When I Find You

by R. A. Casey

  He turns around. Walks up to his front door.

  “But how am I supposed to let it drop when I can’t ever forgive myself for what happened that day?” I say. “How—how can I ever walk away when Charlie went missing that day because of me?”

  He stops.

  Looks around at me.

  “You really want me to say it, don’t you?”

  Holly comes to the door. Appears over Glynn’s shoulder. “What the fuck is that crazy bitch doing here?”

  I ignore her. I have no time for petty arguments right now.

  “You really want me to say it,” Glynn said. “Don’t you?”

  I stand there, and I want to argue.

  I want to fight.

  I want to resist the truth.

  I want to run from it, and I want to hide it and—

  “Well, I’ll say it,” Glynn says. “For your own sake, more than anything.”

  “Glynn—”

  “Charlie didn’t go missing that day,” he says.

  “No.”

  No no no no no no no no—

  “Charlie didn’t go missing any day at all.”

  Please no please no no not again not again no—

  “We went into the maize fields, we slept together, and then you cracked.”

  “Glynn—”

  “But Charlie didn’t go missing because Charlie didn’t exist, Sarah. He didn’t exist. And he never has fucking existed. At all.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I think of my life in two distinct segments.

  The days before Charlie went missing.

  And the days after Charlie went missing.

  I’m there again. On the school field. Charlie’s hand in mine. I can feel the heat of his sweaty palms in mine. I can hear the other children laughing.

  I remember being worried about him. Being concerned about him.

  I remember the way he looked at me like there was a problem. Like there was something wrong. Like there was something unspoken.

  And then, before I know it, I am with Glynn in the maize fields.

  And then racing out and trying to find my son.

  Only…

  There’s something different now.

  I’m having other memories, too.

  Memories of going home to Gregg.

  Of Gregg holding me. His arms wrapped tightly around me.

  “It’s okay, Sarah. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  And then I have memories of some kind of psychiatric hospital.

  A medicinal stench in the air.

  I have memories of the same food, day after day. Mashed potato. Drugged up to my eyeballs.

  I have memories of getting out of that place. Being so excited to see Gregg again.

  Only Gregg visited me one day. Told me he’d met someone else. Not because of what had happened to me. And not even because of Glynn and the dishonesty.

  But because he’d met someone else. As hard as it was to believe that it was as simple as he made it out to be.

  He was moving on.

  And it was time for me to move on, too.

  I remember being alone at first. I remember feeling like my life was over. No friends. No son.

  And that was the hardest thing to swallow. Even after everything, I couldn’t accept that I didn’t have a son. That Charlie wasn’t real.

  Because he was real.

  Even if they told me in that patronising manner that he was “only real to me,” I knew, and I still know deep down that there is another truth.

  There is a longing.

  Grief.

  Grief for a boy everybody else is convinced didn’t even exist.

  I am standing outside Glynn’s house. He has gone inside now. I see Holly and Alan keep on peeking through the window, muttering things under their breath.

  And I remember what it was like. The glances I got that day at the school. The side glances. The little smirks on their faces.

  “She’s crazy,” people would say.

  And I remember feeling ashamed. Totally ashamed.

  Because I knew deep down that I was hiding a lot of trauma. That’s what they called it. Dissociative amnesia. An inability to recall important personal information that would not typically be lost with ordinary forgetting. Trauma fucking with my memory, basically.

  But we worked through it.

  I worked through it, and I got better.

  And I got out of that place—the place where they gave me the drugs and the meds—and I found Freddie.

  I stand there, and I see people staring at me from their gardens, from their houses. I see those looks on their faces.

  And still, I can’t understand this flood of memories—or are they even memories at all?—surging into my head right now.

  I don’t know what is real and what isn’t real anymore.

  I can’t distinguish between what I should and shouldn’t believe anymore.

  I only know what they told me three years ago.

  The same thing that Glynn is telling me now, as much as I don’t want to accept it, as much as I want to believe this cannot be true.

  “Charlie isn’t real. He’s never been real.”

  I turn around, and I rush to my car. Start up the engine. Put my foot on the gas, and I drive. Because I need to find Gregg. I need to ask him. I need to look him in the eye, and I need to ask him about my son.

  About our son.

  I feel my phone buzz. Freddie. He’s rung eighteen times since I left, so many times that he’s bypassed silent mode at this stage. There’s an array of texts from him. I feel sad for him. He has every reason to be concerned. I’m concerned myself. Really fucking concerned.

  I’ve tried to run from the version of the truth people once told me.

  I’ve tried to convince myself my story is true.

  To convince those around me my story is true.

  And it is. I want you to believe me on this. Please, please believe me on this, if it’s the only thing you do believe me on.

  Not Glynn.

  Not everybody else.

  Me.

  I hear a horn honk and jam my foot on the brakes.

  A car hurtles past. The guy driving gives me the finger, curses under his breath. I know I shouldn’t be driving. I’m in no fit state right now.

  But I need to get to Gregg’s.

  I need to ask him for the truth.

  The full truth.

  I drive again. Rain pellets against the windscreen. My phone rings again. My head is busy with fragments of thoughts and memories and flashbacks and pain and—

  Deep breaths.

  Focus on the road.

  Just get to Gregg and get your answers.

  Get to Gregg, get your answers, then face whatever fate awaits you.

  I drive. I hear more cars honk at me, so I know I am unsteady. I whizz through a light on red. I almost send a man hurtling off his bicycle.

  But I need Gregg to tell me Glynn is wrong.

  Glynn is lying.

  But why would he lie?

  I turn down Gregg’s road. Pull up on the kerb and bang into the back of a Toyota Yaris as I stop.

  I clamber out of the car, run past the Yaris, the alarm blaring. I see people hurrying out of a house to my left. Shouting something at me. Ordering me to come back.

  But I can’t go back.

  Not now.

  It’s too late for that.

  I run down the pavement towards Gregg’s house as the skies turn black, as more torrential rain hammers down from above.

  I reach his front door, and I bang my hands against it. Again and again and again.

  “Gregg!” I shout.

  No answer.

  I bang on the door again. Try the handle. “Gregg! Please! It’s Sarah. Open up. I need to talk to you about Charlie. Please! I need to talk to you about Charlie!”

  I’m not sure how long I am standing there, banging against the door.

  I am not sure when it is I fall to my k
nees and feel the rain drench me.

  I am not sure how long I spend on Gregg’s pavement, huddled in a ball, crying, soaking, shivering.

  I only know that eventually, I see flashing lights.

  Eventually, I hear someone say something to me that cuts through the rest of the noise and the panic.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Come on, miss. It’ll be alright with us.”

  And then I am in the back of a car wrapped in a warm blanket and driving away, and I know that I have failed.

  But I am safe now.

  Part Three

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I sit in the communal lounge and stare at the television.

  But really, my eyes are only on the time.

  It’s half nine. Barely anyone else is up. Fat Jenna—and that’s what she calls herself, so don’t go accusing me of being “fatphobic”—who is friendly enough but occasionally has tantrums that keep the whole lot of us up all night. Mary who sits there with a smile on her face. Honestly, all these people are okay in the low-security ward at the Crystal Lodge psychiatric hospital, just outside of Preston. Sometimes, the media creates an image of insanity when it comes to places like this. Archaic views of mental health and the old “lunatic asylum” create prejudice when it comes to people in rehabilitation, suffering, and recovering from mental health issues.

  Truth be told, the bulk of these people are just ordinary people who’ve had a raw deal with their mental health. They’re good people. They aren’t threatening. They just want to get back to normal, just like everybody else.

  But as much as I am grateful for my time here—for the acquaintances I have made in my three-month stay—I am so, so ready to get out of here.

  Which is why I am staring at the clock.

  I have my final meeting today with both the doctor and someone to speak to me about my rehabilitation and reintroduction into society. The rehab shit should be a breeze. After all, Freddie has stayed completely true to his word; bless him. In the three months since I was sectioned under the mental health act, he has visited me at every single opportunity. He has never missed a meeting. And he has never pushed me for any kind of information about my past, either.

  And that’s the part I appreciate the most. I am sure he has a lot of questions. Especially now he knows the truth about me.

  We’ve spoken about a lot of things. He’s allowed me to be open with him without forcing me. Given me the opportunity to come totally clean, in my own time. The truth about my conversation with Doctor Murray back when I refused to let him in her office with me, mostly because I was afraid of my past mental health history coming up in front of him.

  And even where I went the last time I visited the surgery, where I ran off before I even went to my appointment without telling him where I was going.

  I got on a train. A train somewhere. A train to a place that reminded me of my past. But I soon realised I didn’t want to go back there. I didn’t want to awaken any more demons from my past.

  And that’s all I told him.

  He let me leave it at that. Bless him.

  I am sure he has thoughts about leaving me, wondered whether I am worth sticking by, all this time, especially after the things he now knows.

  But he has stood right by me.

  And as the autumn leaves cover the ground with their crunchiness, I am going home to him.

  Today.

  I hear a voice behind me. “Sarah?”

  When I look around, I see Dr Maubid.

  We all laugh at his name, and he is in on the joke, too. But he’s a nice guy. Short. Looks really childlike, tiny fella. Like someone playing at being a doctor rather than an actual doctor.

  But he’s a good bloke. He’s understanding. Patient. He’s helped me a lot.

  “Would you like to join me?”

  I stand up, trying to keep my calm, my composure. Not wanting to appear too eager. After all, if I am to be released today, I need to appear as normal as I possibly can.

  It won’t be a proper release. After all, I’m still in deep shit for my reckless driving on the day my world fell apart. I have a date in court due, although the judge is expected to find me not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility due to my mental health issues.

  But still. I’ll probably lose my licence. And a whole host of my freedom along with that.

  And besides. I need to be careful. Because I’ve been here before. I’ve been this healed before. And I snapped. Again.

  “Would you like to follow me?” he asks.

  I follow him into his office.

  “Good luck, Saz.”

  I nod at Jenna. Smile. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll miss you as much as it pains me to admit it.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” And I’m serious. I will weirdly miss the people here.

  But it’s like missing acquaintances at school after spending all day with them. Home is still preferable. Always.

  I follow Dr Maubid into his office. I notice photos of his family on his ultra-tidy desk.

  “Take a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sit in his comfy leather chair for what I hope will be the final time. But again, I feel like I will miss these weekly visits, strangely.

  “So, big day today,” he says.

  “Yeah. Let’s hope!”

  “How are you feeling about it?”

  “I can’t wait. No offence. But I’ll kind of miss your company.”

  He laughs. “And you too, Sarah. Any nerves?”

  “A few. Naturally. I mean. I feel like I’m going to have to get to know my boyfriend again. Properly, you know. Because as good as he’s been… there’s always going to be conversations to have.”

  He sits there. Nods. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I am exceptionally impressed with the progress you have made. From the condition you were in when you first came in here, to now… I have to say… I am mightily pleased with how well you are doing.”

  There is a silence between us. A silence where he flips a few papers over, glances at them. And I sense something is coming. A final test.

  “Sarah, before we do let you go into the next stage of the rehabilitation process, which is a return home with a close focus on your aftercare—which I really want to sanction today and see no issues with—I’d just like to run through the circumstances that led to your breakdown one final time. Would you be comfortable with that?”

  A knot in my stomach.

  My mouth goes dry in an instant, so I gulp spontaneously.

  Then I smile.

  Because I know I have to keep my cool.

  I know I have to convince the doctor I am fit and I am healthy, and I am ready for release.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says, smiling. “I know this isn’t… easy. I know we’ve been to some deep places. Some dark places. So we’ll take it all gently. We’ll take it all one step at a time. There’s no rush. So we—”

  “Three years ago, I had a breakdown,” I say, speeding ahead of him, eager to prove my sanity. And to prove I accept the truth, now, bitter as it is to swallow. “It was prompted by a trigger. PTSD. The maize fields. Something that… something that happened in my childhood.”

  Dr Maubid stares right at me. “Sarah, we don’t have to go this fast—”

  “I was having an affair with a man called Glynn. We started as just friends, and then things got… out of hand. He’d come round sometimes. Bring his son, Alan. We made love a lot. But I… I think Alan saw us once. I got pregnant. And that day, the day of the fete three years ago, I… I went into the maize fields with Glynn, and something about it… something about it brought back a memory. A memory from years ago. And it unsettled me. It destabilised me. I had a breakdown, and I found myself… I found myself convinced I had a son. False Memory Syndrome, apparently. Convinced I had a son called Charlie. That he was missing. Only… only that’s not true.”

  It hurts me to say i
t. Pains me to admit it. The truth is, I’m grieving. Grieving for a son I never had. Because even though I know I never had this son now… he was still real to me.

  And that’s an impossible situation to explain to anyone who hasn’t suffered the way I have suffered.

  The loss of a son who never existed to anyone else.

  But who felt so real to me.

  “I went into the psychiatric hospital. I got better. I came out, and I… My husband and I were over, but I had three good years. I rebuilt my life. But deep down in my mind, I still lived with the belief I had a son. That I’d lost a son. I told Freddie this, my new partner. And I made him believe the lie. It made living… easier, somehow. It made me feel more normal. And I told myself I had it under control. I told myself I wouldn’t let it spiral like it did the first time. Only something… something triggered another breakdown. Maybe the stress of the move. Maybe the pretence of all the lies. I’m not sure.”

  Dr Maubid nods. Because I am saying everything he wants me to say. Everything he wants me to believe.

  Even though deep inside, I still have doubts about it all.

  But first, let me tell you a bit about False Memory Syndrome, the beautiful fuckery of a mental health condition I have along with its abusive partner, dissociative amnesia.

  Quite the double act.

  A recipe for traumatic disaster.

  False Memory Syndrome is a condition where a person’s identity and relationships are affected by false memories.

  I remember hearing how it worked and being somewhat fascinated. Apparently, glutamate and GABA, two amino acids, steer emotions and decide whether nerve cells are excited or chilled.

  In normal conditions, the system is balanced. But when people get anxious and over the top, glutamate surges.

  Oh, and glutamate just so happens to be the main chemical that makes it easy to remember memories stored in the brain.

  So that’s how the whole false memory thing is supposed to work. What happened that day in the maize fields, it apparently rooted in my mind as a trauma memory.

  And when I was there with Glynn, fucking in the fields, it brought it out again.

  The glutamate was stimulated.

  My system went into overdrive.