I wouldn’t even describe it as waking up. To do that, you have to be asleep in the first place, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t been there. I suppose you could call it a reluctant acceptance that the morning had arrived.
My psychiatric assessment was due to start at 9am. I had spent the night going over so many different scenarios. What I would say; how I would answer certain questions (not that I knew for sure what any of the questions would be); how I would try to seem normal, happy and with it; and how I would punch the psychiatrist and dive through a window to make my escape if I had to.
I hadn’t been asked to pack any sort of suitcase, which I took to be a good sign. Unless, of course, you had no choice about the clothes you wore once you were sectioned. Every patient the same, sloping around the place in hospital gowns, a distant look in their eyes.
I made such a fuss over Michael and Rose before they went to school, I think it was a relief for them when Abi arrived. Neil took a day off work to drive me to the hospital — and then, hopefully, bring me back home again.
‘What if I can’t come home?’ I said. ‘What if this is it? If this is the last time I’m allowed to be free?’
‘You have to come home,’ Neil said. ‘I can’t live on microwave meals and tap-water for the rest of my life.’
I had to ask Neil to pull the car over three times on the way to the hospital. Either I had eaten something dodgy, or I was shit scared.
‘I’m shit scared,’ I said.
Neil reached over and squeezed my hand.
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘But whatever happens we’ll find a way round it — we always do.’
I managed a weak smile, but I wasn’t sure that we could ever find a way round this. Being ill was one thing. Being sectioned and medicated forever was quite another.
We sat down in a waiting area. It felt like the imprisonment had already begun. No other patients and no hospital staff. Just us. A light flickered overhead in the ceiling, making a ticking noise every time it went off and on. It was as though it too was troubled and couldn’t get things quite right. I put my hand to my forehead to block out the flashing. It didn’t help.
‘For fuck sake,’ I said.
Neil squeezed my hand again.
‘I’ll ask if I can come in with you,’ he said. ‘It’ll mean there are two of us when it comes to making the escape.’
A young nurse walked along the corridor towards us. She didn’t look much older than Michael.
‘Mrs Marsden?’
I nodded.
‘Would you like to follow me?’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Is my husband allowed to come with me?’
She looked at Neil. He smiled at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘Of course,’ she said.
We followed her along the corridor to a wooden door. The name on the door said Mr Saez.
Mr Saez turned out to be a Doctor Arnold. And Doctor Arnold was a she. The room was not unlike Doctor Jones’ surgery at the health centre. Neil and I sat next to each other, Doctor Arnold sat opposite us, behind a desk. I reckoned she was a couple of years younger than me. Pretty, with hazel hair. She smiled at Neil. I wished we had Mr Saez instead.
‘Christine,’ she said. Her voice was pretty too. ‘Have you been keeping a diary?’
I looked at Neil.
‘A diary?’ I said.
‘Did your doctor ask you to keep a diary running up to this assessment? To list down any feelings or episodes you might have had?’
‘He didn’t mention it,’ I said.
I could feel Neil looking at me, Doctor Arnold too. I blushed. Had I messed up already?
‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘It’s just that some do.’
I was disappointed to have got off to such a bad start. I couldn’t remember Doctor Jones asking me to keep a diary, but he may have done.
‘Can you tell me a little about why you’re here today?’ she said. ‘What brought you to need this appointment?’
She looked at Neil and smiled. I wondered whether punching her on the nose would indicate insanity or not.
I told her everything I could. Neil sat and listened. He paid attention to me, not to Doctor Arnold. That made everything a little easier. She asked me to answer some written questions; asked me to tell her the date; to remember an address; to draw a clock. Asked me about my family history. I didn’t tell her much. Couldn’t tell her much. Not until after I had seen Janice. I told her that in the hope that she would let me go. That she wouldn’t immediately tell me to take off my clothes and slide into a hospital gown and go and wander around with the other inmates.
She took a blood sample and said that it might be useful to have a urine sample too. She read my MRI scan report and asked me more of the same sort of questions. Could I remember a recent news item? What was my home address? What were the names of my children? Exactly how strong was my sense of smell? How often did I hear voices?
‘Would you say that you have felt depressed in the last few months?’ she said.
I didn’t really know how to answer that. How would anyone feel after being attacked; then having visions; voices and nightmares come over them on a regular basis. Then stalked by the attacker; have their husband arrested; find out they are adopted and that their birth mother killed herself and was, in all likelihood, insane.
‘A bit,’ I said. ‘I’ve had quite a lot going on.’
‘Have you considered suicide?’ she said. ‘And if so, how many times?’
‘At the beginning I was pretty low,’ I said.
‘So is that a yes?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Maybe once or twice.’
I heard Neil take a sharp little breath. I hadn’t told him about how I had felt.
‘But I don’t feel like that now,’ I said. ‘Definitely not.’
‘And what about other people?’ she said. ‘Have you felt like harming others?’
The heat rose up from my neck, no doubt carrying a red blush with it. I shut my eyes for a moment. Replayed the flailing arms and fingernails and Neil’s bloody bed-sheet. Replayed lashing out at my mum and dad as I blacked out and ran off into the woods. Replayed wanting to throw Michael and Rose against the wall of the living-room at home. Wanting to kill the woman in the back of my car. The woman that never really was there. The woman I now knew to be my birth mother. I guessed that this was the bit where she would press a buzzer and heavy men in black clothing would come in and handcuff me before dragging me away to my padded cell. I opened my eyes and prepared to confess.
‘She wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Neil said. ‘She’s the most gentle person I know. She doesn’t have it in her to hurt anyone. So I can answer that one for you.’
He looked at me and nodded. His eyes were wet.
‘Christine?’ she said.
Neil nodded again. Pushed me with his eyes.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t ever want to hurt anyone.’
The whole thing took a little over an hour. Neil sat with me throughout. In the end I didn’t need to give a sample of my urine. A small relief.
The worst time was when she walked out of the room with all my notes.
‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’
Under the circumstances it wasn’t very easy to make myself comfortable at all. In fact I was in danger of giving a urine sample whether she wanted one or not.
‘Don’t worry,’ Neil said. ‘We’ll deal with whatever she comes back with.’
By the time the door creaked open again I was trembling. She sat back down, looked at my notes again, then looked at me.
‘In our view,’ she said, ‘the things you are experiencing are probably as a result of the head trauma you received. There are some slight anomalies, which is why we need to wait for the results of the blood test as well, but generally you are in pretty good health. I think your brain has taken longer to heal than it perhaps might have done, but as long as that goes back to normal everything should be OK. We’ll get the results fr
om the blood test in a day or so. We can pass them onto your GP or we can contact you by letter.’
I tried to process what she was telling me. I was struggling to breath out. OK at sucking air in, but crap at getting rid of it again. I was filling up with air. Was this hyper-ventilating — or the opposite?
‘OK,’ I said. ‘By GP would be fine.’
She smiled.
I floated back to the car. I’m sure if Neil hadn’t held onto me I would have drifted away into the clouds. We drove directly to Colin’s house.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Euphoric,’ I said. ‘I think.’
We walked through the hallway to his study. He didn’t offer us a drink or anything to eat. He sat down in front of me and tapped his fingers on the coffee table.
‘How long have you got?’ he said.
‘Let’s go for the hour,’ I said. ‘But if I get a call from the hospital in Plymouth I might have to leave sooner.’
‘Tell me about the dreams and visions you’ve had since your accident.’
My shoulders sagged and a sigh escaped my mouth.
‘I know we’ve been through it before,’ he said. ‘But just go over it for me again, please.’
I recounted all the dreams I had had. The girls, the dog, the vision on the stairs, the woman writing at the table. I went over them all. Each one individually from when they had first begun. As I was talking Colin picked up his notebook and pen and wrote something. Occasionally he would nod, then smile like an excited child, then become solemn and write something else. If I paused to think, he said nothing, just looked at me, encouraging me to continue. When I finished he looked down at what he had written for at least a minute before speaking.
‘Is there anything that strikes you about all these?’ he said.
I wasn’t in the mood for mysteries. He was supposed to be the one with the answers, not me.
‘They’re all shit?’ I said.
He looked up at me and smiled.
‘Do you mind if I feel your head?’ he said.
I looked over at Neil.
‘Are you serious?’ I said. ‘I thought you said all that was pseudo-science?’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘The thing about all your dreams and visions is that they never change. They are always the same. If there is any difference in them, it’s only to add more detail. They become clearer.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘This is not the case with typical post-traumatic-stress sufferers. Normally their dreams are similar, about the same sort of thing, but often with different outcomes each time, or with unusual additions. Yours are not like that.’
I nodded. Colin stood up and walked towards me. I backed into the chair.
‘It is pseudo-science,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to try an experiment. Just to see if it backs up current thinking. Do you mind?’
He walked behind my chair. I turned my head to watch him.
‘Just look forward,’ he said. ‘Keep your head straight.’
His fingers pressed against the sides of my head. Gently pushing into the skin. My neck tingled as his fingers moved over and behind my ears. I think I blushed. I hoped Neil hadn’t noticed it. Colin’s hands moved forward, fingers massaging against my forehead. I closed my eyes.
‘The frontal lobe,’ he said. ‘It’s very often where the character comes from. Damage to this area can change a person’s personality quite drastically. In phrenology this area was thought to represent perception, understanding and memory. One of my colleagues is involved in cellular memory. He’s the one I’ve been talking to about your situation.’
His fingers skated around the raised scar on my forehead. They felt warm against my scalp. I wondered if he had ever touched his wife’s head in this way. Then he pulled his hands away and walked back to his seat. I just managed to get my eyes open before he turned to face me again. I stretched my neck and shoulders.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘That’s OK. Did it work?’
‘I don’t think you’re suffering from post-traumatic-stress at all,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that’s ever been the case.’
Wasn’t that what I had told him right at the start?
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it was.’
He nodded and smiled.
‘Of course you didn’t,’ he said. ‘You know how you inherit certain characteristics from your parents? Like the same eyes, or the same nose. Sometimes the same personality, those sorts of things?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘My mother’s madness …?’
‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But inheriting her madness wouldn’t necessarily bring on these dreams. Madness, per se, wouldn’t cause these hyper-specific episodes.’
‘OK?’ I said.
‘But inherited memory would. And that’s what I think you’ve got from your mother. Part of her memory.’
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