The Hidden Girls

by Rebecca Whitney

  ‘I heard a scream. At least I thought I did. A woman screaming. It really freaked me out.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the doctor?’

  ‘No. Look, I’m not unwell again. I can’t be.’ Ruth dips her head and lowers her voice. ‘I’ve been taking all my medication.’

  ‘But they could up your dose? Maybe get you over this sticky patch.’

  ‘God, I’m sluggish enough already. And I can’t bear the thought of putting on any more weight.’ Ruth doesn’t tell Sandra how she worries the medication might be damaging her physically; all those toxins being filtered through her kidneys, accumulating in her liver, deposited around her body as fat. And then there’s the fear of the fear. What’s that doing to her health, her sanity?

  ‘So, this scream,’ Sandra says, moving in and out of Ruth’s focus as she rocks Ian on her chair. ‘Did the police find anything? What did they say when they came round?’

  ‘They told me to stop calling them, that I was becoming a nuisance.’

  ‘Oops.’ Sandra winks again at Ruth.

  Ruth sighs and slumps in her seat. ‘It sounded so real at the time, but telling you about it now, it’s obvious it was just a dream.’

  ‘Well, I’d stop calling the feds if I were you. The less they’re in your life the better. Came after my dad when all he was trying to do was provide for his family and I’ll never forgive them for that. I mean, it was only money, no one got hurt or anything.’ She pats Ian’s back. ‘No, best keep your nightmares to yourself.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  ‘And listen, I get it.’ Sandra eats her salad one-handed. ‘Liam hates it if I get fat.’ She speaks so loudly that the man on the next table throws a concerned look. ‘I mean, your bloke’s got to fancy you, right? You’ve got to put out even if you don’t feel like it, otherwise he’ll go elsewhere. They’re men, they need it, can’t help themselves.’ Behind them, a barista drops a cup. It smashes. Bess startles, Ian doesn’t even stir. ‘But you need to make sure you keep your head together too. You really can’t afford to get ill again.’ Her mouth turns down. ‘Sorry, honey, I’m just being practical.’

  ‘I know.’ Ruth rakes a hand through her hair, a little unnerved at the idea that Giles could be the same as Liam and she never realized before. ‘Really, I’m fine, I probably just needed to offload. God, it’s good to talk it through, blow the nonsense out of my brain. I just get so down sometimes, you know? It can feel like the world’s against me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, honey. We all get in a pickle from time to time.’

  Ruth lifts the bottle of milk from the water, checking the temperature before letting Bess latch on. The little girl chugs away at the milk, gulping with big eyes blinking up, and Ruth relaxes into a curve over her daughter. This is how it should work, Ruth thinks, sitting in a cafe with her quiet baby, having a heart-to-heart with a good friend, and she feels safe enough for once to go deeper. ‘You know, I manage to worry about every little thing, and it’s not just the illness that’s brought it on, I’ve always been like this.’ Her eyes trace a line of tiles along the wall; she knows full well she hasn’t always been like this, that before she lost her sister her world had been as carefree as everyone else’s in this cafe, but explaining that here and now would be too intense, too complex, so a little white lie to Sandra will do. ‘I’m on my own so much with nothing to distract me apart from Bess that my fears have got nowhere else to go.’ She rearranges herself on the seat. ‘Do you ever have this thing . . .? Well, it’s something my sister and I used to talk about actually, but recently, I don’t know why, I’ve been thinking about it again.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Sandra stretches the vowels into apprehension.

  ‘Sometimes, well, I get these ideas, sort of an impulse. Totally within my control, though. I mean, I know I’m not going to act on them, but I can feel the potential of what I could do, what I’m capable of.’

  Sandra sits tall, blinking. ‘Like what? Do you want to do something to Bess?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I don’t want to do anything. That’s not the point.’ Heat creeps up Ruth’s neck. ‘I just get the sense sometimes of how close to the edge we all are. I’m terrified of anything and everything that could hurt Bess, including myself, even though I know I never would. I mean, like, how easy it would be to do something bad, because I have the power as well as the freedom. And of course I’ve thought about the crazy thing in the first place, so what’s the significance of that? It’s only good sense that stops me, stops all of us, in fact.’

  Sandra stares hard into Ruth’s eyes. ‘Are you sure you don’t need to see the doctor?’

  Ruth’s throat closes and she wishes she could put her words back where they came from. Sandra’s not only misunderstood what Ruth’s saying, she’s running with it in the wrong direction, and that in turn makes Ruth feel culpable for the bad things she’s attempting to push away. ‘No. Look,’ Ruth says, ‘it was just a memory of something my sister, Tam, and I used to talk about. L’appel du vide. The call of the void. You know, like when you stand on a cliff edge and think how easy it would be to step off.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s ever happened to me.’ Sandra slowly forks in another mouthful, eyeing Ruth the whole time.

  Ruth jiggles the bottle in Bess’s mouth to get the bubbles from the milk. ‘It’s fine, I’m fine, really. Forget I said anything.’ Her spare hand absently picks at the second muffin. ‘Let’s just move on. I’m not having problems with reality.’ She forces a giggle. ‘Really, I promise.’

  ‘Right.’ Sandra smiles weakly, looking as relieved as Ruth to have dropped the subject. Laughter bursts from the table behind them before Sandra says, ‘Well, I’ve got some news.’

  Ruth takes a big bite of the second cake. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’m starting back at work.’

  ‘You going back to the dentist’s?’

  ‘Oh no, not that.’ She whispers to Ruth with wide eyes. ‘Don’t know where my head was at when I did that. Answering the phone and having to deal with those people and their problems all day long.’ She screws up her smile and her nostrils flare. ‘Having to pretend I cared about their aches and pains. I mean, life’s too short. I’ve got my own family now and they come first, you know?’ Sandra chuckles, nodding at Ruth like she’s expecting her to join in.

  ‘Um . . .’

  Sandra stops laughing abruptly and sits firmly back in her chair. ‘No, actually, Liam’s bought me a business.’

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Crumbs fall from Ruth’s mouth. ‘That’s great. What is it?’

  ‘A hairdresser’s. You know, one of those places where you walk in off the street without an appointment. “Speedy Cutz”. You’ve probably seen them around. It’s a franchise, so the one we’re buying is already up and running. We’re just taking it over. The turnover’s OK, but after we improve it, we’ll expand.’

  ‘Right. You going to retrain as a hairdresser?’

  ‘God, no! I’m going to manage the place, turn it into a unisex salon, hire new staff and get rid of those old dinosaurs who work there.’ Sandra gesticulates with her cutlery, intermittently patting Ian’s back with fork still in hand. ‘Lots of lounging around looking at their phones and no one really cleaning up after a haircut. The place is filthy.’ She peers into a high corner as if the scene is up there, and her smile is wide. ‘I’ll sort it out, get the business running smoothly, make some decent money.’

  Ruth’s eyes cloud with tears.

  Sandra frowns and tips her head forward. ‘You OK, honey?’

  ‘Yes, fine. I’m sorry, it’s great news.’ Her breath stutters as she pulls back the sob, hating that she’s making Sandra’s news about herself, only she can’t help it. ‘It’s just that something like that seems so far away for me. I can’t even organize myself to get out of the house on time, let alone go to work.’

  Sandra puts the salad box to one side. ‘There’s plenty of time for you, honey. Don’t worry about it. I’m only
telling you because I’m not going to be around so much any more.’ Her voice is soft. ‘Like recently when you called, I’ve just been so busy setting things up that I haven’t had time to get back in touch. So I wanted to give you a heads-up to make other plans in the future. You know, get involved in a playgroup or something. I care about you, Ruthie.’

  ‘Oh right, thanks.’ Ruth’s teeth plough through the second muffin to keep her mouth busy, wishing Sandra could at least have texted back to say she was busy when Ruth left all those messages, rather than letting her fill the silence with an assumed inadequacy. When Ruth had worked at the office, there’d been the pressurized pitches and late-night drinking sessions that had forged a family of sorts, a temporary stand-in for the solid friends she was rarely able to make, didn’t want to make after her sister, but all that support fell away when she stopped working. Older friends, who might be more forgiving, live far away and are as flummoxed as everyone else by the many needs of Ruth. She’s just too big a project for anyone to take on. Her deep embarrassment is that she needs them at all. She searches for another subject to cover her shame. ‘What about Ian?’

  ‘I’ve sorted some childcare.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘A local childminder. She’s great, she can do breakfast as well as tea, so when I’m busy all I’ll need to do is bath him and put him to bed. I’m so looking forward to being out the house for a bit, get my sanity back.’ She bites her lip. ‘Sorry, hun, that came out wrong.’

  ‘It’s OK, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Anyway, once we’re properly up and running with enough money coming in, me and Liam are going to try for another baby. You know what blokes are like, constantly pressurizing you to get on with it. Liam can’t keep his hands off me!’ She giggles. ‘But it won’t be such an ordeal next time ’cos I’ll have everything in place from Ian.’ Her tone brightens. ‘It’ll be the same for you too when you decide.’

  ‘Yes,’ is all Ruth can say. She swallows the last bite with a tight mouth, fighting to keep from polluting the air with envy and neediness. What she wants to tell Sandra is that the thought of another child terrifies her, repels her even. It’s very possible that giving birth could trigger another psychotic episode, but even if it didn’t, this hard, lonely road Ruth is currently on would then have no end in sight. Ruth’s new normal is so far from her expectation that the only way to truly fix things would be to turn back time and carry on as childless, which Ruth had worked actively to change, calculating ovulation times and date nights with Giles – even in conception she’d wanted to be in charge. She misses her old life, her spacious and rambling interior world, the luxury of her and Giles being wrapped up in only each other. But that she even has these regrets crushes her with guilt. Mostly, though, she mourns the mother she thought she would be, and the now-broken myth that having a baby was going to complete her because, by her female design, it would come naturally and she’d enjoy it: the attachment, the love, the daily doings of childcare, all without stress or constant questioning that she was getting it right. She wants to be the kind of woman who could want another child. Yet again Ruth’s getting left behind. The medication has made her functional, but only enough to be a witness to her failure.

  Sandra chats on about future plans, how she and Liam are planning to move from the street and are close to completion on a house that needs loads doing. Ruth can’t think of anything to say that’s remotely civil, feeling betrayed too that Sandra has been house-hunting and Ruth never even knew she was thinking of moving, so she just listens as Sandra fills the gaps. The sadness Ruth wanted to leave at home snakes around her as if the roots of the horsetails have crept the miles from her street and are coiling up her legs.

  ‘Right then,’ Sandra says, checking her phone. ‘I need to pop to the loo and then we should think about heading off.’ She reaches across to Ruth, who recoils a little at her touch. ‘I know we haven’t been here that long, but are you all right to leave in a mo? I’ve got the crèche booked for Ian at the gym.’

  Ruth uses her chirpiest tone. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great.’ Sandra gets up to go to the ladies’. ‘And I’m really glad we’ve had this chat about how you’re feeling. Promise me you’ll go back to the doctor and get some more pills. You mustn’t let yourself get unwell again.’

  Ruth’s chest sinks. ‘Sure.’

  The other table of mums is leaving too and a freight train of buggies steams towards the door. The women wave to Sandra and one holds up her phone. Sandra takes out her own handset and quickly types; a phone number probably or a date in the diary for a playgroup and coffee, events Sandra probably won’t go to, but how lovely to be asked. The greatest tragedy of Ruth’s illness is that it’s made her weird and inaccessible, her loneliness like body odour, Sandra’s odd tag-along friend. What Ruth would like most is to hang out with any one of those competent mums, be a silent onlooker to their days, with no pressure to perform or judgement from them returned, only to soak in their world so that one day she’ll be able to return to that place as well. In all friendships there’s a contract of give and take, and what people want most from each other is fun, but fun is the least thing Ruth is able to be; depressed people are depressing.

  The cafe empties around her. She sips the dregs of her coffee, exhausted by the sudden hit of carbs and dreading going home. Her time ahead appears viscous, to be waded through. Aimless days, small insurmountable goals. She wishes she could live more like Bess, measuring time from one heartbeat to the next, alive to possibility without fear or the need for plans.

  One last customer remains, an elderly woman sitting on the opposite side of the cafe, previously obscured by the crowd in between. The woman stands, gathers her bags and walks towards Ruth. She’s wearing the beige uniform of late middle-age: slacks, a fleece, comfortable Velcro shoes – the kind of woman Ruth wouldn’t normally notice. Her silver hair is tied in a frizzy bun at the base of her skull and she wears a funny little felt hat to keep the whole thing in place. So old-fashioned, even for her age.

  The woman reaches Ruth’s table and stops. ‘I’m your neighbour,’ she says. ‘I live on the other side of the alley.’ Her features rearrange themselves into Liam’s mum, Sandra’s mother-in-law, the person Ruth’s been warned to avoid.

  ‘Hello,’ Ruth says too loudly, heart bouncing in her chest as she checks the toilet door for Sandra. ‘I . . . I didn’t recognize you. Out of context of the street, I mean.’ She lifts Bess into the papoose, and sways back and forth to cover the awkwardness, finding extra buckles to fasten to occupy her jittery hands. Ruth expects the neighbour to stiffen and leave, but she remains still until Bess settles.

  ‘I just wanted to say’ – the woman speaks with the burr of a Scottish accent that’s almost been weeded out – ‘that I think you’re doing a wonderful job. You’re such a lovely mum and your wee girl is beautiful!’

  Ruth’s words are again stuck, this time behind emotions she’s not experienced since leaving work: both gratitude and pride, fresh and unexpected. Ruth has never been told she’s doing well.

  The woman smiles. ‘No one finds it easy. The ones that say they do are lying.’ She pats Ruth on the arm. ‘I’m right next door if you ever want to pop in for a cup of tea.’

  Her small frame shuffles as she walks away, and before she exits, she turns to Ruth with a smile. A breath of something touches Ruth’s cheek, as if a distant window’s been opened.

  4

  Giles works on his laptop at the dining table in their open-plan living space. The table was a buy from a junk shop, and Ruth had begun to sand it down with the idea of painting it before the task became another victim of baby-overload. Giles sits at the smoother, still-varnished end, taking calls and typing emails, his concentration broken only by childcare and cups of tea. The dreamcatcher hanging in the window casts a wispy shadow over his hands on the keyboard.

  It’s a Tuesday and Giles has been home for the day. In their spirit of enforced transparency,
Ruth’s GP contacted them because of Ruth’s calls to the surgery. Ruth bristled at the intrusion – from the doctor as well as from Giles – but this is how it’s been since she became unwell, this is how it will remain, her illness catching everyone in its sticky thread, Ruth the most trapped of all, the life being sucked from her. She’s better than she was, though not yet in the clear. Giles’s eyes follow her around the room as she goes about the housework and tends to Bess, monitoring Ruth for any signs of the relapse they both fear. So much of family life is balanced on Ruth’s mental health that no one can afford to be complacent. Accept the help, Ruth tells herself, enjoy the company. Be grateful he still cares enough to be present. Still, she’s self-conscious in his spotlight, every shortcoming highlighted.

  Ruth is busy in the kitchen as Bess begins to cry. She hears Giles’s chair scrape back before he comes into view through the doorway, picking up their daughter and holding the little girl with the same concentration and love Ruth witnessed when their baby was born. Giles was the first to hold Bess while Ruth was stitched up, and he’d sobbed into the baby’s swaddling, his connection pure and instant. The same moment, however, Ruth marked against herself as an error. Even though she’d had no choice by the time the caesarean became a necessity – legs still damp from the birthing pool as she was rushed towards surgery, her scented candles and intervention-free birth plan tracking out of sight – to this day she’s still convinced she didn’t try hard enough, that some weakness in her willpower meant her body lacked the fortitude to give birth naturally. In that instant she judged herself, and decided everyone else had done too, as a losing combatant in the mothering arena, and the pattern was set for all that followed.

  Giles sings Bess his dad theme: ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .’ The melody quickly settles their baby. Ruth watches with tight lips, her own inadequacy to love and be loved hopelessly in opposition to her husband’s bottomless capacity.