Rainy Days & Tuesdays

by Claire Allan

  The second person is a man in his forties – dressed in a suit and looking as if there is no way he could possibly be in need of any kind of counselling – but then I’m not exactly sitting here wearing a T-shirt proclaiming myself to be a nutter either. To the outside observer I probably look relatively normal – whatever that means.

  A clock is ticking on the wall and Daisy is reading one of the magazines laid out to amuse you while you wait for the big appointment. Today she isn’t cracking jokes and laughing at the Top Ten Hints and Tips, today she just keeps darting a look in my direction as if to make sure I’ve not chickened out and run off.

  Just then a woman, middle-aged with soft curly hair, walks into the room and holds out a hand in my direction.

  “Grace?” she says and I look to Daisy for reassurance that I am in fact Grace before standing up and shaking her hand.

  “Would you like to come with me?” she says, turning and walking up the first flight of stairs, passing a large mirror in which I see myself – looking perhaps more scared than I ever have done in life. In fact I look even more scared than when I shuffled to the labour ward to give birth and faced the prospect of excruciating agony.

  She opens a door and I walk into another cream room, with abstract paintings on the walls, and an aromatherapy burner on a shelf. Crystals hang by the window and a squashy cream sofa with opulent burgundy velvet cushions sits in the corner.

  “Go on,” Cathy says, “have a seat.”

  There is no chaise longue, no ominous desk for her to sit behind. A small desk sits in the corner, but Cathy sits opposite me on an equally squashy armchair. On a small table beside where I sit I see a glass of water and a box of tissues. How I wish the water was wine!

  “With your permission I’ve been talking to Shaun about your case,” Cathy says.

  I nod, wondering what he has said. At the end of the day our few short appointments and chatty emails can’t have revealed everything.

  Cathy continues: “I want this to be led by you. It’s not my place to tell you what is wrong, just to help you find the answers for yourself.”

  I nod again and realise I’ve yet to break breath to this woman. I wonder how it will be possible to be counselled if all I seem able to do is keep my mouth shut and nod like a wobbly-headed dog.

  “What we do is called person-centred counselling,” Cathy continues. “In other words we will be looking at what has happened to you and looking at how you can find a way to examine, in yourself, what has happened and what it means to you. Would you like to tell me what you feel is the most important thing that you would like to deal with in these sessions?”

  I answer just as I have answered every question about this breakdown before now.

  “I don’t know,” I say and this time I don’t nod my head, I simply shrug my shoulders.

  Cathy sits back and crosses her legs. She has a little spiralled notebook resting on her knee, the kind I use when interviewing people. I think to myself how weird it is to be on the other side of the fence for once.

  “How do you feel?” she asks, and again I answer that I don’t know, but she doesn’t interject with another question. She is waiting for me to speak – she knows there is more to come.

  Not one to disappoint, or to sit in an uncomfortable silence, I start talking.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” I begin. “I suppose I’m here because three weeks ago I had a wee nervous breakdown and ran away from my family overnight.”

  Cathy raises an eyebrow, scribbles something down into her notebook but doesn’t talk.

  “You see, I had this argument with Aidan, he’s my husband by the way, and he said I was ‘fucking unbearable’.” I pause, aware that I have just used a swear- word and ask Cathy if that is okay before I continue. She nods that it is. “The thing is, I didn’t think I was ‘fucking unbearable’. I knew we had grown apart a little but we have a son, Jack, and we both work long hours and I had no idea he was feeling this way. On top of that, I found out they were all talking about me in work and wanted me to take part in this great experiment to change my life – and, well, I’m naturally paranoid anyway, but this made it worse.”

  “But you are doing the experiment, aren’t you?” Cathy asks.

  I nod. “But I wasn’t going to do it at that stage.” “So what changed?”

  “Nothing, I think that is exactly what changed – nothing. You see, I realised that nothing was going to change unless I changed things myself.”

  “But you said before you thought things were okay with yourself,” Cathy says, and I nod again, taking a deep breath.

  I keep talking myself into circles. “Then, I suppose I did, but now I realise things were very not okay. I’m not happy. Nothing makes me happy, not even my son, and how dare I not be happy when he is around – because he is so precious and lovely . . .” I realise I’m rambling and that I’m talking far too fast and most probably boring the tits off Cathy who will see me as nothing more than a timewaster. After all, my problems aren’t real, Are they? I’m not grieving for a lost love. I don’t hurt myself and I’ve never seriously considered killing myself. I’m just yet another sad and grumpy twenty-something who has lost her direction in life and can’t find her way back.

  “Tell me more about you,” Cathy says. “What was your childhood like?”

  I think about this, about all the things I had – all the things money could buy including a Crystal Barbie. I think about how precious I had felt having my parents all to myself but then I think about the brothers and sisters I wished away and even though I know it wasn’t my fault – could never have been my fault – I start to cry.

  I’m not sure how to put my feelings into words, however, so I stumble through my jumbled thoughts as best I can.

  “I’m an only child,” I start. “I have an amazing relationship with my parents. I felt loved my whole childhood but,” and trust me this comes as a surprise to me as the words pour out of my mouth, “I don’t think I ever really felt good enough.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Well, if I was good enough, why did they want another child so badly? My mammy lost four babies that I know of. She was devastated. We were to become the Three Amigos – that’s what she called us – but I know she longed for a fourth, and I didn’t. I wanted things the way they were and sometimes I felt as if I wished those babies dead.”

  I expect Cathy to look shocked, horrified even, but she nods again and writes some more and lets me know it is okay if I keep talking.

  “I mean I was four, but I never understood why they kept crying, when they had me. I was a good child, never talked back, but it wasn’t enough.”

  “Do you still feel that way now?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose no, but there is a part of me wants to go back and tell that wee girl she was good enough – to mother her in the times my mother couldn’t be there for her. And God knows, I understand, because if I lost my son I would be lost entirely, but I was there – scared and not sure what was going on.”

  I’m sobbing now, and I feel like that four-year-old. I feel like the child who thought her daddy was dead, who saw her mammy crying on the bathroom floor, who hurt her mother so badly by saying she would go and get her little brother again and make it all better.

  “Do your parents know you feel this way?” Cathy asks when the sobs have subsided.

  “God, no,” I mutter. “I don’t think it would do them any good to know. They did the best they could. They just couldn’t be perfect.”

  “And parents should be perfect?”

  “As near as possible,” I say, “which is why I’m a fecking joke.”

  “Why do you feel you have to be perfect?” Cathy asks, an eyebrow raised. “Those are pretty high standards.”

  I know she is right – after all, Mary Poppins was only practically perfect – but explaining my need to do things right is like trying to explain why the sun sets and the moon rises. It is just the way things are –
and the funny thing is I’m just about as far from perfect as it comes. I mean, look at me, sitting here, fat, with roots that need touching up, a marriage on the rocks, a work colleague who is threatening to chase after my estranged hubby and I’m in the middle of some big mad guinea-pig experiment because my life is so bad it needs professional help to make it better.

  Even I can see the irony in that, so I smile, dragging my sleeve across my face to mop my tears – before spying the untouched tissues beside me.

  “I kind of thought you might be able to explain that one,” I say to Cathy and she sits back.

  “Grace, you obviously have self-esteem issues. These relate back to your experiences as a child. You have frozen those experiences in time somewhere because even though you are an intelligent woman now with a good relationship with your parents you still feel slighted in some way. Part of you, an irrational part, blames yourself for your mother not having more children. You are carrying a millstone around your neck and you need to let go of this.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” I sigh.

  “It’s as easy as you want to make it, Grace. Give yourself time. As I said before don’t expect miracles, but we can work through this.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Do you want more children, Grace?”

  “Yes,” I answer. There is a need in me to feel that joy of pregnancy again, to hold a newborn again. To do it right this time – and that is exactly what I tell Cathy.

  “How did you get it wrong with your son – sorry, what’s his name?”

  “Jack,” I reply. “I never appreciated him. I only appreciate him now. I just did what I had to do. I never loved him, not enough anyway, and I know I will never get that time back. It’s gone because I was too wrapped up in myself.”

  “All that time, when you felt you didn’t love him, what did you feel?”

  “Scared,” I reply and once again the truth hits me like a bolt out of the blue. “Scared that I would lose him because I deserved to. Scared because Mammy couldn’t have boys and this would mean something had to be wrong with my son. I was waiting for him to die,” I say, and Cathy scribbles some more.

  “Do you realise that was irrational?”

  “I think so,” I say, “but that doesn’t make up for what I threw away.”

  “Grace, I think you need to realise you can’t rewrite the past. You can only shape the future.”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  I feel bizarre, naked almost, as Daisy and I go shopping. She is trying on an array of gorgeous clothes in Next and waiting for my approval but I feel I’m in a dreamlike state. I have a lot running through my mind, and boot-cut jeans and a beaded top with junk-jewellery combo just isn’t catching my attention the way it normally would. Normally I would be sittting like Lady Muck in the corner of the changing rooms while Daisy paraded and I did my best Trinny or Susannah routine. Today I’m just nodding and smiling and feeling that everyone who walks into the room can see that I’ve been crying.

  Daisy is kind with me. She doesn’t make me give my opinion on too many outfits and we finish in record time. I buy a lovely butterfly-embellished handbag under the pretence that it is for me, when I know I will hand it to Daisy before her big date tomorrow night and wish her well. I’m glad to say I’ve not become the absolute worst- friend-in-the-world-ever.

  By the time we pick the kids up I feel as if I haven’t seen Jack in a month. I want to hold him and squeeze him forever and make up for my general crappiness as a mummy over the last two years. Cathy has told me not to be so hard on myself and I’ve promised to try. I’ve promised to start looking towards the future and that starts right now.

  As we get home – normally it would be just in time to pack Lily and Jack off to bed – I set about making a picnic tea while Daisy lights the Chimnea in the back garden. We let the children run about, playing with their toys and paddling in the pool and I think to myself what a blessing children are. I’m immediately saddened that I’ve thrown away so much of Jack’s life, but grateful to have had him in the first place. And I realise, God I realise, how much I love my parents and how I need to let go of my silly little hurt. “You okay, babe?” Daisy asks, walking into the kitchen to get the plates and cups.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “I think I’m going to be just fine.” “You know where I am if you need to talk.”

  “I’m all talked out but thanks. Thanks for everything. You are a real star and I would be lost without you.”

  “Pish!” Daisy says, giving my back a rub. “You are the star and don’t you forget it.”

  We sit outside, eating our ham sandwiches and drinking our cola while the children play and laugh. I make a sandcastle with Jack and roar with laughter when he knocks it down. I even dip my feet in the paddling pool and laugh when Lily splashes me.

  As the sun goes down and the Chimnea flickers, the children climb on our knees and Daisy starts to sing softly – ‘Hush Little Baby’. Lily curls in her arms, looking young and fragile and perfect, and her bright blue eyes flicker before closing and she drifts off. Jack is not far behind and, for a while at least, we can’t bring ourselves to move them and we sit there in companionable silence, enjoying every ounce of their perfection.

  Chapter 20

  Today is BDD – otherwise known as Big Date Day. Of course, being married to (and estranged from) Aidan means I’m not actually sure if our meeting for lunch qualifies as a date.

  Daisy’s date with Dishy (DDWD) definitely does qualify in the date stakes however, so for the purposes of making life easier we have both officially renamed today BDD. I’ve slept blissfully – which was something I certainly did not expect – not after the turmoil of yesterday. As I wake today I feel lighter though. I feel as if I understand a little of what is going on in my life. I don’t feel as inclined to say ‘I don’t know’ if someone asks me what is wrong, because I’m starting to understand it myself.

  Jack is still dozing, the exertion of the late night paying off dividends – but Lily is standing wide-eyed at my bedroom door, rubbing her eyes and scratching her tiny, gorgeous belly. Her dark curls are all messed up from the night’s sleep and her eyes are still a little droopy. In her pink pyjamas, with her pinkish toes peeping out from the bottom of her pants, she looks angelic.

  “Can I come in, Auntie Grace?” she asks.

  “Course you can, Schmoo-face, but be quiet – Lazybones Jack is still asleep.”

  “So is Lazybones Mummy,” she says, her voice a delightful mix of the Derry and Scottish accent. She climbs under the duvet and curls up beside me for a Big Squishy. “I like having you here for cuddles, Auntie Grace,” she says.

  I tell her that Lily-cuddles are among my favourite too. “How come Uncle Aidan isn’t here?” she asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I reply, wracking my brains for a suitable response for a four-year-old, “he is painting the house and Jack and I are just having a wee holiday here until he is done.”

  “Okay,” she says, “but he is taking a long time about it. He must be a lazybones too.”

  “He is, darling,” I say. “He is.”

  “What fun things do you think we are going to do today?”

  “Well, your mummy is going to take you and Jack swimming today while I do a wee message and then when I come home, I’m thinking I could take you babies to McDonald’s for tea and then we could have a play together, because your mammy needs to do a wee message tonight.”

  “What does she need to do?” Lily asks.

  “Oh, she has to see a man about a dog,” I answer, giving the stock answer my own mother would have given a four- year-old me.

  “Really, are we getting a puppy?” Lily answers, eyes bright with excitement.

  I’ve been well and truly caught out.

  “No, sweetie, sorry. Auntie Grace was messing. I’m not sure exactly what she has to do.”

  “Can I not go, Auntie Grace?”

  Doubting very much that Dishy would want a four-
year-old playing gooseberry on her date, I shake my head. “Sorry, Schmoo, but hey, Dermot is on reading the news tonight and if you are a good girl you can sit up late and watch the news with me. We might even have a girly pampering session.”

  “Yippeee!” Lily shouts. “I’m going to tell Mummy!” She jumps off the bed and runs from the room shouting for Daisy to wake up and I’m struck by her enthusiasm and excitement.

  I smile as I turn to Jack, who is stirring by this stage, and give him a kiss. “Morning, Stinkers,” I smile and he curls into my arms.

  I doubt there is a better way to start the day.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  There is a soft, warm breeze. I can see the swings move ever so slightly, as if echoing the children playing on them – only quieter now – much quieter. I take a few deep breaths in the hope it will settle my nerves and I wonder how it has come to the stage where I would be nervous about spending time with my own husband. He has seen the best and worst of me, so why I am afraid to show him the Me I have become? I’m realising now that I am changing, that I’m evolving and, dare I say it, I’m growing stronger. I’m not saying the urge to break down and cry is gone. I’m not saying I don’t still feel somewhat powerless and shamed in the presence of the likes of Louise and her barbed put-downs. I’m not saying I feel good about myself, but I realise I don’t feel quite so wretched. That, in itself, is a revelation to me because it has been an amazingly long time since I’ve felt anything but wretched.

  Wretched had become so much the norm of how I felt that I don’t think I even realised just how bad I felt. Now though, coming out of the tunnel, I realise just how much I’ve thrown away. Determined not to be down-hearted – not to start this day on a bad footing – I force myself to smile. Running my fingers through my hair and letting the sun shine onto my face, I sigh contentedly.

  The sounding of a car horn wakes me from my daydream. I recognise the distinct pattern of the hooting – Aidan is nothing if not a creature of habit. I lift my bag and keys, close the big red door, and make my way down the path to his car. He smiles nervously at me as I get into the passenger seat and I note that he has made an effort. Usually on a Saturday, after the late night in Jackson’s on a Friday, he saunters about in his old trackie bottoms with a scruffy fleece top and an unshaven face. Today he is wearing a crisp white T-shirt (new? Or did his mum iron it?) and his faded blue jeans with chunky boots. He is clean-shaved and his hair is spiked – his dark hair has traces of blond where it has been bleached by the sun and I can smell that he is wearing ‘Eternity’ – my favourite aftershave. I’m not sure what to do. Should we just say hello? Perhaps we should kiss? Shake hands even? Awkwardly, I reach across and kiss his cheek and he smiles back.