The Healing Place

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 8

  He walked the streets for an hour and a half, hands in pockets, head down. The only distraction from the thoughts in his head came when he passed the library where Sharma said someone had sighted a child being pulled into a car. He stood there for a moment, trying to imagine what Sharma might sense at the site of a crime, willing himself to feel someone else’s pain if only to escape from his own, but his mind was blank.

  He tried to imagine having a child of his own then having that child taken away but both situations seemed equally alien, as though they could only happen to people wholly different from himself.

  Ella was in bed when he went home. She didn’t move when he entered the room but he knew she was awake.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, inadequately.

  ‘Okay.’ Her voice was thick with tears.

  ‘It’s not okay. What can I do?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, and repeated it: ‘I’m all right,’ as if trying to convince herself.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he said helplessly. ‘I never thought I’d raise my hand to hit a woman, in my life.’

  ‘You didn’t hit me.’ There was even less conviction in her voice this time. They both knew it wasn’t the issue.

  ‘What d’you want me to do? Do you want to be left alone?’

  ‘It’s up to you. Come to bed if you want.’

  He wasn’t clear what she wanted, or what he wanted either. He hesitated, before deciding he couldn’t lie down beside her as though nothing had happened.

  He compromised. ‘I’ll come to bed shortly,’ he said. ‘Try and get some sleep if you can.’

  ‘Okay.’ She turned towards the wall, lifting the quilt she had made for them over her head.

  Two o’clock in the morning found him still sitting in the kitchen, replaying the incident. He had not hit her; she was not physically hurt, but he had somehow crossed a line that might result in their having no future together; it was for Ella now to decide.

  What had he been thinking? His fist had been halfway towards her eyes, without any conscious instruction from his brain. Never in his life had he even thought of hitting a woman. A woman he loved. A woman who was carrying his child.

  Was that the problem?

  He thought not. The responsibility was worrying, at least in theory. They would lose Ella’s earnings, at least for a time, but she didn’t bring in a high salary anyway so it wouldn’t make such a big difference. The flat was rented and they could afford to move to a larger one if necessary – even take out a mortgage and buy a place.

  The salary Franz allowed himself from The Healing Place was small; the profits were ploughed back into the building or accelerated debt repayments. But their needs were modest; neither Ella nor Franz was interested in acquiring material things or attaining an impressive lifestyle. They ate simply, lived well but not luxuriously, and didn’t need to run a car. Franz hired one as necessary, to drive himself to out-of-town locations to give talks or presentations, but most of his work was reachable by public transport or on foot.

  It wasn’t the burden of financial responsibility, then.

  Was it the relationship? Again, unlikely. In eighteen months together, Franz had never had serious doubts about whether Ella was the person he wanted to share his life with. She may have had doubts about him. He was sure she had now, lying alone in their bed, silently curled around her unborn child. But if he thought about them as a couple with a baby – which he had hardly done until now – the strongest response was a mild pride and a wonderment that something so life-changing could come about without either of them knowing it at the time.

  Was it fatherhood that worried him, then? Possibly, but that was hardly grounds for turning on Ella even if he did have doubts about his ability to be a good dad.

  It wasn’t excuses he wanted. He simply wanted to understand. Where had the rage come from? Was it the same rage he had felt when Phil put an arm around his shoulders and prayed to his fictitious Lord for ‘this man you have called by name’? The same rage as when Tanya had criticized his judgement? What had Ella said to cause such rage, after all, except that she intended to go to church in the morning?

  He doubted she would go now. Perhaps she would stay in bed and he would bring her breakfast, with a fresh croissant from the corner bakery that stayed open on Sunday. Ella said croissants were the ultimate example of non-food food - all cholesterol, calories and carbs without a trace of nourishment - but she loved them. He would buy flowers and place them on the tray. She would know they were the ultimate non-present present, evidence not of love but of guilt.

  In desperation, he even thought of going to see Phil. At times like this, guilt would be welcome. He wanted someone to blame him, to tell him he was sinful and make him penitent. Phil would be useless at that. He would probably tell him God loved him, which was the last thing Franz wanted to hear. If there was a God then He, She or It would have to have better judgment than to love the man who called himself Franz Kane.

  He thought of phoning Sharma. Sharma’s reaction would be more satisfactory than Phil’s. Sharma did a fine line in distaste, his chiselled features registering disdain in every pore of his beautiful hazelnut skin. If he had disapproved of Franz’s flirting with the young girls at the forum, he would be disgusted with him now. But Sharma was busy with something more important than Franz’s need for punitive friendship.

  At four o’clock in the morning, having checked on Ella and found her at last sleeping, in a foetal position with both hands clenched, hugging even her fingers to herself, he returned to the kitchen and made coffee, hot and strong and full of unwholesome caffeine.

  Sipping it thoughtfully, staring at the word ‘rebellion’ written on the pad before him in Ella’s flowing, unrebellious handwriting, he began to jot down Sharma’s words to him. Turning back a page, he compared them with Ella’s written account of his dream.

  It was all nonsense, of course. Half the things that were taught at The Healing Place – dream interpretation, psychic utterances, premonitions – were wishful thinking. Let people believe in them if they needed to believe in something. At least it was safer than religion, Franz thought, with its monopolies on truth and wisdom. Better to stick to imaginings that were clearly human – supernatural, paranormal, whatever people liked to call them, but with no claims to divine inspiration.

  People innocently projected their wishes, their fears and their dreams on to perfectly meaningless happenings, Franz thought. They interpreted their sleeping dreams in a way that encouraged them to believe that their waking dreams were attainable, and it wasn’t Franz’s role to discourage them. People needed hopes and dreams. Life was simply too painful without them. But he had long since ceased to hope or to dream anything for himself, beyond measurable projections for The Healing Place to continue its work of helping people to live with their pain, distracting them from it or, at possible best, relieving it.

  Still, the similarities between Sharma’s harmless words and Franz’s meaningless dream were interesting, for those who were interested in such things. Phil’s words too, were not so different. Both he and Sharma had mentioned Franz being called by name, or doing things in his own name. Coincidences like this would no doubt delight those who were easily pleased by coincidences, whether real or imagined. Franz thanked reality that he was unaffected by such thinking.

  Coincidence had nothing to do with his next action, he thought afterwards; it was simply that, dazed by guilt, shock and lack of sleep, he wasn’t in full control of his decisions. From the kitchen worktop he picked up the pile of circulars, mailshots and bills and sifted through them to find the letter Ella had mentioned.

  He glanced at the envelope, noting the Irish stamp and the Wicklow postmark before picking up the pen and crossing out the name – Mr M. Finnucane. He wrote beside it: "Not Known."

  Then he slit open the envelope, pulled out the letter and read it.

  At five o’clock in the morning, he tore the lett
er up and threw it in the bin.

  At six, he fished it out again, pieced it together and read it aloud, as if he were trying to decipher some code.

  At eight-thirty he went out, closing the front door quietly behind him.

  Just before half past nine, Ella opened the door, apologizing even before her visitor was over the threshold. 'I forgot it was Sunday morning when I texted you - your busy time. You didn’t have to come.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Jan. She enveloped her in a hug, starting Ella off crying again.

  ‘It’s my hormones,’ Ella justified herself. ‘Pregnant women always get weepy, don’t they?’

  ‘Not over nothing,’ Jan said. ‘Is Franz not happy about the baby?’

  ‘He’s okay about it,’ Ella wept. ‘He’s not happy about me. I said I might go to church this morning.’

  ‘No wonder he’s not happy,’ said Jan sternly. ‘You wicked woman! Church? Whatever will the hussy get up to next?’

  Ella laughed, despite herself. ‘It’s not funny. He’s got a thing about Christians.’

  ‘Where does that come from? He doesn’t seem the type to go in for prejudice. Do you want tea or coffee?’ asked Jan, taking hold of the kettle.

  ‘I should be offering you that. Tea, please. I don’t know – he said he’d had negative experiences of church folk.’

  ‘Like a lot of people, unfortunately. This one? Rosehip, is it?’

  ‘I’ll have whichever type you like. Ordinary is in the jar.’

  ‘I’ll have ordinary. Too early in the morning to be experimental, for me. So what did he say? Or do?’ Jan asked, turning to look searchingly at Ella’s face.

  ‘He didn’t hit me or anything,’ said Ella quickly.

  Jan took the top off the jar and peered in. ‘I’m not used to loose tea. Two spoonfuls – three?’

  ‘Two heaped will do.’

  ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Soya milk for me, in the door of the fridge. Or there’s almond milk and goats’. Help yourself.’

  ‘Spoilt for choice.’ Jan poured and stirred, found the sugar and spooned it into her own. She brought the mugs to the table and sat down. ‘So, did you think he might, then? Hit you?’

  ‘Of course not. He wouldn’t …. never has been that kind of …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘But you thought he might this time?’ Jan said quietly.

  Ella felt tears rising in her throat, choking her again. She struggled to force them back, but lost the fight. ‘Just for a moment …’ she said.

  Jan moved her chair round beside her and held her as she sobbed.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ella said finally, sitting upright. Jan produced a packet of tissues from her bag and handed them to her.

  ‘Do you carry these with you everywhere,’ Ella asked her, trying to smile, ‘for all the weeping women you mop up?’

  ‘At all times,’ Jan said. ‘Never know when someone might need a mop. Have you tried talking to him, Ella, or didn’t you get the chance?’

  ‘He’s gone out. He was up all night. I think he hates himself. He’s been losing his temper recently.’

  ‘How does he usually handle his anger?’

  ‘He never gets angry, usually. He deals with all kinds of crap at The Healing Place and never loses his cool with anyone, however rude.’

  ‘Are people rude to him a lot?’

  ‘Yes. I think they are. He seems to think it’s normal – that people look out for their own interests first and get angry with him when he doesn’t supply their demands.’

  ‘Their demands to be healed?’

  ‘Yes – well, some people come in all stressed out and want to feel peaceful and soothed by the time they leave – and some do. But others want quick-fix remedies for all their inner conflict without having to change anything in themselves, and they dump all their anger on the therapists if they don’t get what they expect. Then the therapists dump on Franz. Or some of the guides want the place run differently, without the hassle of being the one who actually runs it, so they give Franz a hard time if he doesn’t do things the way they think they’d do it if they were him.’

  ‘And who does Franz dump the anger on? You?’

  ‘No – never, until now. He has this ability to take all the shit thrown at him and shrug it off, usually. I’ve seen him be totally patient with someone who’s shouting at him, calm them down, walk out of the room and be completely relaxed with the next person who’s come to have a go at him. Sometimes I can see it’s an effort and he’s smiling through gritted teeth, but mostly he really does shake it off as he walks away.’

  ‘So what’s changed? Why isn’t he shaking it off now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ella went silent, stirring her sugarless tea as though trying to make something dissolve. ‘I keep thinking ….’

  ‘Keep thinking what?’ Jan prompted, when she didn’t go on.

  ‘It’s silly, really. I mean, it isn’t connected.’

  ‘Maybe it is?’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe. I keep thinking that I don’t know where he was born. I don’t know why that’s important suddenly. I’ve known him a year and a half, I live with him, I’m expecting his baby and he’s never once answered the question – "Where were you born, Franz?" Not to anybody who asks him.’

  ‘What does he say when anyone does ask him?’

  ‘He says something vague like, "I’m cosmopolitan" or, "It’s so long ago I’ve forgotten." When I tried to pin him down once, he said he wasn’t the same person now and he preferred to live in the present.’

  ‘Not the same person he was born?’

  Ella shrugged. ‘I teased him about it once – said, "Don’t tell me, you were born a girl and had a sex change."’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t joke about it,’ said Jan. ‘We had someone in our last church who had and it took him three years to tell his girlfriend. But you don’t think it’s anything like that, then?’

  ‘No. I think he just doesn’t want to think about the past. He wants to get away from it.’

  Jan sipped her tea and gave a quick glance at her watch. ‘And you don’t know what it is he wants to get away from?’

  ‘No. It may be nothing. He says it simply wasn’t interesting and why go back to the past; it’s healthier to live now.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s ever that simple, is it?’ Jan said.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Ella said. She sighed. ‘We’re not simple creatures; we’re complicated ones. I’m coming back as a slug, next time.’

  ‘I’m not coming back for anything,’ Jan said. ‘From here to eternity! Listen, I have to go, Ella – if you’re okay? I’m helping with the children’s group this morning. I’ll phone you later and see if you want me to pop back this afternoon.’

  ‘No, don’t bother ringing. I’ll text you in the week. I’m fine now. Thanks so much for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure. It’s nice to get to know you. And if you think it would help any time for Phil to have a chat with Franz ….. No,’ she concluded, noting Ella’s expression. ‘I can see that wouldn’t help, not with Franz’s views on church people. Pity, though. Phil quite took to Franz. Funny, when they’re so different.’

  ‘I don’t think they are that different,’ said Ella thoughtfully.

  ‘No? Maybe you’re right; I don’t know Franz well enough to say.’ She gave Ella another hug and ran through the door and down the stairs to the street.

  Ella stood there holding the door open for a few minutes after she had gone. She wondered if Jan hadn’t liked her comparing Phil with Franz. She imagined her thinking, 'alike except that my husband doesn’t hit people.'

  But then neither does Franz, Ella thought. I’m sure. I am sure about him.

  She jumped when Franz appeared as she was about to close the door. They both looked startled.

  ‘Were you going out?’ Franz asked.

  ‘No, I was …. I didn’t know where you’d gone.’

  ‘I got croissants,’ he said, holding out the
bag. ‘Or is it too late - have you had breakfast?'

  ‘No. But you were gone a long time.’

  ‘I called in at the office and looked some stuff up. Travel arrangements. I’m going to go to Ireland.’