She shrugs. ‘It wasn’t as if I really wanted to be a teacher, that was just something I could’ve done. Yeah, I cared enough about Peter to stay around and, anyway, Mum was sick again. I didn’t think it was right to leave.’
‘But you finally left and came here.’
‘Didn’t have much choice, did I? Peter and me were married by then. He got this good job so we moved down.’
‘And your mother?’
‘By then she was dead.’ Her voice is flat, her face emotionless and blank.
‘Would you like to talk about that?’
‘No.’ She looks towards the window.
‘What about your job? Didn’t you consider your own career before you made the decision to move?’
‘My own career?’ She gives Stephanie a wry glance of amusement. ‘Jesus, hardly a career. Anyway, that was easy. I got a transfer.’
‘You were happy with that?’
‘I suppose.’ Another shrug. ‘I did think—’
She has her head down, she’s twisting a ring around and around her finger. ‘I thought maybe since we were going to a city I’d do something else, you know? But the money’s quite good at the bank, it just seemed best to stay there. We bought a house. Working at the bank, you get good interest rates on your mortgage so staying there was, it was the most practical thing to do. Anyway, we were thinking about having a kid.’
Stephanie leans forward. ‘It sounds as if you had something particular in mind.’
‘It was just stupid. I thought about art school. When we moved down I went there to find out about it and they said I’d have to submit a portfolio. I, I didn’t even know what a fucking portfolio was.’ Her face is slightly flushed and she twists the ring.
‘Why didn’t you make enquiries at the art school?’
‘That would’ve sounded really stupid, wouldn’t it? What’s a portfolio? Duh.’
‘You stayed with the bank because you felt you couldn’t find the support you needed to try something different?’
‘What are you saying?’ She’s staring angrily at Stephanie. ‘That I’m a wimp for staying with the bank? That I should have given up a good job to go to fucking art school?’
‘I didn’t know you were interested in art, Beth. Have you joined any of the art classes here?’
‘Huh,’ she laughs. ‘Finger painting for loonies. You must be joking.’
‘What kind of art are you interested in?’
‘Ceramics. I did it at school. Then I just carried on at night classes while we were still living in Westport. Anyway, I’m probably shit.’
‘But you liked it?’
She’s silent for a moment and then she speaks slowly, ‘Yeah. Yeah. It’s weird but I like, I like how clay feels in your hands, kind of cold at first and sort of oily and rubbery and then it turns kind of, kind of warm and smooth.’
‘So you wanted to take ceramics at art school?’
She breathes hard inwards. ‘Well I couldn’t, could I?’
Stephanie speaks gently. ‘I’m not sure why not, Beth. Let’s stay with this. Tell me why you couldn’t do that.’
‘What you don’t understand is where I come from people don’t go to places like art school. You’re doing fine if you have a job and get okay money.’
‘What did Peter think about the idea of you going to art school?’
A rapid, angry response. ‘Peter’s a good guy. I’m not having you thinking—’
‘Beth, I’m not thinking anything.’
‘But you are, aren’t you? What you’re thinking is here we go again, same old same old, this sad victim woman and this bastard that won’t let her do what she wants. That’s what you guys always think, isn’t it? You think you’ve got it all sewn up and you’ve got it so wrong. It wasn’t like that at all.’ Her cheeks are flushed, her voice harsh and distressed.
‘Do you want to talk about why you’re so angry?’
‘I’m not fucking angry, okay?’
Silence. Stephanie feels the tension in the room, the air thick and weighted, as though you can touch it, feel it in your throat.
‘I want to go.’
‘You’re free to go any time you like. You know that.’
‘You think I’m a wimp, don’t you? You think when anything gets tough there she goes again, running away from it.’
‘As I’ve said to you before, this is the—’
‘Hardest work you can do? Okay. Right. You’ve told me that. And I’m telling you I just don’t see the point. Like, it’s not going to change anything, is it? It’s not going to change what’s happened or how things are.’
‘It could change how you think about it.’
‘It doesn’t matter how I think about it, the truth is I’m trapped, I’m fucking trapped.’
Her hands are clenched white, folded around her body.
‘Beth, why do you feel trapped?’
‘What, what if I turn out like Mum?’
‘You’ve been afraid of becoming ill like your mum?’
‘And I am. Now I am. I mean, look at me. I’m in a fucking loony bin. I tried to top myself.’
Stephanie looks at Beth directly, evenly, straight into her eyes. ‘I believe you’ve been under extraordinary pressure and you became ill because of that pressure.’
‘I’m not going to be sick all my life?’
‘In my opinion, no.’
Beth slumps forward on her chair. ‘But that’s just your opinion, isn’t it? You don’t really know and even if you did think I was going to be like Mum you wouldn’t tell me. Fuck. Oh fuck, I hate this.’
16.
She comes regularly now, three times a week. Her punctuality is faultless. She’s speaking up at the ward meetings and completing her own set tasks during ward duties. Her room is impeccable, she’s carefully dressed, her hair styled and she wears make-up. She smiles at everyone.
Elsie passes Stephanie in the corridor and draws her aside. ‘You were right,’ she says. ‘I pride myself on reading most situations accurately but I had it wrong this time. There’s been a complete turn-around. Congratulations.’
Yes, she’s doing so well. Stephanie was absolutely right in wanting to keep her here. Beth’s happy and cooperative, her medication’s being gradually reduced. In a few weeks they can look into discharging her from residential care. She’ll be able to go home, attend day clinic once, maybe twice a week and return to work, probably on a part-time basis at first. Peter and her father have visited and, by all accounts, the visits have gone smoothly. She was welcoming, spoke to them warmly. They walked in the gardens, played snooker together.
So. She arrives dutifully on time, three times a week. Talks about Peter, about her dad, about the friends she has, occasionally, very occasionally touches on her mother she was a really good mum, good cook, did everything round the house, you know? She talks about working things out with Peter, about how she really does love him. She talks about returning to work. She talks about saving up for a holiday to Australia I was thinking me and Peter could do with a break. Beth is the perfect patient. She’s saying all the right things, presenting so well.
And Stephanie’s afraid for her. She’s not certain why but there’s this feeling somewhere deep inside her that something is very wrong. She watches carefully as Beth talks. Her eyes no longer spark up and her face lacks animation; those flashes of rage, obstinacy, sassiness aren’t there.
What is it? What is it? And is there in fact something wrong or is she imagining this? Has she become so involved that her judgement is obscured?
Why have you become so caught up with her? Is it because her eyes are dark, because her hair is glossy, because she’s the same age she would have been? Because she relied on you and you thought this time you could save her?
And is this concern something you’ve created in your mind because she doesn’t depend on you any more and, in fact, you’re jealous? You come across her in the day room, in the corridors, talking to other patients, the nursing staff,
cleaners, anyone, speaking to them exactly in the way she speaks to you: breezy, cheery, nothing-could-possibly-be-wrong.
You think you should be getting more from her when there is nothing more.
She’s better. She’ll soon be ready to go.
It’s late and there’s fog low over the city. The street lights are on when Stephanie pulls into the car park outside her flat, sifting watery yellow through the thick grey haze. She hasn’t had time to clean up inside and there’s coffee mugs and plates on the grey Formica bench. Jesus, what could be more bland, more infinitely boring than grey Formica? Grey Formica, grey walls, porridge-coloured carpet ribbed like old corduroy pants that have had the life rubbed and washed out of them. Every little bit of fluff sticks to it, you have to get down on your knees, pick at it with your fingers to get it off.
She washes the plates and coffee mugs, puts away the packet of muesli she left out, wipes up the toast crumbs from the bench, hauls the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard. Maybe she needs plants to brighten the place up a bit. Something to put on the walls. A gruntier heater. Grim coming in here late on a cold day; she has to keep her coat on until this pathetic piece of junk warms the place up a bit. She’s considered moving, got quite serious about it for a while but when she looked to see what’s available on the Internet and in the newspapers the places were either way over her budget or no better than what she’s got. The only way she could get into something better is to share and she’s not doing that. She’s got savings, quite a lot saved in fact, and she could think of buying something but she’s not ready, she’d have to be secure in her job, be fully qualified before she even considered that kind of commitment.
Better to play it safe, stay where she is.
Where did she go? When did funny, bright, brave Stephanie turn into boring Stephanie?
She switches on the vacuum cleaner, starts sucking up the crumbs and fluff on the kitchen floor. The pattern imprinted into the vinyl looks like splodges of wrung out tea bags – at least the owner is consistently tasteless in his choice of decor. She bends down to wipe at a smear of spilled something, looks like pumpkin soup.
Why is she feeling like this? Dissatisfied, uneasy – plain fucking miserable if she’s totally honest. She’s so close to where she wanted to be; almost through, almost qualified, within easy reach of a permanent position in a place she loves. What in hell is wrong with her?
It’s the winter, most probably. There’s been no sun in days, and she’s tired, been working hard. She switches on the vacuum cleaner again, drags it onto the carpet and the phone’s loud ringing jars her it hardly ever rings, no one phones you.
‘Hello.’
‘Steph?’
Shit. Minna. What does she want?
‘I’m coming down your way. Steve’s got work in Dunedin so I thought I’d come along as well, see you and Liam and Jonny.’
That old antagonism clawing up, filling her throat don’t you ever wonder about Greg? He’s your son too, isn’t he? What sort of a mother are you?
‘When are you coming?’
‘Three weeks away. I thought you could get hold of the boys, sort something out.’
‘What do you mean, sort something out?’
‘Get together, have dinner or lunch or something. Seems ages since I saw you kids.’
Seems ages?
‘I don’t actually see Jonny and Liam all that much and I am fairly busy and—’
‘We’ll be there about ten days.’
‘Well it’s just. I don’t know what I’m doing in three weeks.’
‘You going away?’
‘No, but—’
‘Any time would suit. I haven’t made any plans.’
She feels such rage for Minna. She never hears from her – oh, maybe a card and something expensive she’d never use or wear, nothing to do with what she actually likes – at Christmas, and on her birthdays, then she turns up and wants her to arrange a family fucking reunion. And she knows what will happen, knows she’ll end up as some sort of intermediary between Minna and Liam and Jonny. Because Liam won’t want to see her, especially if Steve’s there, and Jonny won’t care much either way but he’ll go along with what Liam wants. So it’s going to be difficult and anyway, what really is the point? Even if she can get it set up all it will be is an excruciatingly awkward, excessively polite meal together, the silence broken only by Minna chattering on about her life.
Me me me. That’s all it ever was with you, wasn’t it? You lost Gemma and you thought you’d replace her with Greg. Then he didn’t do it for you so you left.
‘Why don’t you phone Liam and Jonny?’
‘They’re hard to get hold of. You’re all down there together. Be easier if you worked out a time that suited.’
Stephanie stares out of the window. Cars moving along the road outside throw long white shafts of light into the window. She could refuse, could argue, but right now she simply can’t be bothered, she wants to get on, finish cleaning up, pull a meal together. She’ll make an omelette. Eat the omelette. Switch on her computer. Work until eleven and what’s the point? What’s the fucking point?
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Be great to see you, Steph.’
Christ. Now she’s doing the mother/daughter bit.
‘Will it?’
‘Course it will.’
‘I’ll talk to Jonny and Liam.’
‘Yeah. Let me know what you decide. Book us somewhere nice for dinner. My treat. Okay?’
‘Right.’
It’s nearly eight. She whips up the eggs, throws in chopped mushrooms, spinach. Bread into the toaster. She eats too much toast. Too much toast, too many instant meals. And she hates this place and what’s wrong with her? What in hell is wrong with her?
‘Beth. Come in.’
What’s happened? There’s no cheery smile as Beth walks into the office, no eager greeting. Her face is tight as she hunches into the chair and the expression in her eyes is confrontational.
‘What I want to know is how much longer do I have to stay here?’
‘Until the psychiatrist overseeing your treatment thinks you’re ready to be discharged.’
‘How long? When can I go?’
‘Everyone believes you’re making fine progress.’
‘What d’you mean everyone believes that?’
‘I meant exactly what I said.’
‘Yeah, but how you said it was like you don’t believe it.’
‘I’m gathering that you’re upset, Beth.’
‘You’re gathering I’m upset. Why can’t you ever be fucking honest and say what you mean?’
She slumps forward, head down. Stephanie’s alert, watching. Careful. Careful. But she’s back. Beth’s back.
‘Like, when I do leave? When you guys get round to letting me out? I don’t know where I’m going to go.’
‘I thought you and Peter— You’re not sure about returning home?’
She shuffles forward on her seat, head down, picking at the skin around her thumbnail. ‘Peter might not want me back.’
‘Peter told you that?’
‘Last night. I, well, he didn’t sound all that pleased when I phoned and when I said I’d probably be getting out soon his voice sounded— Like, he sounded really weird.’
Silence again.
‘I said to him, hey that’s okay isn’t it? You want me to come home, don’t you? Then he said I shouldn’t come home until I was properly well. Because, if I wasn’t he didn’t know if he could deal with the responsibility of looking after me.’
‘Do you think you’re well enough to be discharged?’
‘I don’t fucking know, do I? I don’t know any bloody thing. Like, I could go to Dad’s, back to Westport but I don’t want to do that. I’d hate going back there, everyone looking at me, saying things behind my back and I don’t want to be in that house. But I don’t want to be with Peter either. Not with him acting like he’s Mr Super Nice Guy pretending he’s forgiven me
for what I did.’
‘What I’m picking up is you’re uncertain about how Peter really feels about you.’
‘Fucking right. I don’t know where I am now, do I?’
‘Let’s go back to what you said about Peter pretending to forgive you.’
Her head shoots up. ‘He never could, could he? I had the abortion and he wanted a baby. He wanted it so fucking much. I didn’t even tell him. I couldn’t. He would have tried to talk me out of it.’
‘When you said you didn’t want to be back in the house in Westport you sounded distressed. What is it about the house that upsets you?’
‘What is this? You think you’re an accommodation officer or something?’
She’s glowering but her eyes are glazed over with tears.
Stephanie is silent, waiting and in the end she blurts it out. ‘Look, I hate that house. I hated being there and I hate going back.’
‘I know this is tough, Beth, but let’s just stay with it. You’re safe here. Okay? You’re in a safe place. Remember nothing you say in here goes outside of this office.’
She speaks slowly. ‘Mum was always getting sick. We had to be careful so she didn’t start losing it.’
‘What happened when she got ill?’
‘She’d just go – blank, start crying all the time. Being in the house, it made me feel scared and kind of, kind of trapped.’
‘You feel as if you hate the house because it reminds you of your mum getting sick there?’
‘Yeah. Because. Well, because I couldn’t leave.’
‘You didn’t feel you could leave your mum?’
‘I want to go.’
‘Beth, just breathe, in and out slowly. Just steady yourself. You’re okay.’
‘It was like we were all trapped there. Mum only got out because she went crazy.’
She’s crying steadily, tears pouring out of her eyes, her nose, her shoulders heaving, her body huddled up. ‘I want to go. I have to stop now.’
‘That’s okay. We’ll talk again when you feel ready. Are you all right, Beth? I can get Elsie to make sure someone looks in on you later if you’d like me to.’
‘I’m all right.’
She closes the door behind her. Stephanie has an hour free before the next patient. She fills a mug with boiling water, dunks in a tea bag, jiggles it about.
Hunting BLind: It's Every Family's Deepest Fear Page 12
