Exactly, why wouldn’t he be? How can he be normal, when I behave in neurotic ways? He was twenty minutes down the road, for goodness’ sake.
I texted Jack because I am scared. You will never let us go. Of all the decent men in the world, why the hell did I marry you?
No reason. Just saying hello! x
Cool x
But it’s not cool, is it, Jack? Something tells me, you know – it’s not. My little sponge. You’re scared like me; neither of us wish to say. Speaking makes it real. I will not let him get to you, I promise. The hum of a 911 meanders through my mind. The sound of your breathing, the silent calls creating so much noise. Then the kitchen-door incident – no, that was fine; it was locked after all. I needn’t have worried.
I flick through contacts on my dashboard computer. I’ll have to call ahead; I’m going to be late. How do people manage to be so organised? Is it only me forever running around like the phantom headless chicken? I hear the other mums at school functions, talking of coffee, gyms, lunch dates and so on. How do they do it? How do they fit everything in? Are they up at 04.00? Not that I would do these things anyway: too many questions, too much gossip, not enough left-brain balance. I find myself slipping away from school gatherings of any kind. I like to keep my distance. Idle chit-chat, what’s the point? Why would I want to know what Judy is hiding behind closed doors, what Sally has divulged to Julie? What Ann has manipulated out of Philippa. But what Philippa has over Ann, Julie, Sally and Judy? I can’t be bothered. But it would still be nice to know how they manage their time.
‘Good morning, Dr Fellows’ surgery.’ The super-efficient voice answers my call. Oh, God, what is your name? Think.
Got it. ‘Sandra, hi, it’s Eve Sands. I’m supposed to be with you, well, in truth – by now. Can you please let my client know I’m afraid I’m running a little late? Should be with you in about fifteen minutes, all being well.’
‘Oh, hi. Of course. She’s here but don’t worry, lovely, no problem. I’ll tell her for you,’ she soothed.
Sandra goes on to mention something about a recent enquiry. Her voice shuffles to the back of my mind, a mottled voice in the background. I cut her off as quickly as I can. It’s become an annoying noise. I’m not even sure if I said goodbye. I take my foot off the accelerator and let the car drift forward.
Warwickshire?
Ruan, definitely said the PTSD referral guy was from Warwickshire. He said he was from up-country somewhere, Warwickshire. I should have paid more attention. But thousands of people are from Warwickshire. Am I just being paranoid? No, someone has been following me, then last night someone was asking about me, knew where I live. Drove past my house, probably does so every day. But then, my details are all over the Internet. I advertise, encourage people to make contact. How stupid, careless. Maybe I’m just fusing one coincidental factor with my ugly past, and completely blowing it out of all proportion. It’s not as if I’ve any hard evidence. Just a twisted version of reality. I’m looking for symptoms, so I’m finding them; every single ache and pain, inhalation and espying is attributed to the panic condition.
But deep down, I know the truth. My heart is telling me. My waiting is over. Time is never a true divide.
Ruan definitely mentioned Warwickshire.
Chapter Twelve
Hate is an insignificant word.
Despise. Scorn. Spurn. Utter contempt. The words circle, attacking me from above.
I do not sleep; injustice smarts deep inside my gut. Images scratched into my wretched mind. Each and every time I close burdened eyes.
I can’t breathe, you’re so near. I could have touched you the other day. Still, without conscience. No fear for consequence. Remember what they say, you son of a bitch: what goes around, comes around.
This I guarantee.
This isn’t your kingdom; justice will be done.
Be waiting, I will catch you.
I’m willing to lay my life on it.
Chapter Thirteen
Cornwall 2016
I eventually arrive at the Mevagissey surgery. It gripes at me being late, especially as I’m seeing a child. As if they’re not feeling nervous enough. I squeeze in beside the brand-new Audi, belonging to the new GP, Sandra divulged on my last visit, thinking it would interest me. She was wrong. I breathe in to inelegantly cuddle my car, climbing out in the eight-inch gap I’ve left. Pristine paintwork is an overrated liability living down here. I turn and catch a glimpse of my reflection in his glass. Thank God, it’s imperfect. My cheeks are flushed from my overwrought journey, I feel dishevelled. I throw off my personal hat, replacing it with my clinician’s.
Composed, I walk towards the seventies brick building. Leave it all at the front door, Eve. The words, fit to practice, spare capacity, echoing through my silenced mind. I shove them away. Life equals experience and experience equals a better clinician. Besides, I have no choice. Sometimes though, the responsibility of my work feels all too heavy and burdensome. Thankfully, most of the time, I’m a master of displacing my personal angst, boxing it away in the attic. Usually for night-time perusal.
I bundle through the heavy glass door, stealing a cursory glance around the waiting room, in desperate need of some TLC. I spot mum and daughter waiting, a partnership of apprehension. I smile in their direction then hurry on to sign in at Reception. I have the word ‘psychologist’ stamped on my forehead. I try my best to blur stereotyped suppositions. But we’re still witch doctors for many. I’m not sure who looks more nervous, mum or daughter. The paradox, this child possibly feels so in control and mature partaking in self-harming behaviours, yet she now emits fragility and immaturity. Mental health symptoms proposing a mode of control, yet the truth is the absolute opposite. Lies, all lies. The conditions deceive and conquer, twist and distort the truth, then deactivate the mind they have thieved.
In my temporary room, I haphazardly abandon my briefcase in haste so to return to the waiting room. Taking to the edge of an inflexible seat, I perch next to the small girl. Blimey, these clinics don’t always help; if I had to wait in here, I’d feel depressed too. I face the young, all-eyes expression, and smile. She looks to mum, as reality hits. I need to speak to mum but only once Milly has engaged with me. Knowing I’ve a very small window of time to build rapport, no second chances here. Her toned-down green eyes regard me before preferring to ogle her shoes. She is only a little younger than Jack, yet she already appears to hold the responsibility of the world on narrow shoulders. As does Jack at times. I feel a shooting pang in my heart for mum and daughter. Both of them wondering how they’ve got to this.
‘Hi. Milly?’ I ask, despite knowing.
‘Yeah,’ a falsely confident voice bounces back.
‘I’m Eve, this must be mum. Clare?’ I smile at mum. Milly nods after a swift peep at mum; as if to check she’s still here.