My Sister and Other Liars

by Ruth Dugdall

  ‘Tell me about the nightmare, Sam.’

  I don’t like feeling he’s experimenting with me, trying different tricks to open me up. I don’t like feeling that everything I say will be used against me on 1 February.

  ‘I can’t remember it. Besides, you’re not Freud. Shouldn’t we be focusing on facts?’

  He puts the jotter on the table and threads his hands together in his shapeless lap. I can see he’s thinking about giving me a pep talk.

  ‘No, I’m not a dream therapist or a psychoanalyst, or any of that fancy stuff. Just a bog-standard consultant psychiatrist.’

  He’s being ironic. It would have taken years of training to get where he is, and to the other staff he’s God.

  ‘But I’ve also studied counselling, and psychotherapy, so despite the job title, I see myself as more of an odd-job man. For many years, I didn’t believe the standard combination of drugs and therapy worked with eating disorders. I got disillusioned, which is why I diverted from the clinical side into management. I came to believe that what worked best was a structure, tube-feeding to give the patient strength, and most of all space away from toxic family dynamics. Time away from everyday pressures, and the patient would grow out of it; that’s what I came to think. But that wasn’t working for you, so I’ve gone old-school, back to the talking cure. And you’re making such progress, I’m revising my earlier opinion that therapy doesn’t work.’

  ‘You sure about that? I’m still underweight. I’m still hiding food.’ Spitefully, I add, ‘And I purged my Enliven feed last night.’

  Clive looks surprised and also sad. He lifts the leaves of his jotter, letting the paper fall, as if measuring the worth of it with his fingertips.

  ‘Don’t you want to leave here, Sam? Don’t you want to get better?’

  His question hits me, in the centre of myself, because sometimes I do want to get better; I want to leave the Bartlet and live out in the world again. But I prefer the idea of oblivion.

  ‘They could decide to keep you here indefinitely. Don’t you want to go home?’

  Home. Mum is gone now, things are different, and I must push forward with my story. He must see this, because he leans forward, the notes forgotten. ‘Speak to me, Sam,’ he says. And I hear that he wants it, so much, for my own sake. And so I decide, once again, to trust him.

  ‘My nightmare last night. In it, I was feeding Mum. She can only take food from my hand, but she keeps rejecting everything I offer, and I know she’ll die if she won’t let me feed her. I need to feed her, because if she dies, Dad will be all alone. Her mouth is open, but each time I come closer with a piece of bread or meat, she closes it tight. And then I see her teeth, sharp as needles, and before I can scream, I feel them puncturing my neck, and she’s taking my blood. I’m saving her, but I know I’ll bleed out. I know she’ll kill me.’

  Once again, I’m aware of the clock ticking on the wall. In just over an hour it will be time for lunch, and then classes. Clive will be going home later today, eating the tea his wife has prepared, watching TV. Whatever it is that normal people do with their evenings.

  Clive waits, as if thinking about my dream. Then he says, ‘Delving into your Black Magic box is bringing back memories.’

  ‘That wasn’t a memory.’

  He acknowledges this, but then explains. ‘Not literally, no. But your brain is re-living those weeks when you were hunting down Jena’s attacker.’

  ‘And you think that’s good?’

  ‘I do, yes. You must carry on with your story, Sam. The only way to go home is to move through the past.’

  Jena’s hospital was like the Bartlet in many ways.

  For a start, mealtimes were supervised. On Jena’s unit, the staff were supposed to eat with the patients, but they couldn’t even finish a slice of toast before one of them had to reprimand Olaf for hiding pats of butter in his pockets, or pull Susan out of a cupboard.

  On Thursday 16 June, Jena was moved back to Minsmere, and that morning things looked quite peaceful in the dining room when I arrived. But then Jena saw me and began waving her arms, calling.

  ‘Sam! Over here.’

  Mum, who must have arrived on the early train, was seated a little away from her. She hadn’t seen me since she’d burned my cheek, and didn’t look up from her coffee; I didn’t know if she was still mad with me, or ashamed.

  ‘Hi, Sam.’ Lance, wolfing Weetos, showed me a mouthful of half-crunched mush. The scar on his left eyebrow glowed purple, his badger tuft shower-wet but drying in a spike.

  Jena pulled me on to the empty seat between her and Mum. I could see how delighted she was to be back on Minsmere and with her new best friend.

  ‘It’s Lance’s birthday next week. Tuesday.’

  ‘’S’not, Jena.’ He tapped her nose with his finger. ‘We’re just celebrating on Tuesday because you was in the secure ward when it was my real birthday and they wouldn’t give you a community pass.’

  ‘How old are you, Lance?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-five.’ He grinned. ‘Jena’s toy boy.’

  They sniggered, heads touching. I remembered, before the attack, how Jena would buy the Big Issue from Lance, how kind she always was whenever she saw him about town, chatting with him and sharing a joke. But she’d never have wanted him for a boyfriend; she was far out of his league, and though she accepted his doting, she would never give him any false hope. Things had changed; the attack had cut her down to size.

  I wondered if that was Douglas’s motivation, returning to destroy her after the rape conviction destroyed him. Rob had told me he’d lost his business, his marriage, his son . . . That was motivation enough.

  And he’d succeeded; my sister wasn’t going to move into her flat, she wasn’t going to marry Andy. I recalled Sonia telling me Jena always thought she was a cut above. Not anymore. But then I thought something else too: did Sonia know what Douglas had done? She implied that Jena deserved to be attacked. And if she knew, did Andy?

  ‘Lance has a job,’ she boasted, oblivious to my addled thoughts. ‘He works at . . . What’s it called? I forgot.’

  ‘The Fold.’ Lance started on his toast, covering it with a dollop of Nutella. ‘Sam knows that. She goes there too.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Jena said. Her usual response when she wasn’t able to make sense of something.

  Mum wasn’t listening; she was gazing at me sadly. She reached a hand to my hair and brushed it from my face, leaning close to me as she touched a finger to my burn, where it had scabbed.

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, love. But you shouldn’t have provoked me.’

  ‘I know, Mum. I won’t do it again.’

  I felt wretched, knowing that Jena had been raped when she was just thirteen, the impact of that on all of them. I’d been protected from it all, and that made me feel guilty; the three of them, trying to cope. Thinking the worst had already happened.

  Mum squeezed my arm, and her touch was like a balm. With Dad, we three were all the family Jena had. She needed us to be tight.

  ‘Let’s draw a line under it now, and concentrate on getting Jena well again.’

  Mum put on her coat and grabbed her bag. ‘I have to go, or I’ll be late for work.’

  ‘Okay. See you later?’

  Mum hesitated, looking again at the circular scab on my cheek. She leaned to whisper into my ear, and I thought she was going to apologise again, but instead she said, ‘Don’t go upsetting Jena.’ She tapped my Leica. ‘No photos today. Okay, love?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum.’ I meant it; my sister had suffered enough.

  And with a wave she was gone.

  Flora Matthews, the art therapist, came over just as Jena started on another round of buttery toast. ‘Hi, Sam. I saw your mum leaving, and she said I’d find you in here. I wanted to catch you.’ She turned to Jena. ‘Both of you.’

  Flora was like some woodland creature, with nut-brown eyes and long, grey straggly hair, speckled with purple paint. She fidgeted with her
hessian bag, and poured some juice. ‘Aren’t you eating anything?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Maybe you should? You’re looking a bit gaunt.’

  ‘I ate earlier.’

  My stomach protested at the lie as I watched Flora take a slice of toast and eat it with relish; small squirrel bites, cheeks pouchy with food. She smiled at Jena and Lance. ‘Look at you two lovebirds. Excited about your date next week?’

  Confused, I said, ‘What date is this?’

  ‘We told you, Sam. To celebrate my birthday!’ Lance’s eyes shone with happiness as he looked at my sister. ‘We’re going for pizza. To Pizza Hut.’ He was as proud as if he was taking her to Venice.

  I didn’t want to upset Jena, I really didn’t, but I was so confused, and the question bubbled up again inside me; no one else was going to answer it. I leaned over, close to my sister, and whispered, ‘But you’re engaged, Jena. What about Andy?’

  And she looked at me, her eyes as clear with understanding as they always had been, and for a desperate moment I thought she was her old self. She hesitated, and I leaned forward, ready to hang on every word that might explain what was really going on with her and Andy, and why he hadn’t visited; how she seemed to have erased him from her heart. But she simply said, ‘I love pizza. My favourite is with black olives and pineapple.’

  ‘I’m chaperoning,’ Flora said. ‘But I’ll sit one table away and close my ears.’ Lance kissed Jena full on the mouth, and Flora added, ‘And my eyes.’

  Lance laughed at that, his mouth wide open and Jena kissed him back, a full French kiss this time, then seemed to be watching for my reaction. She looked defiant, and I felt queasy. What was going on in her head?

  Flora finished her toast, and made to stand. ‘I wonder if I could show you something, Sam?’ Her nails, bitten short and splodged with fluorescent pink, made a journey to her squirrel teeth.

  ‘Mum will be back later.’ It was her that the therapists or medical staff talked to if there was a problem, and I was feeling ill. I wanted to get out of there, and quickly. I needed space to think, and the hospital wasn’t the right place.

  ‘Erm, well, actually I was thinking you might be the best one to show. For some reason Jena is shy about showing her artwork to Kath and . . .’ She looked at my Leica. ‘And you’re creative. You see, Jena started a new picture yesterday. She spent hours on it, didn’t you, Jena?’

  Jena carried on eating her toast, but I sensed she was listening.

  ‘It’s very . . .’ Flora searched for the right word, her hand like a butterfly in the air.

  I was getting impatient. ‘Is something wrong with it?’

  Flora showed her teeth again, this time in a small smile. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s quite wonderful.’

  ‘Oh. Well that’s good, isn’t it?’ Daft cow.

  ‘Oh yes, but . . . I wondered if you’d like to come and see it? That would be easier than trying to explain. I could take you now, while Jena is finishing her breakfast.’

  I followed Flora down the corridor, watching her bright gypsy skirt move in and out of her legs, to the quick pace of her feet. Occasionally, I caught a flash of a purple satin shoe. The art room stank of clay and turps, and I sneezed.

  ‘Bless you,’ Flora said.

  I was about to sneeze again, the dust particles floating in the air, when shock stopped me. There, on the giant canvas, was something that stole my breath away.

  Flora’s hand danced in front of it. ‘Even though she’s only just begun, you can see what Jena has already achieved. These pink and reds and whites . . . So beautiful. Like swarming petals – or snow – veiling what is going to be a quite exquisite portrait.’

  As perfect as a photograph. Alive with sunlight and warmth: an ivory white, a sunshine yellow, baby pink, on a black background. Assuming my default position, I lifted my camera and focused the lens, blinking away the watery film that had come from nowhere. Only then did the picture come together and I saw a young girl’s hopeful face.

  ‘Jena was always good at art,’ I said. Guiltily remembering that she would have gone to art college, if I hadn’t begged her not to.

  Flora was warm at my side as I aligned my shot. This picture would go with the others into the Black Magic box, proof that Jena was regaining her skills.

  ‘Yes, she’s a wonderful artist. The art-therapy sessions I run aren’t about the skill of the patient; they are about helping the memory to return, but working with Jena is such a joy. The girl in the picture is beautifully rendered.’

  I clicked the shutter and told her what she should have realised immediately.

  ‘She’s not beautiful. It’s me.’

  The girl I once was, young and innocent.

  ‘You are beautiful, Sam. Jena has captured you perfectly. There’s so much emotion in this picture.’ Flora moved closer to the canvas. ‘Such pretty green eyes. Are they really that colour?’ She turned back to check, then her eyes fell on the cigarette burn. ‘What’s that mark on your face?’

  ‘Just a spot.’

  ‘You want to put some TCP on that. It looks infected.’ She frowned.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said weakly. I didn’t want her to ask more questions. ‘So, why did you want to show me the painting?’

  She paused, and when she spoke her voice quivered, dreamy. ‘It’s as if Jena has poured all her love on to the canvas. That’s what my sessions with her aim to do, to call on those deep emotions and connect the patient with their inner world, which is often so damaged. Art therapy is a very powerful tool, and with Jena it seems to be working beyond even my hopes. Maybe because of her creative past. She used to be a keen photographer, didn’t she? And she’s involved in acting?’

  ‘She works for the entertainment team at Pleasurepark.’ I caught myself using the present tense, but ploughed on. ‘There’s a small theatre for shows, and she dresses up as a princess to have her picture taken with little kids.’ I added, meanly, ‘It’s not exactly Shakespeare.’

  I lifted my camera again, using a sharper eye, and saw something else. Something that did not belong. Behind my face, in the dark background, was a shadow. Jena had sketched a menacing shape, hunched over and huddled in a dark coat, hood up so it looked like a cloak. Its face was blank. I gasped in recognition.

  ‘That’s what I remember too. That figure, in the cloak.’

  My heart was beating fast. This was a turning point: despite the recent fits and being placed back on Eastern Ward, there were still signs that Jena was getting better, maybe even recovering her memory.

  Was the art therapy shifting something?

  Or was it that she remembered far more than she pretended to?

  I tapped on the door, then entered Jena’s bedroom.

  Eight weeks’ worth of get-well cards adorned the walls, from us and people she worked with, and also from strangers who’d read about Jena’s case in the newspaper. Even Mrs Read had sent one, though Mum tossed it in the bin after reading the scribbled message.

  A gust of cold air lifted my hair, and I realised the patio door was open, though it was supposed to be closed at all times for security reasons; if open, anyone could access the hospital without having to go past the main reception. There was supposed to be a catch to stop it opening all the way, but it had broken, and no one had thought to fix it. I could hear laughter, coming from the courtyard.

  Jena was lounging on the bench, her head in Lance’s lap, sunbathing like a lizard on a rock, her legs splayed apart, arms dropped at her sides, perfectly still, and he was stroking the top of her ponytail. One of her pink flip-flops had dropped to the ground, while the other dangled on the toes.

  It was a moment of happiness for Jena, and she’d had few enough recently, but I still didn’t understand how she’d forgotten Andy and all her future plans. I was sick of being alone in the dark.

  ‘Jena, I need you to come with me now.’

  I watched her untangle herself from Lance; she looked sleepy and content, and I was
about to ruin that feeling for her.

  I hurried Jena to the television lounge, which was empty. Not that any of the other patients being there would have stopped me; my need to do something was overwhelming. If Flora’s art therapy was working, then this should too. I rummaged in my rucksack and removed a DVD, one I’d taken from the Asda box in our attic, recorded by Dad and labelled in his heavy, slanted handwriting. When Jena saw it, her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed pink, and I thought about my promise to Mum, the one I was already breaking, about not upsetting her.

  ‘No, Sammy, I can’t watch a bad film.’

  ‘It’s not a bad film,’ I said, wondering if she was still paranoid about Big Brother watching her.

  Every film in the box had been watched a dozen times, and none of them showed anything upsetting. But Jena grabbed the DVD, staring hard at the label. It was a relic from when she was normal. Precise, dark letters in faded ink: Sam’s 6th Birthday.

  She frowned. ‘It’s not a bad one?’

  Now it was my turn to be confused. ‘It’s a nice tape; it’s a party. Look!’ I pressed play and on the screen my sister’s beautiful face came into focus.

  Jena’s in the kitchen, bent over the counter, her hands moving slowly as she concentrates on her task. Lovely and shimmering, like a cut-price Angelina Jolie at a film premiere, she’s dressed for a party: silver dangling earrings, and a top with glittery thread, a halter-neck that shows her pretty neck. Dark hair falls around her face, loose and curled and glossy.

  Jena is squashed against the kitchen worktop, but keeps her hands steady while the camera moves to get a good view of the table, where a chocolate sponge has been cut in half, sandwiched together with buttercream and covered with chocolate buttons.

  Dad’s voice dominates over the sound of the whirring tape. ‘What’s the cake supposed to be? A football?’

  Sat next to me, Jena answered the question. ‘It’s a hedgehog.’

  Dad says to Jena, ‘Thought you was supposed to be artistic?’

  She gives him a withering look. ‘As if you couldn’t tell. Look, that’s its nose!’

  She turns the plate, and the camera zooms in on a glacé cherry balanced on the tip of a mound of buttercream, two Smarties above for eyes, chocolate buttons for hedgehog spikes.