by Sarah Mussi
6) She treated me as if I was useless, especially if there was an area where actually I wasn’t. Like if she needed help downloading some software for her computer, she’d make comments like ‘I really need to get an expert to do this’ or ‘It’s no good - you’ll only make it worse.’ Or she’d greet my reassurances that I could do it for her with comments like ’hmmm’ or ‘How interesting.’
Thanks so much for sticking with this - if you’ve got this far.
7) If I confronted her about any of that, she’d use it as an excuse to start drinking. The next day when she’d sobered up, and after I’d given her some time to get rid of the hangover, and I’d ferried lots of tea and coffee up to her room, she’d tell me that I really didn’t like her at all and that that had upset her so much she’d had to try to make herself feel better by drinking - that it was all my fault, and now she was ill. Then she’d turn on me and say that I REALLY MUST STOP ACTING AS IF SHE HAS A DRINK PROBLEM. SHE DOES NOT HAVE A DRINK PROBLEM. If I persisted and said she was drinking too much and I was worried, she’d sulk and say, ‘So I’m ALWAYS drinking, am I?’ or ‘So you’ve NEVER seen me sober, ever?’ and ‘So I’m a TOTAL FAILURE as a mother, am I?’
That’s all for now. I feel much better for writing it all down. Part of me still doubts that I really experienced all this. That’s why doing this helps. Today I’m trying to get it clear.
Oh, and last but not least:
8) If I crawled away into a corner just to be alone and maybe play games on my phone, she’d find me out and assault me with her well-meaningfulness. Like, she’d say, ‘Surely you’re cold here - you must move to the front room.’ ‘Are you trying to hide from me?’ ‘There’s not enough light here. You won’t be able to see anything. Move over here. You’ll spoil your eyesight.’ ‘That chair you’re sitting on needs a cushion. Here’s a cushion. Stand up - let me fix it for you. Actually, the chair’s very old and delicate, and it belonged to my mother and is precious - perhaps it’d be best to sit on another chair. You know how destructive you are. I’ll fetch you a different one from the front room, seeing as you don’t want to sit in there with me.’
Thank you.
Fletcher
PS
Once I got dumped by this girl. I was broken-hearted that she couldn’t love me. But that wasn’t the whole truth. I realize now that I was broken-hearted about reality. Her rejection confirmed everything my mum had told me: I was worthless and unlovable. I realized then that the world, which should be lovely and kind and trustworthy, was a lie. I wasn’t heartbroken about the girl so much as heartbroken about the world.
PPS
Oh, and my mum was actually quite jealous. Any time I got anything nice, she would try to get it from me or get a better one for herself.
OK, that really is all.
Thanks again for staying with this, Dani.
X F
30
Fletcher finds me in the canteen, trying to score some points. He’s in a different mood. He doesn’t say, ‘Let’s share your worst thing. Let’s share your best thing. Let’s go to the library. Tell me a secret fear. Tell me a secret hope.’
He jumps in front of me. There’s that line across his face. He’s been running. Sweat trickles down his cheek.
‘I was looking for you,’ he pants.
I don’t understand.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he says. ‘I need to talk.’
Going for a walk isn’t easy when you feel as weak as I do.
‘Let’s go for a sit,’ I say. I laugh.
The joke falls flat.
‘No, a walk,’ he says.
‘OK,’ I say.
‘I’ll walk,’ he says, ‘and you sit.’
He picks me up, and I sit in his arms. He walks down the back steps out into the garden and through the little gate at the side, on to the tennis lawns where Judith encourages us to play. Probably to underline her point about life and tennis.
He carries me all the way round the first tennis court to the little viewing pavilion. Then he sits me down on a bench. I unlace my arms from around his neck. I can feel the heat of his skin against the inside of my arms. I can smell him. He still smells of roll-ups but somehow more male and more fresh.
For a brief instant, I think I could love someone who smells like that.
He stands in front of me breathing hard. I weigh less than when he carried me up to the fifth floor, but I guess carrying me down two flights of stairs and around a tennis court isn’t that easy either. His T-shirt is creased and wrinkled. The muscles of his cheek tighten. He seems to be curiously smooth-skinned.
‘I have to tell you,’ he says, panting, ‘that we can still make it.’
He drops down on one knee beside me and wraps his arms around my chest. He buries his face in the side of my neck. I’m full of some kind of new energy. I find that I’m putting my arms around him quite naturally.
‘I missed you this morning,’ he says.
‘I didn’t come down to breakfast,’ I say.
He’s going to say something about eating. I know it. It’s so boring. When really it’s about points.
‘I don’t care,’ he says. ‘I just missed you.’
Somehow we’re at a place we’ve never been to before.
The sun is high above us. Just like we’re an ordinary boy and an ordinary girl falling in love by an ordinary tennis court.
It’s so strange to feel ordinary.
I never thought I’d like it.
We could even be happy. It might be possible. Without points. Judith could be wrong. Life, after all, might just be a game of tennis.
Suddenly I’m glad I came to Daisy Bank Rehab. I’m glad I’ve had to deal with all its fakery and synthetic, pretentious rubbish. I’m even glad about Carmen. Because I’ve met Fletcher.
And, right now, he feels like the most real thing in the world.
‘Do you remember what we promised?’ he whispers into my neck.
Suddenly I’d quite like to talk. Talking could be fun. I could tell him that I remember everything about our promise. And especially how naked it felt to be real.
Fletcher seems to pick up on that. He’s kneeling on the floor of the pavilion with his face buried in my collarbone. He quickly gets up and sits down beside me.
‘Do you remember, Dani?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘I need you now, Dani,’ he says, ‘and you’re not getting any better. You’re not getting stronger and I need you so badly.’
I don’t want to spoil this new mood. A crazy energy spirals around us. I like it. But I don’t understand.
‘It’s just that I never saved my mum,’ he says.
‘How could you have?’ I ask.
‘I thought if I tried hard enough. If I ignored all the cruel comments. If I mopped up after her. If I threw out all the empty bottles. If I cleared up the mess. If I loved her long enough and hard enough. If I poured myself into her. If I stayed her little boy and hid all the signs of growing up from her. If I accepted the reality she wanted. If I stopped being me and devoted all my energy, my caring, my thinking, my time, my soul. If I did all that I thought I could save her.’
I think about that.
In a weird way, it sounds like trying to control things, not accepting what was going on.
‘You mean, you thought you could stop reality from happening?’ I ask.
He nods his head, then smiles. ‘Yeah, I know, like I was God.’
I smile too at the thought of one teenager going to war with reality.
‘She died anyway,’ he said. ‘Drank herself to death. To me, that was proof of how useless I was. How love is just not enough.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I say.
‘I just need you. I need you to be there for me. I need you to remember what we promised,’ says Fletcher.
‘I remember,’ I say.
‘And it’s like it’s happening all over again,’ says Fletcher.
I look
at him. I don’t understand.
‘I’ve been trying so hard,’ says Fletcher. ‘I’ve been fighting reality all this time, but you’ve got that same look about you that my mum had before she died. And I don’t think I’m enough any more. And love isn’t enough. And I can’t stop you from dying.’ His shoulders slump.
The quality of the sunlight fades; it turns from sunflower yellow to acid lemon.
Leaves stir in the trees around the tennis court. I don’t look at them. I know the Alien is hiding behind one of their trunks. I’m tired of the Alien. I want a real friend. A friend like Fletcher. But it all feels far too painful suddenly. Too difficult.
‘Let’s go back,’ I say.
‘Back to our deal?’ A spark lights up in his eye.
I meant back to the centre.
31
I force myself to write to Kerstin. I’m only doing it to please Fletcher. Probably. If I show that I’m working on finding out why I’m so ill then he can stop worrying. Possibly. It will mean that I’m not going to die. Or at least I’m trying as hard as he is to keep myself alive.
I write the email.
Dear Kerstin,
How are you? How’s the newest boyfriend(s)? I hope he’s/they’re treating you well.
Thank you so much for always visiting me. And thank you very, very much for offering to do a bit of investigating for me. It really is very, very important. I’m trying to find out who I am and what happened to me in an effort to heal. I’m stuck in a horrible nightmare. I don’t know what to think. And I can’t seem to eat or sleep or move on. I found this article in the Lewisham Local, but I don’t have any idea of the date or place this happened:
Timber Yard Horror
FOUR-YEAR-OLD FOUND IN ROOM WITH CORPSE. In a horrifying turn of events, workers find a four-year-old girl locked in a room with the body of her mother . . .
You can read the whole article if you Google that first line.
I’m hoping this poor little girl wasn’t me. It’s freaking me out a bit (a lot) because I’ve remembered snatches of things about being locked up in a room.
Thing is, they changed my name, so I have no way of knowing. I literally have no memory of my early years. I’ve tried searching online for more details, like who and what and where and when, and mostly why, but we’re not really allowed laptops and mobiles in here and I’m finding it difficult and exhausting. It’s almost impossible to make private phone calls during office hours. Really I need someone to try and find out more/anything. Maybe Lewisham Social Services might be ready to tell you something? I was put in care with them and renamed Dani.
If I could just find out my real name that would be a start. I think my first name was Isla (Izzy), but I’m not sure if I’ve just imagined that. It has only just occurred to me as I am writing this! Oh, God, I’m so confused.
I’m sure the British Library would have records of any other news articles. The courts might have records too – name changes, custody orders, etc. There must be some record of my mother’s birth certificate somewhere. Could you try and find out? The woman in the article (my mother?) was called Caroline Carlton and was thirty-seven.
I really need this info urgently and it would seriously help my recovery. Without it I can’t move on. I wouldn’t ask, but I know you care and have offered to help.
Thank you so much. I’m really so grateful.
Best Love,
XXX Dani
32
It’s Circle Time. Fletcher isn’t here.
That’s bad. If you’re a state-funded client and you miss Circle Time, that’s very bad.
It means you’re not committed to your recovery.
Tony says: ‘Many meetings, many chances; few meetings, few chances; no meetings, no chances.’ And he means it.
Even Lee doesn’t miss Circle Time. Though he rocks up totally stoned.
I think about that. Maybe it means at some level even Lee wants to get better. I don’t know why I’m so shocked. Doesn’t everybody want to get better ultimately?
For the first time I really look at Lee. He might have been good-looking, if his face wasn’t pitted all over and discoloured.
I smile at him.
He smiles back.
I raise an eyebrow.
He knows what I mean: Where’s Fletcher?
Lee raises one shoulder and drops it: Don’t know. Don’t ask. Don’t care.
Circle Time drags. I want it to fast-forward and finish so that I can go and look for Fletcher.
When I find him I’m going to shake him. I’m going to tell him it’s stupid to miss Circle Time. I’m going to shout in his face and ask him, ‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’
I’ll order him to ‘GET A GRIP AND FIX UP.’
I feel rage burning somewhere in my belly. It’s hot and hurting. If Fletcher keeps missing Circle Time he’ll get thrown out. Then what will he do? He has nobody. He has nothing. He’s terrified of being alone. Where will he go? He’s been living on the streets. He’s stupid.
I must talk to him.
I must devote my energy, my caring, my thinking, my time to get him to really SEE.
‘First, let’s go around the circle and say how we’re feeling today,’ says Judith. ‘I’ll start. Hi, I’m Judith. I’m your psychodynamic counsellor and today I’m feeling hopeful.’
‘Hi, Judith.’
The next person takes up the baton. ‘Hi, my name is Jonny. I’m an addict. Today I’m feeling . . .’ Pause. Longer pause. Nervous laugh. ‘I’m just checking in with myself.’ More nervous laughter. ‘OK, today I’m feeling neurotic.’
‘Hi, my name is Cormac. I’m an addict. Today I’m feeling freaky.’
‘Hi, my name is Jennifer. I’m an addict. Today I’m feeling live-some.’
Cringe.
‘Hi, my name is Shelley. I’m an addict. Today I’m not feeling too good.’
My turn.
‘Hi, my name is Dani. I’m anorexic. I’m an addict. Today I’m feeling . . .’
What am I feeling? Worried, hopeless, panicky, angry, terrified, in shock, hopeless, dead, rotting, unmade, Alien?
I take a deep breath. ‘Today I’m feeling happy.’
I must not lie. I must start to be real. I must stop being fraudulent. I force myself to lose one point.
Maybe I can change my answer? But the baton has moved on – my chance has gone. Today my real feelings must be denied: I will never be happy.
The baton satellites through confusion, hopelessness, anxiety and fear, until it gets back to Judith.
‘Today, before we start our sharing,’ says Judith, ‘we’ll have a Thunk.’
A Thunk, apparently, is a ‘beguilingly simple question about everyday things’ that cuts through the crap and helps you to look at ‘reality’ from a new perspective. It’s Judith’s strategy for introducing a ‘cognitive input’.
Her Thunk for today is: ‘Is there more Future or Past?’
A ‘cognitive input’ means a lecture from her on some psychodynamic theory. Judith likes being clever. She likes the sound of her own voice.
I don’t.
She wants us to appreciate how very well qualified for this job she is.
I only want to find Fletcher and scream at him.
33
I don’t scream at Fletcher but I do find him.
After Circle Time I go to the library on the fifth level.
I’m hardly breathing. Exhausted. I climbed every step myself.
I knew he would be here, in the Coliseum of Cyberspace where he currently does his ongoing battle with reality.
Indulging his latest addiction: saving Dani.
The library is still slanted and vast. It still runs the length of the building. But today it’s all beams and books and airy diagonals full of the smell of bloodshed.
I drop down at the computer hub beside him. I slump over, trying to catch my breath.
‘Can we just stay quiet?’ he says. ‘No questions, just for a few minutes?’
Sunlight shafts through skylights. Ranks of brilliance.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m feeling triumphant and I want the feeling to last.’
‘About what?’
‘I’ve transcended the here and the now. I’ve surrendered to my Higher Power and I’ve tasted paradise.’
‘You missed Circle Time,’ I point out.
‘Can we please forget about that just for a moment? It was a sacrifice I had to make.’
‘OK.’ I nod. Forget everything. Forget the pain, the anger, the worry. Forget everything, why not?
Get high.
Step into a daring new world. Lit up with sunbeams. And get chucked out of the recovery programme.
Fletcher laughs, flicks open a computer.
‘Why?’ I say.
‘No questions, remember.’
I need to wait until I can breathe a bit better anyway.
‘I found out more,’ he says.
I run my tongue over dry lips and wheeze out, ‘Why didn’t you come to Circle Time?’
‘Shut up and read this.’ Fletcher points at a web page.
‘Fletcher?’
‘Scroll down.’
Fletcher places his hand over mine and lifts it on to the mouse. A jolt of energy thumps into my chest. His hand is so alive, so warm.
With his finger on my finger, we scroll the wheel on the mouse until I don’t know whose finger is whose. I feel his breath on my cheek. And the wheel turns. His finger on my finger. A shiver runs through me. It slices through the carpet.
I turn my head slightly.
He’s so close.
I see continents of skin. Tiny hairs. The curve of his jawline. Some boyish stubble. I’ve never seen the universe of Fletcher before.
Fletcher turns towards me. An endless blue ocean fringed with eyelashes.
And the wheel turns.
A surprised smile.
Pulsing air.
‘I love you, Dani. It’s quite simple. I’d do anything for you. And I just love you.’
Hot breath. The light pools around us.
