Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  “Shall we go then? It’s a nice day. I’d like a walk.”

  Maxine had to drag her attention back to Dirk. She stood and led the way out onto the street. Several people glanced at her and some just stared. She could almost hear them telling their exciting story later: ‘Guess who I saw? Maxine Doran. The supermodel. Strolling around with a tough-looking guy.’ They would probably think he was her minder. Jason knew she would attract attention. He must not care about exposing Dirk to speculation. One thing was sure, nobody would believe that the aloof Maxine Doran, supermodel, was escorting this Dutchman around because if she did not Jason Laide would distribute a pornographic video of her. She shivered. Thinking she was cold, Dirk put his arm around her. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders and stilled the scream in her head. Then she led Dirk Van Aken on a walking tour around her city. As requested.

  * * *

  Just as Ella thought she could not absorb any more information, Peter Sheehan stopped talking and smiled at her. More of a grin, full of fun and mischief.

  “Bet you’re wondering if I’m ever going to stop lecturing and start treating? But it’s important that you understand Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s a multi-faceted disorder. We will have to treat it on all fronts.”

  Ella nodded her agreement. Since Peter Sheehan had explained all the biological changes associated with PTSD in addition to the psychological problems, she felt less helpless, less of a hostage to her damaged memory function, her out-of-control emotions. Couching her nightmares in scientific and medical terms somehow empowered her again.

  “If you are agreeable, Mrs Ford, I would like you to go to the blood clinic in the hospital where I work and have some tests done. Hormone levels, thyroid function and a few more. I’ll write a letter for you.”

  He was assuming that she was going to become his patient. She had come here to tell him how unprofessional she considered him and now . . . now what? She had told him all about her visions of Karen Trevor, about the screaming terrified face she saw over and over in spider webs and teacups and traffic lights. She had confessed it all. Everything she had been ashamed to tell Dr Quill. Or even Andrew. The dreams, the sense of isolation, the feeling that the Ella she knew was still in a coma and that Karen Trevor had taken her place. The guilt. The crushing guilt of the survivor. The horrific loss of control. She looked across at him and saw sympathy in his eyes. Not pity. Not condemnation. Not irritation at her weakness and lack of character. Not a hint of ‘pull yourself together’ or ‘here, take this pill and shut up’.

  She smiled at him. “Yes, Dr Sheehan. I’ll go for the blood tests. What then?”

  “I’d like to see you again. Talk more. Also I would like you to keep a log of episodes. We’ll talk through them next appointment and we will decide together how best to deal with your situation.”

  “Therapy? Medication?”

  “Probably a combination,” he said. “Too soon to give you a definitive answer.”

  Ella stood and shook his hand. “Sorry about the less than polite way I introduced myself. I’ll make an appointment with your secretary on the way out.”

  He stood then and walked her to the door. When she went out onto the street later, her step was a little lighter, her shoulder muscles less tense, the cold space around her heart slightly warmer than it had been before she had met Peter Sheehan.

  * * *

  Andrew felt restless. He had plenty of work to do but nothing so urgent that it required his immediate attention. Walking over to the window of his office he looked at the traffic on the street outside. It was building nicely towards the bumper-to-bumper chaos of the evening rush hour. The walls of the office seemed to shrink and close in about him. He had not heard from Ella. He regretted his call to Peter Sheehan now. Suppose Ella had carried out her threat and had angrily confronted Peter? What would the perfect Mr Sheehan think of Andrew Ford’s wife then? What would he think of Andrew Ford? Opening his door, he walked through the main office, stopping to tell the receptionist that he would be gone for a little while.

  Out on the street, he looked in both directions. He could turn left and go to the newsagent’s for an evening paper or turn right and go for a walk in the park. The thought of trees, gravelled paths and the duck pond won out. Turning right he headed for the park. Everyone seemed to be leaving as he entered. The path was packed with buggies, children on bikes or rollerblades and toddlers pursued by harassed mothers. Andrew made his way towards the pond, remembering the seating there. Maybe sitting watching the ducks paddle and waddle would calm the restlessness inside him.

  He found a vacant seat. The traffic was just a distant buzz and he could hear the rustle of wind in the trees, the gentle lap of the water against the edge of the pond, the quacks of ducks, the squeals of excited children and the barely controlled hysteria in their mothers’ shouts. Maxine Doran seemed to have peeled away his protective skin. His feelings, his senses, his perceptions, were all sharper now. It was as if Maxine had reached inside him and turned him inside out, leaving the most vulnerable, sensitive part of Andrew Ford to absorb the sights and sounds, the pain and joy of living.

  Annoyed at his fanciful turn of mind and at allowing Maxine into his conscious thoughts again, he stooped, picked up a pebble and threw it into the pond. It landed in the water with a splashy sound. Little waves billowed out from the point of impact. He watched as the circles grew wider and wider, hypnotised by the gentle, unstoppable motion.

  He continued staring until a tinkling sound, a familiar laugh, caught his attention. It was unmistakable. Sweet and pure and, for him, heart-stopping. His head snapped up and he saw Maxine, laughing up at the man by her side. They were walking towards the pond. Andrew swallowed to rid himself of the sharp knot of jealousy that stuck in his throat. The man was blonde, stocky, wearing an opened-necked shirt and a silk suit. Gold chains around his neck glinted in the feeble evening light.

  Andrew stood as they approached.

  Maxine’s laugh faded as she saw him. “Andrew! What a surprise! I didn’t think you were a feeding-ducks type!”

  “I’m not,” he replied sulkily. “And ditto.”

  “I’m just showing Dirk around,” she explained. “Dirk Van Aken from Holland. Dirk, meet Andrew Ford. One of our leading estate agents here.”

  Andrew shook the Dutchman’s hand. What in the fuck was Maxine doing with a hoodlum like this?

  “Your city is very beautiful,” Dirk said, “and so full of energy. It really is at the cutting edge of progress, isn’t it?”

  “Are you just visiting?” Andrew asked curtly.

  “I’m carrying out a feasibility study. I may invest here. If the conditions are right.”

  “What line of business are you in?” Andrew asked and was not surprised when Dirk answered, “Entertainment”. It figured that this scummy-looking person would be involved in lap-dancing and maybe strip clubs or something even sleazier. What was his connection with Maxine? Why was this beautiful, successful woman spending time with a man who was obviously a pimp?

  “I enjoyed our trip to the countryside,” she said, smiling at Andrew.

  Andrew was taken aback. It was careless of Maxine to mention that they had shared time together. But then this Dirk person did not know and most probably did not care that Andrew was married.

  “I own a few acres of land out there,” Andrew explained. “Max and I just went to look over the site.”

  “I see,” Dirk muttered.

  His stare sent a shiver down Andrew’s spine. He took a step back from the man with the gold chains, furious with himself for making an explanation to this piece of gilded shit. Glancing at his watch he saw that it was almost closing time in Ford Auctioneers.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he said. “Enjoy your stay, Dirk.”

  Turning to Maxine, he wanted to warn her, to tell her be careful of the Dutchman. Instead he just said a quick goodbye.

  “I’m off to Paris tomorrow for a couple of days,” sh
e said. “A catwalk job. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  Maxine looked so beautiful, so delicate and frail in the evening light that Andrew wanted to take her in his arms and then punch the Dutch gangster. No. He would flatten Dirk first and then take Maxine . . .

  Realising that he was making a spectacle of himself staring at Maxine, Andrew nodded curtly and strode off in the direction of his office. By the time he reached the street again he had admitted to himself that Maxine Doran was probably well capable of taking care of herself. She had not needed Andrew Ford to get her to where she was and she certainly did not need him to keep her there.

  Maxine had watched Andrew go, then turned to the man by her side and began to walk at a pace that had him gasping for breath. She walked and walked from monument to monument until both she and Dirk Van Aken were completely exhausted. Especially Dirk Van Aken.

  * * *

  Ella arrived back at the office at exactly the same time as Andrew. Unless Andrew was mistaken there was a new energy about her, a slightly less dark shadow around her. She threw a package on her desk and took off her coat.

  “I collected the photos of Manor House. Would you look through them with me? I’ll have to pick out a few for the website and the brochure.”

  Andrew walked over to her desk and sat opposite her. Up close his earlier impression was confirmed. Her eyes were definitely brighter, her shoulders more relaxed.

  “Did you go to see Peter Sheehan?”

  She glared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him? I was embarrassed when he told me.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance. Anyway, how did you get on with him?”

  Ella stopped opening the package on the desk and frowned. How had she got on with Dr Peter Sheehan? When she was in his office, under his green-eyed gaze, she had felt his compassion and understanding. She had been confident that he would solve all her problems. She had imagined herself to be safe and even sane. Now she was not so sure. Vulnerability gnawed at her insides again.

  “I made another appointment with him.”

  There was no need to say more. Andrew nodded in satisfaction. He did not like Peter Sheehan. He never had, despite the fact that they had been inseparable. Peter had always been a Goody Two Shoes. But he had an international reputation for working with PTSD patients. He would have.

  Ella had the package opened now and photos were strewn around the desk top. One by one they examined the pictures. The gardens, the stables, the façade of Manor House, the interior. They sorted through the photos, putting some aside as possible brochure pictures, discarding others, working in harmony until there was just one picture left.

  They both stared in shocked silence at the portrait of Lady Harriet Wellsley.

  Andrew saw Maxine Doran staring back at him. He saw Maxine’s lustrous eyes, luxuriant blonde hair, delicate nose and high cheekbones. The resemblance was uncanny. It was as if Maxine had put on a plumed hat and a satin gown and sat for an artist.

  “Who is she?” he asked in a whisper.

  Ella did not answer. When Andrew looked at her she was staring wide-eyed at the photograph.

  Ella was seeing Karen Trevor. She reached out to touch the picture where Karen Trevor’s endless dying played on relentlessly. The contact with the smooth, cold paper stilled the image and Lady Harriet Wellsley came back into focus. Ella sat back in her chair, at once exhausted but relieved. The dying image had been shorter, less intense this time. Maybe Peter Sheehan would live up to his promise to return her to normality. She turned to Andrew.

  “That’s a portrait of Karen’s great-aunt. Lady Harriet Wellsley. A feisty woman by all accounts. She reminds me of someone but I can’t put a name on her. Can you?”

  “No,” Andrew muttered but when Ella’s attention was elsewhere he slipped the photograph of Lady Harriet Wellsley into his inside pocket.

  Chapter 6

  Jason Laide woke the following morning with an unfamiliar feeling of loneliness. He looked across the wide expanse of his seven-foot bed at the space left vacant by his wife. Sharon was gone again. Another young man. Another Adonis to entertain her for a little while. She would be back. She always was. Sated and amused, she would return to briefly fulfil her role as Mrs Jason Laide.

  Her next spell at home would have to be longer. She had decided to move house again. Jason tried to remember how many times they had moved in the five years they were married, their homes getting progressively more ostentatious. At least this time he could benefit from whatever deal they made. He had been very satisfied to hear that Ford Auctioneers were to handle the sale of this property and the purchase of the new one. Trust Sharon to do the right thing! He now had a very good reason to deal directly with the Fords himself. And he might need to. It was very bad news that the Coxes were sniffing around the Ballyhaven site too. How in the fuck did they find out about it and how many more vultures would be trying to grab it? He was disappointed that Maxine Doran did not seem to be making good progress with Andrew Ford. The fifty acres in Ballyhaven were still in Ford’s name. Maxine was not trying hard enough or else she was losing her touch. Her success was going to her head. She was becoming more and more difficult to handle.

  Jason reddened with anger as he thought of the way Maxine looked down her nose at him, her distaste undisguised. There were times when he wished he had left the little slut where he had found her. In her crummy back street. But that would not have been her life-path in any case. Maxine, with her extraordinary beauty and overriding ambition, was never going to be left to smoulder in the mean streets. Not for her the job on the factory line, the drunken husband, the drudgery of childbearing and rearing. The life style her sisters had chosen. Yet she was beginning to outlive her usefulness to Jason Laide. Getting to be more trouble than she was worth.

  Throwing the duvet back he got out of bed. His toes curled into the thick pile of the carpet. He stood for an instant, enjoying the warmth and softness, remembering the cold linoleum and chilblains of his childhood, the black moulds and stains of dampness that traced patterns of neglect on the walls and ceilings, the buckets and basins strategically placed to catch leaks. The incessant blood-chilling, mind-numbing drip-drip of poverty. He shivered. He had worked hard, done things he would rather not remember, in order to leave that childhood behind. He had one more goal. One more achievement to make before he could finally bury the poverty of his past. Neither the snotty Fords nor Maxine Doran were going to get in his way.

  He dressed carefully, putting on even more bling than usual. It was vital that Dirk Van Aken and everybody else realised just how successful a man Jason Laide had become. Then he drove down town, fifteen minutes early for his appointment with the Dutchman. They had some very important business to do, a very important person to meet.

  * * *

  Ella went to her bag for a tissue and saw the letter Dr Peter Sheehan had written for the blood-testing clinic. She took it out and held it in her hand, trying to decide what to do. It was sealed. Of course she could open it. It was, after all, about her. But how would that help? Probably just a page covered in illegible doctor’s squiggle. No. What she must decide now was what to do about it. Go to the clinic, have the tests and continue on with Peter Sheehan? See where the treatment took her, see if he could deliver peace of mind. Or she might go back to her previous doctor, Edmund Quill. And nightmares. Not an option.

  She looked across the office at Andrew. He was gazing out the window, a frown creasing his forehead. For a moment Ella felt guilty. Her sickness, phobia or disorder, whichever terminology applied, had robbed Andrew of his smile. That crashing, death-filled instant which had taken Karen Trevor’s life and that of her child, had forever changed the Andrew and Ella that used to be.

  On impulse, Ella stood and walked across the office to her husband. Reaching out her hand she touched his cheek, remembering how she used to love the prickly feel of his strong stubble. He turned his gaze on her and she saw all the trauma of the past year reflected there. For
the first time since the accident she really saw him, her husband, the man who used to be the centre of her life. Tears filled her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Andrew,” she whispered. “This has been terrible for you. I’ve been selfish. Focused on my own problems. Not thinking of you at all.”

  Andrew caught the hand touching his cheek and gently kissed it. The fingers stiffened, the hand withdrew.

  “I’m getting help,” Ella said, with an edge of panic in her voice. “Peter Sheehan is going to devise a recovery programme for me. And medication too. We’ll be alright, Andy. Won’t we?”

  Andrew looked at the semi-hysterical woman standing in front of him, totally traumatised because he had kissed her hand. He wondered if any doctor, even the renowned Peter Sheehan, could ever fix her damaged mind. If they would ever be together again as man and wife.

  He smiled at her. “Yes, Ella. We’ll be fine. It will just take time.”

  Ella knew then that she would go to the blood-testing clinic that afternoon. She must.

  * * *

  Jason led the way into the cottage. It had the cold feel of an unoccupied dwelling. He flicked on the heating and brought Dirk Van Aken and Oliver Griffin into the kitchen-cum-dining room. It was sparsely furnished. Just the bare essentials. Cooker, fridge, microwave, kettle and in the dining area a huge table and six chairs. Jason indicated to the two men to sit at what he thought of as the conference table. Buying this cottage in a quiet suburban area of town had been one of his better ideas. It was the sort of area where people came and went and nobody asked questions. There were no concerned neighbours or nosey do-gooders. All his sensitive meetings were conducted here, safe from prying eyes. None more so, in his view, than the one they were about to begin now.