I longed for the meeting to be over. It was a bad business, and I felt inadequate to handle it. A part of my conscience that I was determined to ignore kept suggesting that I may not be entirely blameless in Bernadette’s illness.
When she was hospitalised the first time, Mary dealt with everything, leaving me to bury myself further in my work. I was newly appointed to the bench, and Mary was so competent. When we finally had a name for the condition, I was happy to leave the treatment to the professionals, and Bernadette’s continued improvement to Mary.
Leo was in his final year at school, and I didn’t want him distracted. And Bernadette did improve. She and her mother would go shopping, and to plays, to the ballet, to charity lunches. Bernadette clung to Mary emotionally, but at least, I told myself, she was no longer locked away in her bedroom. Then Mary’s death crushed her again, and she rushed into that unfortunate relationship with the simpleton, Harry.
I was getting fidgety. I wasn’t good at waiting, and I hated it when people were late. Then just as I was wondering where the damn woman was, Dr Sarah Soliman arrived. She was small, with medium-length grey hair in that style they called a bob, and she was dressed in a smart grey trouser suit. I towered over her when I rose to greet her. She shook my hand briskly and seated herself in a chair opposite me, all business. She carried a manila folder, which she placed on the low table in front of her.
I took the lead. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr Soliman. How is Bernadette?’
Sarah Soliman briefly consulted her file.
‘It’s early days, so her progress is limited but satisfactory for this stage. Our immediate goals are physical. Bernadette needs a regular, healthy diet and the re-establishment of hygiene habits. The nurses make sure she showers every day, and her diet is being monitored. It seems that she was eating very poorly, especially in the weeks leading up to her admission.’
Was she accusing me of something? Surely, as a grown woman, Bernadette could have monitored her own diet. I decided not to respond, and pointed to the overnight bag, which Leo and Alison had filled with nightwear, clothes and toiletries. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d see that she gets this,’ I said.
‘Of course. Now, what can you tell me of her psychiatric history?’
I wondered why she asked that. Surely it was in the file; but that meant consulting with Bernadette’s previous psychiatrist, and perhaps he was no longer practising. So I responded with the history of Bernadette’s earlier hospitalisation, her relapse when her mother became terminally ill, Alison’s birth, and her gradual decline again into agoraphobia. I didn’t mention the hoarding. It all seemed far too complicated, and already I was weary of this interview.
‘That first hospitalisation when she was twenty-one. Was there a triggering event?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, anxiety-induced agoraphobia is almost always triggered by a traumatic event, something perhaps that so panicked Bernadette that she didn’t want to leave the safety of her bed.’
‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t involved in Bernadette’s treatment. My wife looked after everything.’
Sarah Soliman looked at me a little too long for my liking.
‘You’re a retired Judge, I believe.’
‘Yes. How is that relevant?’
She ignored my question and asked another. ‘What work were you involved in when Bernadette was first hospitalised?’
‘I’d just been appointed to the bench. I was a newly appointed Judge, so very busy, and my wife was extraordinarily competent. I was happy for her to take care of Bernadette.’
‘Was your wife happy with that? Would she have liked you to have been more involved?’
I could feel sweat on my forehead and under my collar. This nosy, bloody woman was beginning to annoy me. ‘My wife was very supportive of my work and understood the burdens it imposed on my time.’
‘I see.’
There it was again, that look that lingered a little too long. I tried to get back on the forward foot. ‘What’s the treatment for the condition, Dr Soliman?’
‘We approach the treatment in a number of ways. First the nursing staff will look to the patient’s physical needs and institute a program to promote general good health. They encourage patients to take part in activities in the unit and to mix with other patients to the extent that they are able.’
I had a sudden vision of Bernadette weaving baskets and making clay pots, and almost laughed. She couldn’t manage even the simplest tasks, and she never communicated with anyone. ‘Drugs?’ I asked.
‘Yes, agoraphobia patients are initially treated with mood-stabilising drugs, and it can take time to establish which of these and in which combinations are right for the individual. I’ve started Bernadette on a mild anti-depressant, but that will be assessed as her therapy gets underway. That’s really the most important part of the treatment, the talk therapy.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It’s impossible to say. Bernadette is very traumatised. We use talk therapy to try to discover the basis of the trauma, to help the patient to acknowledge and understand it, and in time, to end the hold it has over her psychological health. It could take weeks or months, but you need to understand that even after she leaves, she will need regular sessions with a psychiatrist and strong support from her family.’
‘I see.’
What more bloody support does she need, I wondered. I’m already paying for this expensive private hospital, and Bernadette’s made it clear in the past that she doesn’t want a bar of me.
‘With your permission, I’d like some more information about the circumstances of Bernadette’s admission.’
‘I wasn’t there, Dr Soliman. I was informed the following morning.’
‘Oh yes, I see now. She was admitted by her brother. I have those details here. But again, what do you know about what precipitated the crisis?’
‘I only know what my son has told me. My granddaughter returned from a two-week holiday with me to find her mother bedridden, unwashed and irrational. There was no water to the house and she refused to leave her bed. My granddaughter called my son, a CAT team attended and she was brought here.’
‘Something must have brought it on though.’
‘It seems that it was the fact that my granddaughter left her to spend the two weeks of the school holidays with me at Golden Beach. Bernadette saw it as a betrayal, called Alison a traitor, and screamed at her to leave the house.’
‘Why would Alison taking a holiday with you be seen by Bernadette as betrayal?’
‘We don’t exactly have a close, loving relationship, but I admit I don’t understand why she loathes me so much.’
‘Hmm,’ was all the insufferable woman said.
There was a silence, which I interpreted as accusatory, and I made up my mind to bring the interview to a close. ‘Well, if that’s all, Dr Soliman.’
She wasn’t going to let me go easily. ‘For the time being,’ she said, ‘but it’s going to be central to the therapy that we understand the cause of the original breakdown when she was younger.’
‘As I’ve said, I know nothing about it.’
‘Well, we’ll no doubt find out more from her previous psychiatrist, but there definitely would have been a triggering event.’
‘The death of her mother, of course. Bernadette was very dependent on her.’
‘Yes, but that was later, wasn’t it? That was the cause of the re-appearance of the agoraphobia, but what brought on the initial breakdown when she was twenty-one?’
Why does she keep harping on this? ‘As I’ve said, I don’t know.’
‘I believe that the re-emergence of Bernadette’s agoraphobia was probably caused by her mother’s illness and death, but it can also be a reaction or a defiant act against an intimidating, critical or bullying spouse or parent. In Bernadette’s case it’s far too early to say if that’s the case.’
The damn woman actually looked me straight in t
he eye when she said that.
‘In any case, there’s a lot of work to be done. Thank you for coming.’ She then rose, the diminutive bully, and shook my hand again.
‘Thank you, Dr Soliman, here’s my card. Please contact me immediately if I can be of further assistance.’
I wasn’t going to ask if and when we could see Bernadette. It would only risk another of her cold stares.
I left feeling like one of those schoolboys who couldn’t quite be trusted, the one every teacher had on a watch list, a recalcitrant child, resistant to discipline who might make terrible trouble if left unchecked.
In the so-called ‘talk therapy’, I knew who the villain would be.
As I walked out through those spotless corridors, I realised that while I now had some technical information about Bernadette’s illness, I still had no understanding, nothing but the familiar lurch of desolation curling like a watery wave in my belly. I felt old and useless, and I thought I might weep.
In my pocket my fingers skimmed the keypad of my phone, urging me to do it, to dial Nadia’s number, to seek out her calm presence. However, I — the feared Judge Colin Brennan of the criminal court — was afraid of her rejection. And even worse, I was afraid of her pity.
Chapter 36
Alison Brennan
Monday, 25 April
I decided to go to school. Leo wanted me to take time off, but I didn’t want to get too behind with my work. The only day I took off was for my grandfather’s funeral last Wednesday.
At lunchtime, I was in the library, drifting around, trying to hide. I was out of my body, as if the girl doing things wasn’t me, but a stranger who looked like me. I felt like a snail carrying a shell that was much too heavy. The shell could crack and squash me any moment. I couldn’t give my attention to anything except the weight on my back.
It was funny that the worst thing about the whole thing was also the best thing. Worst, because no one else knew, except Grandpa, Leo and Trent, and now Mrs Goodall, because Leo had asked me if he could phone the school and tell her.
I could never tell Rosa, ever. Nothing weird or shameful like this happened in her family. She’d look at me as if I was some strange, alien species. That was also the best thing. Because no one else at school knew (except Mrs Goodall), I didn’t have to talk about it. Everyone expected me to be normal. They couldn’t see the heavy shell that sat on my back waiting to crush me.
But when have I ever been normal?
I was the neglected little girl from the dirty house, remember? They wouldn’t let me see Mum, and Dad was in the Melbourne Assessment Centre waiting for his trial. Trent said he’d probably go to jail, but he didn’t know for how long. Trent was going to find out when I could see Dad.
I sat next to Rosa in English Literature class every day, but I made excuses when she suggested doing stuff at the weekend. She looked hurt, and I hated that. I thought she’d just give up on me.
But what can I do? I can’t tell her. She wouldn’t believe even half of it.
It hurt to smile with this heaviness around me, so I stopped trying. I wished I could run away and hide forever. That was probably what happened to Mum. Something drove her to her hiding place. But no, I wouldn’t be my mother.
Everyone at school was talking about assignments, shopping at the weekends, posting on social media, sending texts.
They think it all matters, but it doesn’t.
Chapter 37
Stella Goodall
Monday, 25 April
What a day!
A stream of sad, angry, confused and questioning kids. More teachers than usual wanted to talk about students’ behaviours ranging from the merely challenging to the downright dangerous — ridiculous amounts of paperwork; the Year Twelve boy shaken with grief after taking his girlfriend for an abortion during the holidays; the Year Ten girl who had to shut down her Facebook page because of a spiteful vendetta from her classmates; and the artistic boy who wanted to be a dancer, not the doctor his parents hoped for.
I was trying to be present to each concern as fully as I could. Trying to listen because listening was the first act of healing.
Then there was Alison’s story.
She came this morning, diffident and quiet, looking as if all the darkness in the world sat on her shoulders. I knew the bare outline from her uncle. First, I had to make sure she had somewhere safe to stay, and I assured her that she and her uncle had done the best thing for her mother.
Then the story came out in fits and starts. There was still a lot that Alison didn’t understand; how her father had kept his background secret for so long; the full story of her Polish grandfather’s escape to Australia; and the angry memories that led her father to kill his own father. She didn’t know yet what was going to happen to her father, and at least for the time being her mother was lost to her.
This was a girl desperately in need of calm, responsible parenting, and there was no one to provide it. She had built a shell, as children did who saw themselves as different and inferior. The shell was her self-sufficiency, but underneath that confident self-containment, she was lonely. She stepped carefully through the world, always conscious to minimise the risk that her secrets would be revealed.
Somewhere along the way, however, she had learnt to be kind, even learnt to love. Despite their many faults as parents, she instinctively defended her mother and father. There was a goodness in Alison that belied her circumstances.
Where did it come from? Are there people who are naturally good, despite adversity? Alison is a mystery to me. Her resilience raises many questions that I can’t answer. But I do know this. While her emotional strength will no doubt at times add to her loneliness, it will also be her salvation into a better future.
I urged her to see herself as her own parent, nurturing and taking care of herself, of her own emotional needs. I asked her to imagine her emotional self as a small child, a child in great need of love and comfort. What exactly did such a child need, I asked? Then I asked her to imagine the rational, logical part of herself as a parent to that child. She must ‘parent’ herself, I suggested.
‘How do I do that,’ she asked.
I asked her to think about what good parents did. They provided good food and a healthy environment; they gave affirmation and unconditional love. They made sure that their child had good social connections, friends, and pleasant things to look forward to; simple things like a swim on a hot day, a story or good book, a funny movie to watch, time to play, to talk and dream, and to be happy in the moment.
Alison stared at me with those navy blue eyes, but I knew she understood. I asked her to call into my office every day, even just for a moment, and tell me one loving thing she had done for herself in the last twenty-four hours. The situation would unfold without her, but this was a way she could care for her own needs and retain some control.
When she went back to class, I remembered her grandfather, the rather forbidding retired Judge who paid her school fees and whom I’d seen in the distance at Parent Information nights. She needed more than that now. She needed emotional nurturing, and someone grown-up to talk to. Perhaps it was time Judge Brennan became more involved in Alison’s life.
Chapter 38
Leo Brennan
Saturday, 30 April
The doctor had warned us not to expect much. ‘Bernadette is still very withdrawn,’ she’d said. ‘It’s going to take time.’
Bernadette looked fresh and clean. Her gold-grey hair stood in curls around her head, just as I remembered it from when she was younger. She wore a dressing gown and slippers and sat in an armchair by the window. There was a view across the rooves of the suburb, but Bernie wasn’t looking at it. Across her knees was a portable table, and on it she played some kind of card game. She hardly looked up when we came in.
‘Hello Bernie,’ I said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘How are you?’
She looked at me as if trying to work out who I was, and then she returned to her cards. Did she
recall that Sunday evening when Alison found her stinking and huddled in bed, with no water to the house? Did she remember the CAT team coming? Did she remember how she scratched and fought? Did she blame me for admitting her to this hospital? If she did, she didn’t say anything about it. She just kept on sorting and stacking those damn cards in some endless game of Patience.
Then Alison bent to kiss her. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for her to see her mother like this. She pulled up a chair next to Bernie and tried to take her hand, but Bernie wouldn’t give up the cards. ‘How are you, Mum?’ she asked, but there was no response, just the slap of the cards as Bernie thumped them onto the table.
We waited for a few moments, prepared to sit with her even if she chose to ignore us. I wondered if she realised who Alison was, but then, still holding her cards, she turned to her daughter and asked very formally. ‘How is school going, dear?’ It was as if she’d been practising conversational openers.
But it was something. It gave Alison the opening to chatter about teachers, assignments, and sport. I could see her trying her utmost to engage her mother’s interest.
‘Oh Mum, remember that swimming teacher I told you about …?’
‘Mum, did I tell you about the brilliant novel we’re studying this term?’
‘I met this girl called Rosa. She’s funny. I went to her house. Her father’s a chef and her mother makes beautiful clothes.’
‘Can I bring you some books to read, Mum, maybe some magazines? Would you like some DVDs?’
None of this provoked any visible interest in Bernie. She made non-committal noises and kept turning over and sorting her cards.
The Blooming Of Alison Brennan Page 13
