by Amy Cross
I nod.
“A lot of people accused you of the same thing,” he points out. “Anthony's parents, some of your colleagues, figures in the media...”
“But my father should have been kinder,” I reply. “Don't you think so?”
“Well, that's one of the things we're going to discuss in these daily sessions, Alice. We're going to talk about your family, going right back to your childhood. I believe you never knew your mother, so perhaps that's another matter we should address. And I believe your full name is Rachel Alice Bradshaw, but that your father insisted on using your middle name whereas your mother preferred to call you Rachel. That seems like an odd situation. I also need to understand why you chose to remove your own eyes. Obviously that's rather an extreme reaction to events.”
“I wanted to not see the boy anymore,” I tell him. “I thought Anthony was haunting me. Now I realize he was just a figment of my imagination, caused by my father's words. At least, I think he...”
I hesitate, before reaching up and touching the bandages that have been taped over my eyes.
“I made a mistake,” I continue. “I should have left my eyes alone, but I wasn't quite thinking straight. I let my emotions take control, but I won't do that again. I need to be more logical. And I need to get back to the house. I know I must spend time here, and I accept that, but eventually I simply must return to the house.”
I sit in silence for a moment. Evidently my words seem to have surprised the doctor somewhat, and I can hear him still scribbling some notes. I'm sure he's over-complicating the situation, when really everything is rather simple. I just have to wait until I'm released from this place, and then I can go back to the house and find Father's ghost. I'm not done with him yet.
In fact...
I have to go to him right now!
“I can't stay here!” I say suddenly, getting to my feet. “I need to speak to him!”
“Please sit down, Alice.”
“You don't understand,” I stammer, fumbling as I make my way around the table. I'm starting to feel desperate now, filled with a sense of urgency. “Which way is the door? I can't waste any more time here with you people.”
“Alice -”
“Let me out of here!” I shout, lunging forward and hitting the wall. I reach for a door handle, for any way out of here, but all I feel is a series of padded panels. “You can't keep me here!” I hiss, stumbling back as I start pulling the bandages from my eyes. “You have no right!”
“Security!” the doctor calls out, and I hear footsteps in the corridor outside. “Take the patient back to her room and get Nurse Lucas to join me. I'm going to try a different sedative!”
“No!” I scream, but suddenly I'm grabbed from behind and pulled back. I try to break free, scratching at the faces of the figures that are towering over me, but they quickly force me to the ground and secure my wrists behind my back. “You can't keep me here!” I shout, shuddering violently as I try to get free. “I have to get back to the house! I have to make him pay for what he did to me! Let me out of here!”
***
Sitting alone on the floor of my room at the hospital, I listen to the sound of distant voices. Since I can no longer see anything, all that's left is for me to listen, but the voices are too far away for me to make out what they're saying.
They're probably talking about me.
Even the ones that are all the way out in the garden.
“You're a failure,” Father's voice whispers in my ear. Not for the first time today. Even in death, he seems to have followed me. “You're a disgusting ruin of a human being. You thought you could be a nurse? You thought you could help people? You're a joke!”
“Go away,” I say out loud, leaning forward. “You can't hurt me anymore.”
I try to fill my head with other thoughts, to block Father's voice out, but I know he'll be back soon.
“I believe in you,” I imagine my mother saying. She was always so much nicer. Perhaps if I think of her, there'll be no room for Father. “You can do anything, Rachel. Anything you want.”
Mum always called me Rachel. My real name. It was Father who insisted on using my middle name, and eventually he wore me down and I accepted his decision.
“You sicken me,” his voice sneers.
“You were a good nurse,” Mum says, as I try to force her voice to the front of my mind, to drown Father out entirely. “You didn't kill that little boy after all. It was someone else's mistake.”
“It was,” I whisper. “It really was.”
I can hear Father's voice again, but this time I've managed to push him back until he's just a faint murmur.
“Everything's going to be okay,” Mum continues, and this time I didn't even have to pretend I could hear her. It's almost as if she's really here with me. “We're going to get out of here, Rachel. It might take some time, but I believe in you and I'm not going to leave you again. I'm going to help you.”
“Please stay,” I whimper. “If you go, I'll hear him again.”
“Of course I'll stay,” she replies, “and one day, when you finally get out of this hospital, I'll take you home.”
“Maybe the doctor was right,” I whimper. “Maybe it would be bad to go back. Maybe a clean break -”
“You must go back, Rachel,” she says firmly, interrupting me. “One more time, at least. His ghost will be there, and you can make him say the words you need to hear. I'll be right there with you, though.”
I shake my head.
“Be brave,” she continues. “Wouldn't you like to hear your father's voice as he tells you that he's sorry?”
“He'll never do that.”
“He will. I'll help you to make it happen.”
“How?”
“Just trust me.”
I want to push her away, but I know that if I stop hearing her voice, I'll start hearing Father's again.
“Relax,” she says after a moment, and now she sounds so calming and friendly. “Just trust me. Everything will be okay. You're my darling little girl.”
I know those are just words, but I still can't help smiling. Mum went away a long time ago and left me with Father, but now she's back. She's just in my mind, I'm fully aware of that, but she's still very comforting. There's nothing wrong with listening to her, not if I remember that she's not really here.
Suddenly I hear footsteps outside, followed by the sound of my door being unlocked.
“Alice Bradshaw,” the orderly says as he steps inside, “on your feet. It's time for your next session with Doctor Cooper.”
I sit completely still, not moving at all.
“Alice, get up.”
Silence.
“Alice -”
“My name isn't Alice,” I whisper.
“What was that?”
“My name is Rachel Alice Bradshaw,” I continue, as a faint smile crosses my lips. “You have to call me Rachel from now on.”
I hear a faint sigh.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Doesn't matter either way. Get up, Rachel. Doctor Cooper's waiting.”
Feeling a faint shudder in my chest, I get to my feet and turn, slowly tottering toward the door.
“That's good,” Mum's voice whispers in my head. “Now let's go and see the nice doctor. We have to start making him think that you're feeling better, although it'll probably take a long, long time.”
“A long, long time,” I whisper.
“Yeah, sure,” the orderly mutters, taking hold of my arm, ready to lead me along the corridor. “Come on, Alice... I mean, Rachel.” Another sigh. “Let's just get you down there.”
As we make our way toward Doctor Cooper's office, I can't help but smile. One day I'll get back to the house, and I'll make Father apologize to me. I won't give him a choice.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rachel - Today
Letting out a gasp, I lean over the kitchen sink and touch my ravaged eyes yet again. The wrinkled flesh around the edges is knotted and scared, twisting to the slits that
were sewn together long ago. The scars have had twenty years to build, twenty years to knit together and become dry. At least there's no blood now.
And I finally remember that moment.
I remember everything.
“You thought you were just a girl again,” Mum's voice says calmly, from just behind me. “I suppose that's my fault. You regressed during those twenty years at the hospital, and you blotted out the memories that were too painful. After you went back to using your proper name, it was as if you tried to go back to childhood. You became a girl again, at least in your mind.”
“I'm not pathetic!” I hiss, feeling a sudden surge of rage. “I was never pathetic! I just...”
Pausing, I continue to feel my face. I must have avoided touching my own skin for so long, in order to protect the fantasy in my mind. I was convinced that I was a teenager, and the memory of gouging out my own eyes was just one of the many, many moments that I suppressed. Now, however, I remember it all, even the time I spent at the psychiatric hospital. Everything came flooding back at once.
“But you...” I whisper, turning slowly. “Mum...”
“You had no-one to talk to at the hospital,” she replies, her voice filled with more sadness than ever. “No-one who understood, at least. Don't blame yourself, Rachel. It's not your fault that you chose to imagine another voice in your head.”
“You're not real...”
“You never knew me,” she continues. “Your father refused to tell you anything about me. Perhaps it was inevitable that you used an imagined version of me to cover the cracks in your mind. You're getting old now and -”
“It's not true,” I stammer, still feeling my face. “It can't be... I'm young!”
“You're fifty-one years old,” she replies. “No wonder the boy from next door didn't accept your invitation to hang out. What was his name again? Aidan? Poor thing. He was probably rather shocked to be propositioned by a wrinkly old woman. The whole thing must have been very embarrassing for him.”
“No!” I yell, stumbling toward her and reaching out, only to trip and fall forward. Hitting my shoulder against the door-frame, I tumble out onto the landing and hit the floor hard, causing another ripple of pain to shoot through my damaged wrist. Letting out an agonized cry, I roll onto my side.
“Rachel -”
“You're not real, are you?” I whimper.
“Please, Rachel...”
“You're in my head,” I continue, finally realizing the truth. “You've never been here. I've been imagining you the whole time, haven't I?”
I wait, but this time there's no reply.
“Mum?” I whisper.
Silence.
“Mum?”
Nothing.
“Come back...”
No reply.
A wave of shock rushes through me as I realize that she's gone. She kept me going, all through the time at the psychiatric hospital, but now she's left my mind.
“Come back!” I shout, rolling onto my back as I feel a rush of fear in my chest. “Don't leave me here! Mum! Come back!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Rachel - Today
There it is again. A creaking sound from upstairs, from the room where Father spent his final months. It's almost as if he's still in there, still shifting his weight in bed. I shouldn't be surprised if -
Suddenly I hear a faint bumping sound.
His cane.
He's hitting his cane against the floor.
I've been here for hours now, just listening to the occasional sound. Now they're becoming more persistent, as if the ghosts are waking up.
Still on my back on the floor, I can feel a patch of warm light on my face, which means morning must have finally arrived. I've been trying to make sense of everything that has happened, trying to stitch together two worlds that suddenly seem to be linked together. I remember my old life now, my days as Nurse Alice Bradshaw, and I remember what came after. The fateful day with Father and Malcolm, and the time at Barrimore Psychiatric Hospital, and the discussions over my release. But somewhere there's a disconnect, a point where I tried to become someone else.
There was a day when I cast aside the name Alice, and chose to use my first name instead. I was born Rachel Alice Bradshaw, but Father always hated the name Rachel and insisted on calling me Alice instead. Once he was gone, I was able to go back to the name Rachel, which my mother always preferred. I have to remember why that happened, and whether -
The cane hits the floor again, and I realize that Father's ghost is never going to leave me alone. Is that why I came back to the house? I don't remember what prompted that decision. Evidently I was finally released from the hospital, and the house has remained undisturbed for twenty years, but it seems particularly masochistic of me to have chosen to return. Still, I think I remember Mum saying that I had no choice, so I imagine some deep part of my subconscious mind felt that this was the best choice. Besides, where else could I have gone?
He bangs his cane again.
I half expect to hear his voice calling for me. I'm sure that will happen soon.
It's time to go and find him.
Getting to my feet, I make my way carefully around the table and then I head out into the hallway. The banging sound seems louder now, and it's louder still when I get to the top of the stairs. He's making such a terrible din, and I no longer have any doubt that he's somehow still here. Perhaps he was waiting for me, all these years. Perhaps he knew that I'd eventually come back.
Making my way along the landing, I stop at the door and listen for a moment as he continues to slam his cane against the floor.
It's him.
I really is.
“I remember,” I say finally, although my voice sounds so frail and weak.
How did I not notice that I sound like a fifty-something woman? How did I delude myself into thinking that I was a teenager?
Reaching up, I touch my face again. There's a part of me that still hopes I'll feel smooth, young flesh, but my fingers brush against the features of someone much older.
And Mum's voice is gone.
That much is clear.
I was imagining her the whole time, and she's left me now that the fantasy has been exposed.
“I remember,” I say again, as Father's cane continues to hit the wooden floorboards. “I swore I'd come back to this place and...”
My voice trails off.
A moment later, I hear the cane drop to the floor, as if it slipped from his hands. There's a faint murmuring sound now, and the old metal bed-frame is squeaking as he continues to shift his weight.
“What's wrong?” I ask. “Don't you have anything to say to me now? Now that you can't taunt me for killing that boy, are you going to remain silent?”
I wait.
He says nothing.
“I want to hear your voice,” I tell him. “You owe me an apology. You drove me half-crazy, and then I tipped over the rest of the way, but you owe me this. I want to hear your wretched old voice one more time, and I want you to tell me that you're sorry.”
I wait.
Silence.
I can't see him, of course, but it's not hard to imagine his angry eyes staring at me. He's probably furious that I've been released, that I've managed to survive despite everything that happened. The house was left shuttered and abandoned for twenty years. I guess he thought he had the place to himself.
But I'm back.
Stepping forward cautiously, I make my way across the room. I can still hear him moving on the bed, and I want to touch him again. The other night, when I felt his face and he attacked me, I didn't know who he was. Now that I have my memory back, I want to feel him again. His rage. His hatred. His contempt. I was fueled for so long by my father's disgust, and perhaps I can no longer live any other way.
Reaching the bed, I hold my hand out and feel his trembling leg. He's twitching and straining, but I pull my hand away after just a few seconds.
He felt pretty solid for a ghost, but
then I'm no expert on these things.
“Look at me,” I whisper. “Look what you did. Look what I became because of you.”
I wait, but still he refuses to speak. I need to hear his voice, I need to make him apologize.
“Look at me!” I shout, as a sudden surge of anger rushes through my chest. I can't hold back now, I can't stay calm. After everything this bastard did to me, I have to make him understand that his constant barbs crushed my soul.
Dropping to my knees, I grip the side of the bed.
“Look at me!” I scream. “Look what you made me do!”
Reaching over, I find that the knives are gone from the bedside table. Maybe the police took them twenty years ago. Still, I kept some more in one of the drawers, and it only takes a moment for me to fumble with the handle and pull out a decent blade.
“Are you going to apologize, Father?” I ask, my voice trembling with anger.
I wait, but all I hear is a faint creaking sound.
“No?” I whisper. “Let me maybe change your mind on that.”
I hesitate for a moment, before raising the knife high above my head and then driving it down into his leg. He lets out a muffled groan of pain as I twist the blade against his ghostly bones.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rachel - Today
Setting my fingers on the piano's keys, I take a moment to remember the music I used to play. I loved the piano when I was a young girl, although I was unable to play much once I got older. Now, though, I have all the time in the world.
I can hear Father's bed creaking upstairs, but his ghost can wait now.
I spent long enough cutting him up for one day. I need a little break.
Slowly, cautiously, I start playing. The piano is utterly out of time, of course, but that doesn't matter. Each note sounds perfect in my head, as if I'm managing to transform them, and I quickly find that I'm able to remember several pieces that I learned when I was much younger. Despite the fact that Father is still making plenty of noise in the room above, I'm able to ignore him completely and focus instead on the sheer joy of playing.
