“He’s not going to want to play basketball.” Jake uncrossed his legs and stared down at us. “Look at him.”
“What else am I going to do?”
“For one thing, I don’t think it’s good for you to be on the floor on that scabby picnic blanket when you’re eight months pregnant. For another, you’ve eaten nothing but ice cream for two days. That’s not taking care of your baby. Get up, stop messing around, and face what’s going on.”
My cheeks flushed with heat. He thought I wasn’t accepting the grim reality of the situation, but he was wrong. I knew exactly what was happening—I was just trying to shield Aiden from it. He wasn’t ready. How could anyone be ready for what was going to happen? If I, a fully-grown woman, wasn’t ready, how could my damaged, vulnerable son get through the ordeal?
“Basketball,” I said. I clambered ungracefully to my feet, walked into Jake’s study and took a few sheets of paper from the desk.
When I got back into the living room, Jake was on his knees talking to Aiden.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re just having a chinwag.” Jake grinned and patted Aiden on the shoulder. “I was telling him it might be a good idea for him to spend some time with his dad and grandparents.”
I dropped the paper. “What? Why? How dare you say that to Aiden without suggesting it to me first?”
He shrugged. “What’s the problem? He hasn’t seen them for days. It isn’t fair, you keeping him cooped up in here.”
“I’m protecting him. I’ve told Rob, Sonya, and Peter not to come. You know what Rob’s temper is like. The last thing we need is him yelling at the press and making a scene. I know Sonya is itching to help, but what can she do? No. Aiden needs some space from this circus. He needs time with just us so that he can adjust. Wherever he was he was probably alone for a long time. Too many people will just freak him out. ”
“He needs some time away from this house.”
“More like you just want him out of here,” I muttered under my breath.
Jake got to his feet. “What was that?”
I backed out of the room, then turned and walked into the kitchen, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of the argument. “Look, I know you’ve been trying to make the most of things, but it’s so obvious that you don’t want Aiden around. You going up to him and basically telling him to get out doesn’t help.”
“Emma, I don’t know how I can make myself any clearer. I don’t want Aiden out of my house—I just want him to get some fresh air, to see people other than me or you, and to actually begin to face his own reality. It isn’t doing him any good being here with us.”
“He’s improving,” I insisted. “I can tell. He’s listening to me. He’s taking everything in.”
“You’re seeing something that isn’t there. Trust me, I have some perspective on this. He’s not improving. He’s a vegetable, Emma. He sits there without even the slightest remnant of human emotion on his face. The other day I walked out of the bathroom and he was stood in the corridor doing nothing. Just standing. Just staring.”
I rubbed the dry skin on my hands and paced up and down the kitchen. “Vegetable? What the fuck, Jake. How could you?”
He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That came out wrong.”
But it was too late. His harsh words had a cruel edge, but that didn’t mask the truth of them. When I spoke, there was a new quaver of uncertainty in my voice. “He’s not a vegetable, is he? He… he’s aware. Isn’t he?”
Jake moved forward, took me by the shoulders and stared deep into my eyes. “Emma, he is psychologically damaged. No matter how much you want to, you can’t do this on your own.”
17
The décor in Dr Foster’s office was designed to convey a bright cheerfulness that verged on the contrived. It was the kind of room I would have hated as a teenager. I sat on a bright red sofa and stared at the abstract painting hung on the wall on the other side of the room. Large, sweeping brushstrokes whirled together every shade of yellow known to the imagination. The carpet was patterned in interconnecting loops of the primary colours, like an 80s lunchbox design.
It was Thursday by the time I’d dragged us out of our withdrawal from the world, and the two of us emerged like a bear from hibernation, rubbing our eyes and squinting at the sun. I’d spent the journey to the surgery trying to stop my hands from trembling as they gripped the steering wheel, and avoiding eye-contact with the people around me. But it was important for Aiden to see a therapist. He’d had a slow adjustment to life outside hospital, and now I knew it was time to listen to Jake. Luckily, Dr Foster was prepared to see Aiden even before his status as ‘deceased’ had been repealed.
When the door opened, it scraped across the wooden floorboards, making a high-pitched squeaking sound. Aiden let out a sudden gasp and sat up very straight. His face paled in a way I hadn’t seen since we’d tried to force him into the woods. I placed my hand on his, moving very slowly as I always did when I touched him.
“Hello again, Emma. Good morning, Aiden.” Dr Foster was as cheerful as her waiting room, but she had an organic quality about her that was less contrived. Her image belonged on the box of organic muesli. She was very natural and easy; a people person. “Would you like to come in?”
Aiden followed my lead into Dr Foster’s office. After Aiden’s disappearance during the flood, I’d spent some time in therapy at a place in York. That had been what I would consider a typical therapist’s office to be like. It was very sparse, with comfortable chairs, a bookcase, and a large, wooden desk. This was the opposite. It was filled with colour, from the baskets of toys, to the artwork on the walls, to a couple of bouquets of fresh flowers on the windowsill.
“Take a seat wherever is comfortable.”
I eyed the bean bag chair but decided I would never get out of it if I sat down, so I chose a plastic upright chair and pulled one across for Aiden.
“I’m so glad you decided to come and see me. I think it will be really useful for Aiden’s progression.”
I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded. It wasn’t that I disagreed with her—I was glad we were going to therapy, but it had been an ordeal to get to the office. I’d had to throw a blanket over Aiden’s head to try to keep the paparazzi from taking any photographs of him. I couldn’t bear for anyone to print his photograph without my consent.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Aiden. I see you’ve had your hair cut.”
“Well, it was me with some blunt scissors over the bathroom sink,” I said with a laugh that felt unnatural. “It’s not the best haircut in the world.”
“Oh, well, I think you look very fetching.” The touch of Yorkshire in her voice helped to calm my nerves. It was like an old friend. Bishoptown residents tended to have slightly posher voices. There were some with strong Yorkshire accents, but more often than not I heard BBC English around the village.
I smiled at Aiden. “I think he likes it. I don’t think he can tell me for a while, but I like to think that if he could, he would.”
There was the smallest hint of a crack in Dr Foster’s smile, and I wasn’t sure I liked the way she regarded me then, with a slow nod of her head. “Absolutely. So, today, Aiden, I would like you to draw me some more pictures. Would you like that? Excellent.” She glossed quickly over Aiden’s lack of response. “How about I set you up on the desk over here. There are some coloured pencils and plenty of paper. Draw whatever pops into your head. That’s it. Very good.”
Once Aiden was set up, Dr Foster came across to sit with me. “Sorry if it seems like I’m talking down to him, but I think it’s best to go gently with him for a while.”
“I do the same. He doesn’t seem like a sixteen-year-old boy.” I thought of the kids at school, so cocksure and loud, full of themselves and full of the belief that they ruled the world.
“No, but that will come in time,” she said. “What can you tell me about his progress?”
“He h
asn’t said anything. Not a thing. But…”
“Go on,” she prompted.
“I think I heard him sing.”
When Dr Foster leaned forward, I didn’t like the little glint of excitement in her eyes. I could see the pound signs dancing around in her imagination for when she turned in an article entitled ‘The Feral Child of Yorkshire’. “Really? What led up to this development?”
I pushed my hands between my thighs to stop myself rubbing the dry patches of skin, which were now red and angry from my constant niggling. “There was an argument.” I glanced up, expecting to see disapproval in Dr Foster’s expression.
“I’m not here to judge. Your family has been put in an extremely stressful situation over the last week. Arguments are to be expected.”
“Aiden was in the other room. It was the day we met at the woods. I was… not in a good place. I tried to go home and the reporters were there so I went to my best friend’s house. Rob came to meet us. He was agitated. Some reporter had taken his picture and he was obsessed with the idea that they’d accuse him of the kidnap. They always go after the dads, he said. I told him about the thing with the police and he lost his temper.”
“In a violent way?”
“No. Just raised voices. Then there was a slight pause, and I heard this high-pitched singing coming from the living room. I think it was Aiden. We’d left him in there watching Disney films.”
“You’re sure it was Aiden? It couldn’t have been the film?”
I shrugged. “It didn’t sound like anything from the film. He had the sound muted when I walked in.”
“Did you recognise the words or the tune from what Aiden was singing?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t hear words, just a small voice. It was… kind of haunting. You know those creepy songs they use in horror films when a child is possessed by a ghost or a doll comes to life?”
A half-smile spread across her lips. “My husband watches those films, so yes.”
“It was a little bit like that. Like a nursery rhyme.” I shivered. I hadn’t thought much about the song since we’d come back from Josie’s. I’d had the reporters to deal with, and then I had tried to block out the world. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe Jake was right.
“And since that moment?” she prompted.
I shook my head. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Barely a whimper.”
“On the day you heard the singing, did anyone else hear his voice?”
“No, actually. It was just me. Do you think I imagined it?”
“No,” she said, with a voice that suggested that perhaps she did. “Not necessarily, but we can’t rule it out as an explanation. Now, tell me about how Aiden is sleeping since he came home from the hospital.”
“He goes to bed at 8pm every night and I check on him at 9pm. He’s always laid with his eyes shut but I’m not sure if he’s asleep or not. Sometimes I think he’s pretending.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Just the way he lies on his back with his arms on either side. It doesn’t look comfortable. Sometimes when I check on him later in the night he’ll have rolled onto his side, and that seems more normal.”
“Any night terrors?”
“He sleeps with the door open. Always. I’ve never closed the door to a room he’s in. I think that might help him, because he’s been sleeping well since he came home. There was one time I saw him tossing and turning. I didn’t want to wake him, because I know he doesn’t like to be touched too much. After about thirty seconds he drifted into a deeper sleep and seemed fine.”
Dr Foster tapped her pen on top of her open notebook. “That’s a very good sign. He’s getting rest. He’s clearly putting on some weight. These are all good things, Mrs. Price-Hewitt. You’re doing just fine.”
“You’d say that even after what you saw the other day in the woods?” I let out a hollow laugh.
“Yes. I would. You’re only human, Emma. Try not to beat yourself up about the incident in the forest. Everyone was under intense stress. It was a little too soon for Aiden, that’s all.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now, tell me how you’re doing. Would you like me to refer you to a therapist? You’ve been through an extraordinary event. Talking about it might help.”
“No, thank you. I had some therapy after I thought Aiden had drowned. It helped in some ways, but not in others. I’m okay. I thought Aiden had died. I’ve already been through the worst pain a human being can deal with. Everything that comes after that pales in significance. I’m going to be fine.”
“There’s a big difference between being fine and being well, Emma.” Dr Foster leaned her chin on her fist and spoke softly. “Everyone wants you to be well, happy, and healthy, just remember that. Especially Aiden.” She got to her feet with a deep groan, rubbing her knees. “These old bones. The cold sets in these days. Just you wait.” She winked at me. “And how are we getting on over here, Aiden? What have you drawn for me?”
Aiden lifted his picture and I broke out into a smile. Just the fact that my son had held up his own artwork was enough to make me feel joy. But Dr Foster wasn’t smiling at all. I got up from my seat, cradling my belly, and made my way over to the other side of the room. It was there that I saw what Aiden had drawn.
Like his first piece of art, there was no shape, only chaos. This time he’d chosen two red crayons to complete his piece. The red crayon lines spread from one side of the page to the other, like his first drawing in the hospital. But there was one difference to this piece. In the centre of the picture, Aiden had drawn a set of white, sharp teeth. They were open wide, ready to chomp down on its prey. My first instinct was to snatch the drawing out of his hands, screw it up and throw it away. But I didn’t. I nodded and I smiled, but all the time I felt as though ants were crawling over my skin.
18
I left Aiden’s distressing art with Dr Foster, uneasy about letting anything that sinister into my home. But, as she’d informed me on the way out of her office, Aiden needed some way to express himself. While he was unable to do so verbally, he needed another outlet. Drawing would be excellent therapy for him. Back in the car, before we set off, I leaned against the steering wheel to compose myself. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it.
“Okay, Aiden. Let’s get you home.”
We managed to avoid the reporters on our way into the house, and after we’d had a lunch of ham salad sandwiches—I was taking Jake’s advice about eating healthily—I sucked in a deep breath and opened the garage door.
There was a reason why our car was always parked outside the house on the drive. It wasn’t that we didn’t use the garage, it was that the car wouldn’t fit. Rob was right about the house being absent of colour, and that was because all the colour had been left in the garage. This was where we created. This was our artistic home.
I flicked on the switch and it all came to life.
“It’s okay, Aiden, you can come in. It’s all safe.” I wanted to open the front to the garage to let in the sunlight, but I was all too aware of the reporters still hanging around our house. We had to make do with the light from the kitchen doorway. “I want to show you something.”
The walls were lined with canvasses. Most of the paintings were mine, created after the flood and spanning up to a few years ago when I finally let go and accepted Aiden’s ‘death’. After a deep breath, I held Aiden’s hand and walked him around the garage. It was strange to hold his hand now. It was so much bigger than the hand I’d held ten years ago. Though he appeared so much younger than the young men at school, I had to remember that he was a teenager now. He was almost an adult.
“This is you and me,” I said, pointing to a portrait of a young girl with big eyes holding a tiny baby in her arms. “I was scared when you arrived, but I loved you so much that it didn’t matter. This is you in your Superman cape.” I grinned. I’d painted it from memory six months after Aiden’s disappearance. There was something painful in the reds and the aggressiv
e brush strokes, but I’d captured Aiden’s cheeky face perfectly. Then, I moved onto another portrait and the smile faded. “This is a difficult one. I was in a bad place back then. I missed you so much that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt useless.” It was a zoomed in portrait of my own face. I was snarling. My eyes were sunken. My skin was red and patchy. There were dark, bruised marks above my cheekbones. This was from a year after the flood. I was angry.
I squeezed Aiden’s hand and moved on. At least he was getting used to me touching him. Slow steps. The next series of paintings were all the same. “You see these?” I pointed to each one in turn. “These are the birthday cakes I made for you every year. I never forgot. The third of April. This was the first year. I made you a Superbatironman cake. See? He had a cape, an iron suit, and bat ears. You would have loved it. It was sunny that year. Then, this one was a winged Ferrari. You always said you wanted a flying car for every birthday. Then I made you a dragon cake, just like Walnut. It was a walnut cake, too, with vanilla buttercream.” I cleared my throat, forcing away the emotion. “Do you see what I was trying to do? I painted my feelings out. That was what I did when I lost you. I painted all of these.” My eyes trailed along the wall of paintings, reaching the very last one. The one that had been torn all down one side. I didn’t look at that one for very long. “It’s okay if you want to paint out your feelings, too. I’m going to set up a canvas for you. There are some paints here. I want you to paint like you used to when you were little.”
I moved an easel into the centre of the garage and lowered it to Aiden’s height, then pulled across a small table to set beside it, and put a chair in front. Then I brought in jam jars of water and arranged all the paints and paintbrushes next to the water.
Silent Child Page 11
