all kinds of shit. She thinks she’s getting out of there. She thinks she’s coming home.’

  ‘Well, she is. Just as soon as Dr Roberts gives her the all-clear.’

  ‘Dream on, Corinne.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I spoke to Roberts. He says he’s still a very long way off knowing exactly what happened. And to be honest, I don’t know if I want Hannah back.’

  ‘At the moment, you mean?’

  Danny looked at her. Looked away. His fingers closed absently around the silver bracelet and he turned it round and round on his wrist as though he were tightening a screw.

  On her next visit to the clinic, the day after Danny’s birthday bash, Corinne found Laura in the art room, collecting up what looked like a pile of scribbles such as one might find in an infants’ class.

  ‘I got them to draw with charcoal taped on to the end of a stick of bamboo,’ Laura explained. ‘It’s a really useful exercise in intuition and interpretation, rather than skill. It’s about relinquishing control.’

  Laura was wearing a long electric-blue jersey tunic with matching wide-legged jersey trousers and a scarf looped loosely around her neck. Corinne found herself gazing covetously at the younger woman’s cropped black hair. Like most women she knew, she toyed periodically with the idea of having a gamine cut, but she was well aware that you needed a gamine face like Laura’s to go with it.

  ‘I came to find you to talk about Hannah,’ Corinne said. ‘It’s just, she seemed to be doing so well. But I’m worried that this thing with Charlie—’

  ‘I understand.’ To Corinne’s embarrassment, Laura stepped forward and took her hand. ‘I’ve been worried about her myself. Her previous work has been so neat, so mannered, but her drawings recently seem to indicate a turbulent mindset, and the last task I set them she failed to complete at all, which is very unlike her.’

  Fear twisted Corinne’s stomach into a knot.

  ‘Have you spoken to Dr Roberts about your concerns?’ Laura’s voice was light and calm, but Corinne thought she detected an inflection as she said the doctor’s name, an emphasis where there perhaps ought not to have been.

  ‘No. I didn’t want to … that is, Hannah is very anxious to be home as soon as possible. And, obviously, we’re desperate to have her home, so I don’t want to give Dr Roberts any reason to think she should stay here longer than necessary.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Corinne was relieved when Laura dropped her hand and started moving around the art room, closing up easels and stacking them against the back wall.

  Corinne had never been very touchy-feely. Even with close friends, it was awkward. She’d had one friend who insisted on looping her arm through hers when they walked along, and Corinne had never been able to tell her how stressful she found it. She was the only woman she knew who tensed up during a massage. All that laying on of hands.

  Corinne stepped forward to help Laura clear up and, for a few moments, they didn’t speak, the silence punctuated only by the clack of the easels folding together.

  ‘Does Hannah ever draw Danny?’

  Laura looked puzzled by Corinne’s sudden change of conversation.

  ‘Her husband. Danny,’ Corinne went on. ‘I just wondered if she ever put him in her art?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with commenting on the content of Hannah’s work,’ said Laura. ‘Art therapy is a therapy just like any other, and there needs to be absolute trust between me and my clients. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry for asking.’

  ‘Is Hannah’s relationship with her husband something that’s causing you concern?’ Laura asked.

  Now it was Corinne’s turn to feel as if the other woman had overstepped the mark. ‘No! Hannah and Danny are tight as a drum!’

  After she’d left the room she kept hearing her own voice in her ear. Tight as a drum. Where had that stupid expression even come from?

  On her way into the day room she was accosted by the two men who were making the documentary about the clinic. Immediately, Corinne’s hackles rose. The documentary had been sold to them all on the basis that mental illness needed to be destigmatized and that being able to see how ‘ordinary’ all the residents were would go some way towards removing the ‘them and us’ misconceptions that still abounded, and might encourage those currently suffering in silence to seek help. Plus, Roberts had offered a considerable discount in fees while filming was taking place: ‘To compensate for the inconvenience,’ he’d said.

  Hannah had been happy to take part, but now Corinne wished she’d done more to dissuade her. With all the drama surrounding Charlie’s death and Sofia’s before, it sometimes seemed the film-makers were recording a soap opera rather than a serious documentary.

  ‘Would you mind if we asked you a few questions? It’s Corinne, isn’t it?’

  This man with the microphone was Justin. It was the cameraman with the dead, dark gaze whose name she’d completely forgotten.

  ‘Not now,’ she said brusquely, pushing past without meeting their eyes. It was the technique she used for street charity collectors.

  ‘How are you feeling now about the tragic death of Charlie Chadwick?’ Justin continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Has it made you more concerned about your own daughter’s security?’

  ‘My daughter is fine, thank you. We expect she’ll be well enough to come home any day.’ She paused. ‘Can you stop pointing that thing at me?’

  The cameraman put his camera down, but his impassive gaze was almost as intrusive as the lens had been.

  Corinne pushed open the door of the day room, feeling flustered. Justin’s words had hit a nerve. Just how safe was Hannah in this place? An image flashed into her head of the photograph of the woman with the dark curls, her eyes scored through with red pen, and she stopped still.

  Maybe Hannah wasn’t safe here. But what if home wasn’t any safer?
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  13

  Laura

  The talk with Hannah’s mum had upset Laura.

  At home that evening, she moved from room to room in her garden flat, unable to settle to anything. Normally, the flat soothed her. Her sanctuary. She’d lived there for six years now and, even though it was only rented, the first thing she’d done when she moved in was paint it from top to bottom. Your home was your refuge. It was so important to imprint oneself on every surface of it so you maintained a sense of yourself and your place in the world.

  Laura knew what it was like to feel you had no place.

  The galley kitchen was a warm yellow, her bedroom a cool, soothing green, while the living room, with its high ceilings and French doors leading out on to the garden, was a deep red, so that sometimes Laura felt as if she was walking right into a pulsating heart.

  She unrolled her yoga mat and laid it out on the floorboards in front of the black cast-iron fireplace and sat cross-legged with her head tipped to one side, trying to empty her mind. Then she tipped her head the other way and did the same thing.

  She knew why the chat with Corinne had bothered her so much.

  It was the look on Corinne’s face when she’d talked about her daughter. That naked, almost greedy, need to see Hannah protected. Kept safe.

  Laura remembered how she had found herself on the verge of tears and had had to bustle about the room snapping shut easels while she composed herself. But Laura was still learning to accept herself and that meant understanding what lay behind some of her behaviours and not giving herself a hard time about them. You’d have thought she’d know everything there was to know about herself by now. Converting from nursing to occupational therapy and then specializing in art therapy and even, recently, a bit of hypnotherapy, had involved a fair amount of mandatory self-analysis, laying bare her innermost thoughts and motivations. But she’d realized long ago that the human spirit is a work in progress, a pot that spins endlessly on the wheel, changing shape but never finished. One could never fully know oneself. The most one could hope for was to accept oneself.

  She picked up her phone and dialled, growing impatient when the ringing went on and on. Annabel’s voice on her voicemail was calm as always. Soothing. It was six fifteen and Laura imagined her standing in her little box-like kitchen cooking herself something. Or perhaps she’d have her grandchild to visit. The tiny, framed baby picture on Annabel’s mantelpiece flashed into Laura’s mind and she felt a brief, sharp pang at the thought of Annabel sitting on the living-room carpet surrounded by brightly coloured children’s toys. She launched into a long message describing Corinne’s visit and the feelings it had stirred up. Embarrassingly, she found herself tearing up all over again, just describing it. Nevertheless, by the time she had finished, she was surprised to find herself feeling much better.

  Kneeling back down on the mat, she went into child’s pose, bent double over her knees, her arms stretched out straight in front of her. She luxuriated into the stretch, envisaging the tension seeping slowly out of her like someone opening a valve in a radiator.

  Still in child’s pose, she turned her face to the side. A movement caught her eye. Something black scuttling across the floorboards. Laura sat up. Watched the spider’s progress with interest. What was it even doing here, when the weather was still so cold?

  She went into her kitchen to fetch a glass and then looked around for something to scoop the spider up with, eventually settling on a postcard of a Georgia O’Keefe flower painting she’d brought back from the Tate last year. Such a joyous picture.

  The spider was still there, just where she’d left it.

  Laura carefully held the glass over the insect, pausing to admire its legs, black and spiky, like the stitches in a wound. But hold on a moment. Now she was so close, Laura could see that one of the creature’s legs was damaged, strung out behind it like a tow rope. Such a terrible pity. For a moment, all was suspended, the rim of the glass hovering over the crouched insect, the tip of Laura’s tongue protruding slightly from her mouth in concentration. Then down came the glass. The spider trapped.

  Carefully, she slid the postcard under the glass, making sure not to let up on the pressure with the other hand. Getting slowly to her feet, she made her way across the room, holding the glass with the injured spider outstretched. She noticed with a swell of pity that the end of the broken leg was showing on the outside of the glass.

  Crossing the hall, she passed the front door. This being the garden flat, Laura had her own entrance. But instead of heading outside, she went straight into the kitchen. At the sink, she hesitated, watching the spider, which seemed now to have concertinaed itself so that it was half the size it had appeared before. Then, in a deft movement, she turned the glass upside down, dislodging the spider so it fell to the bottom.

  Laura slowly slid the flower postcard from the top of the glass and then, being careful not to make any sudden movements, she positioned the glass under the tap and used her free hand to turn on the cold water, stopping only when the glass was completely full.

  Satisfied that the spider had drowned, she put the glass down next to the sink and headed back into the living room to complete her salutations.

  14

  Hannah

  ‘How are relations with your husband, Hannah?’

  Relations? Ugh. Was ever a word more imbued with double meaning? Still, sitting in the padded chair opposite Dr Roberts, facing him across his impressive desk, I press my nails into my leg and try not to react.

  ‘They’re great. Danny’s great. Really supportive.’

  Roberts leans back in his chair and, using his right foot for ballast, swivels slowly from side to side until I want to kick his leg right out from under him, sending him sprawling on to the thick carpet of his corner office on the first floor of the old building.

  ‘Did he tell you he came to see me?’

  Now I’m the one feeling as if I’ve been kicked. Why would Danny go to see Roberts? I’ve hardly seen my husband recently. He claims to be working. ‘You’ve been with her. Admit it!’ I screamed at him the last time he was here. I’d told myself I wouldn’t go there. But the words were out before I could stop them. ‘There’s no reasoning with you,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  After he’d gone, it occurred to me that he’d been looking for an excuse to leave since he’d arrived.

  Roberts is gazing at me with those blue eyes which, apparently, make a certain type of television viewer weak at the knees. Charlie and I did a Twitter search on him once, after he’d appeared in a documentary about treating eating disorders.

  I know it’s inappropriate when it’s such a tragic subject, but Dr Roberts? I totally would. #CantEatWontEat

  Are all shrinks that hot? Where do I sign up to get myself committed. LOL. #DrRoberts #CantEatWontEat

  We’d laughed about some of the things people had said, but at the same time the whole thing had left me feeling unsettled, as if I were out of sync with the world.

  ‘What did he want to talk to you about?’

  Roberts is still leaning back in his chair. He has a pen in his hand and is running it gently and deliberately across his lower lip.

  ‘What do you think he might have wanted to see me about?’

  Mouth firmly closed, I grit my teeth and focus on the pen. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then, when I can’t bear to watch it any more, I turn my head to my left to look through the large sash window, following the slope of the lawn down to the murky grey sweep of the lake.

  Finally, I shrug. ‘No idea,’ I say. ‘Progress report, perhaps?’

  ‘That was some of it, certainly. Danny wanted to know how you were getting on. He said you’d been talking to him about leaving us.’

  The jolt of betrayal is sharp and surprisingly painful.

  ‘It’s just I’m feeling so much better,’ I lie. ‘I think being home would speed up my recovery.’

  ‘Danny doesn’t agree. And I’m afraid I don’t either. Hannah, we�
��ve done a lot of work trying to figure out the background to what happened. But until you’re willing to confront things head on, I’m afraid we’re only just scratching the surface.’

  ‘Confront what head on?’

  ‘Your behaviour. Your thinking. The underlying causes.’

  I have a flashback to making a card, sticking the scan photo down on to the card. Tracing my fingertip along the contours of Emily’s head.

  ‘I know what I did wasn’t rational. I understand that now. There was a lot of stress in my life at the time. I let it get out of hand.’

  I am conscious of the back of my mouth feeling dry and furry like felt. I don’t want to talk about Emily. Don’t make me talk about Emily.

  ‘What did you let get out of hand, Hannah?’

  ‘Everything.’

  I remember myself lying in the bath, stroking my rounded tummy, talking to her. Telling her about her Grandma Corinne and her Grandpa Duncan. Looking up and seeing Danny standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. ‘Come in and say hello,’ I’d told him.

  ‘I will. Just as soon as I’ve sent this one email.’

  ‘Always in a rush, your daddy,’ I whispered after he’d gone, dripping warm water on to the mound of my belly.

  A savage twist of grief.

  ‘You see, the thing that worries me, Hannah, is whether this is a pattern of behaviour, this unwillingness to challenge your own role in determining what happens to you, to take responsibility for your own agency. Take, for instance, your conversation with Mr and Mrs Chadwick, Charlie’s parents. These are grieving parents who’ve just lost their daughter, and rather than offer them sympathy you insist on trying to impose upon them your own version of events – that someone deliberately harmed Charlie – despite knowing that it doesn’t align with the facts, and despite the upset you could guess it would cause.’