House. Tree. Person.

by Catriona McPherson

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, yes. I see that. I get that. Absolutely. Thanks.” I breathed in deep and managed to stop talking. “But I really helped Sylvie. Why would Dr. Ferris mind that?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said.

  “She’s not jealous, is she?” It was a stupid idea, that someone so polished and perfect could be jealous of me.

  Dr. Ferris considered me for a long time before he spoke again. “Jealousy is not in my wife’s repertoire,” he said. “Look, absolutely off the record, do you really need this job?”

  I answered what lay under the words instead of the words themselves. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? You don’t need a beautician for twenty-odd patients and it’s not worth forty-five thou even if you do.”

  “Forty-five?” he said. “Look, Ali, it’s easy to think things are calm and you can cope when the nursing staff are on hand in case of trouble. But it takes real training to manage a crisis. Especially at night when staffing levels are reduced.”

  Was he warning me off doing the odd nightshift, like I’d agreed to?

  “I had better go and rake up Julia’s leaves,” he said and without another word, we left together.

  Gales of laughter were gusting out of the staff kitchenette like the sweet puffs of air from a bakery and I felt myself smiling and walking faster. Surraya was in there with Hinny and Lars today. She was holding a tissue under each eye and crying with laughter.

  “Oh stop!” she said. “Stop it. I’m losing my lenses. My eyes’ll be killing me the rest of the shift if I need to lick them and put them back in.”

  “Ali, you’ve made my day,” Lars said. “I’ve got it on my phone. Look.”

  I nodded at the photograph of Julia’s leaf collage taken from an upstairs window, but I couldn’t laugh.

  “Aw, come on!” Hinny said, slapping a tea mug down in front of me. “It’s the best laugh we’ve had here since Rosa went streaking through the dining hall.”

  “Rosa who’s dying?” I said.

  “A while back, this was,” Hinny said.

  “I’m in big trouble,” I said. “I’ve maybe given Sylvie a chill that might turn into pneumonia and I’ve formed a group without permission and I’ve just had a lecture from Dr. F about counter-transference and he’s asked me to think hard about if I really need this job.”

  I was expecting more knee-jerk sympathy, but to my surprise all of them exchanged a look, like a snooker ball kissing off three cushions before it disappeared.

  “Aye, he gives everyone that warning,” Lars said at last. “He knows her better than she knows herself.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I told him.

  “Hard to explain,” Surraya said.

  “Dr. Ferris trades in loyalties,” Hinny said. “Dr. F is just loyal.”

  Lars whistled through his teeth and Surraya gave a short laugh. “Coming to something when the cook can say it better than the psychiatric nurses, eh?” she said. “Anyway. Ali, thank you for calming us down. I get red eyes if I cry with my lenses in and that wee bitch Roisin’s wrecked my specs. So thanks, pal.” She stood, threw her tissues into the bin, and clapped her hands. “Right. I’m doing the new alkie’s drink diary with him. I better get going.”

  “And I’ve got three pork shoulders to whack apart for a casserole,” Hinny said. “Bloody local-sourced butcher meat. A catering pack from Reids, you just open the plastic and tip it in. None of this Hannibal Lecter shite. You’ll do the cups eh no, Lars?”

  “I’ll get dishpan hands,” said Lars, “but for you, anything.”

  “Tell her about the specs,” Hinny said over her shoulder as she was leaving.

  “Surraya’s specs?” I said. “What did Roisin do? She’s one of the … ?”

  “Aye, that’s her.” Lars stood, peered into my mug hoping I’d finished, and then started washing up the rest of them. “Grabbed them and snapped them. No, though. The specs on the corpse, this is. Ken how they found a bit of one of the leg bits? Still there even though the nose and ear was gone. Like totally smashed into the skull?”

  I said nothing and he craned over his shoulder to see if I was listening.

  “Specs, right,” I said.

  “Armani.”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s on the BBC feed. They released it so fast Boney couldn’t even leak it to me. Designer glasses by Giorgio Armani. No word of a lie.”

  “And a Kangol belt and Asda’s own-make jeans?”

  “Weird, eh? The polis are saying it’s bound to help narrow it down. The intersection of the two sets is going to be likes of one guy, right?”

  I wondered who he was quoting, but before I could ask him he told me anyway. “Lola. My middle one. I asked her how school was going last night and she talked about maths for forty minutes. She gets it from her mum.”

  “You must miss them,” I said. In answer, he did what everyone always does these days. He reached into his tunic pocket and took out his phone, scrolled, and passed it over to me. I looked at the picture of the three girls sitting on a stone wall squinting into strong light. One was still chubby, her belly pushing out the skirt of her sundress and the ruched bodice dead flat against her chest. The middle one was long and gangly, one of her thin legs bent up so her knee was by her ear. The oldest one was a beauty, burnished skin and tumbling curls. She sat with her littlest sister hugged on her lap, smiling widely. No sulks or pouting.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I said. “And they look like good kids too.”

  “How about you?” said Lars. “You got any photos?”

  His voice was soft and it made me look up at him. “Of my son?” I said. “Only about a million.”

  But he shook his head. “Or a footprint maybe? Her handprint?”

  I stared at him and felt my eyes fill and my throat close. “No,” I said. “There’s no pictures. Because she wasn’t even … I never really … ”

  “Aye, but she was, wasn’t she?” Lars said. “And you still are.”

  The tears were so hot, I felt them spike as they came up out of me and felt them sting my cheeks as they fell.

  “You need a wee hug?” Lars said.

  I shook my head hard. “How did you know?”

  “What?” he said. “You’re kidding. You might as well walk about with a sign round your neck, Ali.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You’ve no idea. It was a terrible time and I got through it and I’m fine.”

  “Aye right,” he said. “You look fine. So what’s the scoop with the rag doll?” He put a hand out and covered mine. His felt warm because mine was icy. “Ask Belle,” he said. “It was maternity she got the sack from, you know. She retrained for this place. She’ll tell you how to get fine.”

  “Oh Belle will, will she? Belle that got the sack for … what was it?”

  “Too much kindness and not enough rules,” Belle spoke suddenly from the door. For such a large woman, she moved softly.

  “Boundary issues!” I said, the phrase coming back to me. “You’ve all got bloody boundary issues. You’re all bloody freaks! And let go of my hand too.” I wrenched free of him and, clattering my chair over backwards, I was up and out of there.

  Of course I remembered as soon as I was in the front hall that I couldn’t storm out because I’d got a lift in. But I’d rather walk home than sit and listen to any more of their pity. Condescending, patronising … and then, rounding a corner, I ran into Dr. Ferris again.

  “Alison?” she said.

  “Oh, don’t start,” I said. “And don’t worry. I’m leaving.”

  “I was coming to talk to you,” she said. “It appears that my husband forgot to tell you something during your debriefing.” Her voice was clipped and she seemed to be standing even more ramrod straight than usual, although it was hard to see how that could be since s
he was like a poker at the best of times. “The drawing. The little doodle that Sylvie made?”

  “So you do believe she drew it then,” I said. “Because why would I lie about something like that?”

  “It’s a worrying sign,” said Dr. Ferris. “The very last thing we want to do is to let Sylvie regress to the trauma that brought her here.”

  “Really?” I said. “Even if going back there would maybe set her off on a different path? I mean, it’s not as though she’s getting better as she is.”

  “Alison,” said Dr. Ferris, taking a step closer, “you are a beautician. I am a psychiatrist.”

  “What was it that happened to her anyway? The trauma that landed her in here? That makes her draw that weird cross?”

  “Cross?” said Dr. Ferris. “Is that what you see?”

  The light was low and the house was quiet and standing there, with her two steps closer than any normal person would stand, close enough that I could smell her perfume and even the coffee on her breath, it seemed suddenly as if we were all alone. It was hard to believe there were twenty patients in the house and a shift of nurses too, with the backshift due any minute. Maybe that was why she was talking about private business in the corridor like she’d told me not to do. I tried to take a step back, but I was pressed against the edge of a thin hall table already. I put my hand back and gripped it to steady myself, tried to talk lightly.

  “Cross, square, whatever,” I said. “It’s not a house, is it?”

  “Popular culture has led to a belief that mental illness is triggered by one horrific event,” said Dr. Ferris. The words were cool and measured, but she was still speaking in that urgent, breathy way. I put the other hand back and gripped the table tighter. “Sylvie’s descent into her illness was triggered by something you or I would fully expect a young woman to take in her stride.”

  “Well,” I said, “they do feel things very deeply at that age.”

  “She was hurt,” said Dr. Ferris, “and she withdrew to save from being hurt again. A total withdrawal from all relationships—her family, friends, all human contact.”

  “But today she was smiling,” I said. “And drawing that … whatever it is.”

  “It’s the Mercat Cross,” said Dr. Ferris. “In Kirkcudbright. The square base and the cross on top. You probably know it.”

  “Of course,” I said, “In fact—” But Angelo wouldn’t want me blabbing his business at work so I bit my lip.

  “She was stood up,” Dr. Ferris said. “Well, not just stood up. Asked out on a date by a boy she liked when she was a schoolgirl. They were to meet at the Mercat Cross. But when she got there, he had sent a pack of his friends to mock and jeer at her. She ran away, boorish laughter ringing in her ears, and she started that very day to shut down. She came here shortly afterwards and she’s been here ever since.”

  I said nothing. I couldn’t blame the low light and the quiet now. Now, I felt as if the two of us were wrapped in a black sack together, like puppies bound for drowning, no air and no escape, just her voice and her coffee breath and the glint in her eyes.

  “So you see, it’s not a good sign at all that she’s drawing it.”

  “I see,” I managed to say.

  “What’s wrong?” said Dr. Ferris, rearing back to get a clearer look at me, breaking the black sack and letting the air in. I gasped at it. “What’s wrong with you?” she said again.

  “Just shocked,” I got out. “Years of illness from something so small? It’s frightening. Makes it feel like anyone could go wrong.”

  “But you’ve actually gone white,” she said. “Are you ill?”

  “I am feeling a bit stomachy, actually,” I said. “Have been all day. And Belle said first thing I shouldn’t really be in contact with patients if I’ve got a bug.”

  “Belle is right,” she said. She had taken another step away and she swiped at her face as if to get my germs off her. “You should go home and don’t come in tomorrow if you have symptoms.”

  “It might be something I ate,” I said. “But yes, I’ll go. I’ll phone my husband.”

  She frowned at that. “How long will it take him to get here?”

  “I’ll start walking and meet him,” I told her. “I need the air.”

  Seventeen

  At least the firing had stopped. If I had walked up the drive to the checkpoint with guns going off I might have lost my mind. I would have been in the next room to Sylvie staring out at the emptiness along with her. As it was, there was just the cold light of a sinking fog and the dark sparkle of the wet road disappearing under my feet as I pitched myself forward.

  “But you’ve got to come!” I said to Marco, pressing the phone so hard to the side of my head that the ridges of my ear ached. “I’m walking to meet you. I need to get home.”

  “Has something happened?” said Marco. In the background I could hear voices and the beep-beep of someone ringing things through a till.

  “Yes!” I said. Shouted really, only the day was so close and damp it swallowed my voice. “Yes, something has happened and I need to get home. Now.”

  “Okay, Ali, now promise me you won’t overreact,” Marco said. “But this thing that’s happened. Is it real? Is it outside your head or are you just upset?”

  “Yes, for God’s sake, it’s real,” I told him. “I heard something, Marco. Something I can’t explain. And I need to get home right now.”

  His sigh came across the line as a long buzz. “You heard something,” he said. “Did anyone else hear it?”

  “What? What are you asking? Why aren’t you in the car already?”

  “I’m at work,” he said, soft but fierce. Then he spoke louder, “Eh? Naw. Fine. Just the wife.” Then quietly to me again: “Ali, come on, eh? There’s no need to go back down that way again. You’re finished with all that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Running out of the cinema bawling your head off? Chucking presents straight in the bin? Walking out and leaving the shop hanging open that night? None of us needs to go back there, do we?”

  “When did I leave the shop open?” I said. He had stung me. I didn’t know he had noticed the faceless angel gone from the mantelpiece the morning after the Christmas party, and I thought he had believed me when I said I had rushed out of Harry Potter to throw up from too much popcorn. I had never read it to Angel and I didn’t know until it was right there in front of me and everyone was laughing. Nearly-Headless Nick. Even Marco was laughing and Angel all lit up and his eyes shining. I couldn’t hear anything, not the film or the audience, except the moan that seemed to come from all around me. “Mmmmmhmmmm.”

  “That time one of the girls saw you running down the street in the rain in your shirtsleeves and phoned me and I went in and locked up for you,” Marco said.

  I had never wondered why the shop was locked up when I got back in the morning.

  “One time,” I said.

  “And you used to hear it at night and get up to go looking for where it came from.”

  I had no memory of doing that. Except maybe, now he’d reminded me, there were nights when I checked the house, sure I could hear a tiny humming noise and never be able to find it, even when the telly was unplugged and all the digital clocks switched off, everything needing re-set every morning.

  “I’ve never said a word about it for ten long years,” I whispered into the phone. “Why would I start now?”

  “That’s my girl,” Marco said. “Go back to work, eh? And I’ll see you at tea-time.”

  “I’m talking about something someone told me, Marco,” I said. “I’m talking about something Dr. Ferris just told me. Something I don’t even know how to begin to understand.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said. He was walking as he talked now and his voice was all business suddenly. “I’ll just tell them I’m taking a
break and I’ll come and meet you.”

  “Stop in on the way past the house and check Angel’s okay,” I said. “Five more minutes won’t hurt me.”

  “Christ, make your bloody mind up,” he said. “Of course Angel’s okay. The wee toerag’s in his jammies watching videos.”

  “Just don’t drive past the door without at least saying hiya,” I said. “Give him a cuddle and then come and meet me.”

  I clicked off, stowed the phone, then put my head down and really started moving.

  The man on the checkpoint shouted over to me. “Getting a lift, hen? You want to wait in here for it?” But I ignored him and swung out onto the road for home.

  Angelo had been on the drive to Howell Hall. He hadn’t just stepped off the road onto the verge or chosen a different route for a walk. He had put his backpack down and set off down the drive towards the Hall. There had to be a reason. But he wasn’t coming to find me, because he knew I’d be at home. There was only one other explanation and it made sense of how he could tell me the story about the Mercat Cross. The story that was Sylvie’s.

  Lars had even said it: Howell Hall took referrals from the NHS. Angel, my Angelo, must have gone to the GP all on his own and got himself signed up with someone to talk to. My son needed someone so badly he was talking to a psychiatrist without me even knowing. Dr. Ferris. A cool, collected professional who wouldn’t touch him and nag him and call it love. And part of what she had done to help him was share a story about the most extreme case she knew of another kid not dealing well with trouble.

  And that dreadful night he tried to get more help from her. Her, not me. Walking through the rain to reach her instead of sitting on the bus to come home.