“A title?” I said. “No, not yet. I don’t think that’s important.” I had only written ten pages when I told Susan. Ten pages don’t need a title. They were just pages, paragraphs and words. They weren’t a story, and only stories need titles if they need one at all.
“All right, okay,” she said. “I guess you’re right. I just want you to know how excited I am. This will speed up your recovery so much!”
“Do you think so?”
“Absolutely!” she said. “I’ve just been with another service user who is painting her third work, and she might get to finish it at home.” Service user. Those words made me frown, even if against my will. I wondered why I couldn’t be just Laura. They needed a name for everything, and at the end of the day, it felt much better than the traditional mental patient label, it made me feel less mental, but it was still cold and distant. As if they were afraid of mistaking us with people.
“Brilliant,” I said. Susan realised I was uncomfortable.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have talked about another person,” she said. The way she rectified the term made me frown once again. I realised her awareness, if this makes any sense. It might sound pretty stupid, but this moment revealed to me she was just a professional. She wasn’t my family. She wasn’t even my friend. Just a professional doing her job. I felt embarrassed. I had lost perspective. But I couldn’t be mad at her. Only at me. At the naïve and childish me.
“That’s all right,” I said, “you just wanted to be nice.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised by my understanding.
“No, thank you,” I replied. “You’re helping me a lot.”
I’d like to say that writing was the only thing that kept me sane in the psychiatric ward, but the drugs they gave me on a daily basis played their part as well. I refused to take them at first. I thought they’d ruin my mind, they’d keep me submissive and manageable for the members of staff and destroy my individuality and my character, but it was quite the opposite: I felt clearer, brighter, and happier. I came to believe my brain would dry out if I stopped having them. They washed away every shadow in my life. My dreams weren’t nightmares anymore, and I could see the positives of everything. Well, almost everything. My boy was dead. But the memory of his dead body wouldn’t come and visit me quite as often.
Apart from writing and drugs, I had found a very entertaining hobby to occupy my everlasting mornings. I listened to people. I liked picking someone different every day and talking to them and hearing their tales. Some were boring, and they’d answer only with monosyllables. Or they’d tell me a story about some dude at their secondary school or about a knee operation and their long stay in a hospital bed without leaving out any single detail. But others were just brilliant. My favourite was Gregor.
Women and men slept in different aisles, but we had common areas, and that made it way less monotonous than the prison in many regards. Gregor was the first man I spoke to since I first stepped in the ward. He was sitting on a sofa, watching some BBC nature documentary.
“How are you?” I said.
“Good, thanks,” he answered, “and you?”
“Oh, I’m great. Would you mind me sitting here?”
“Sure.”
“What are you watching, Mr…”
“Gregor,” he said. “Just Gregor.”
“Gregor,” I said. “I’m Laura. Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” he said. “I’m watching a documentary about crocodiles. It’s not very interesting, but I was bored and there’s not much on TV these days.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I was wondering if you could give me some advice about this place.”
“Oh, of course I can,” he said. “Luckily for you, I know everything about it.”
“Good,” I said.
“The first thing you need to know about me is that I grew up in Hackney.”
“Oh, so you’re an East-Ender as well,” I said, overlooking he had changed the topic.
“And you too?” he said. “Your accent doesn’t sound very…”
“I wasn’t born in London,” I said, saving him the time and the hassle of finding a politically correct adjective. “I’m from Spain, but I lived in Leytonstone for the past six years. Your accent doesn’t sound East-End either.”
“Well, my parents were proper cockneys, but they strove to erase any trace of it in me. They were obsessed with making me speak in what they considered ‘educated’ English, as if being educated had anything to do with somebody’s accent. They meant well, I suppose. They loved me so much.”
“Loved?” I asked, allowing myself to be a little impertinent.
“Yes,” he answered. “They’re dead.”
“I’m so, so sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have…”
“It’s all right,” he said. “It was very hard at the beginning. Particularly the guilt.”
“Guilt?”
“Yes. Loss is painful. Very painful. It’s like an enormous stone you carry in your chest and you can’t possibly get rid of. But guilt is the worst feeling one can have.” I wasn’t sure it’d be a good idea to pursue this specific subject. I wasn’t sure I wanted his answers either. But it didn’t matter. He’d give them anyway. He knew I was wondering. “I killed them,” he said.
I opened my eyes until my eyebrows engulfed my forehead. “Oh my!”
“It’s all right.” He was calm and waited until I digested his confession to speak on. “It’s been a while now.”
I had faced death many times in my life, and I came to think nothing could surprise me anymore, but the way he said it amazed me. He was quiet. At peace. I wanted that. I wanted his secret. I wanted the pain and the guilt to go away. Forever. “What happened?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, surprised that I wasn’t scared or petrified or frozen. “It all began when I was a teenager. I heard voices. Cruel voices. They told me to do things, and they were loud and they wouldn’t stop until I did as they said. After having set my mother’s car on fire, I was taken to the doctors and diagnosed with schizophrenia. I was fifteen.
“When I took the drugs they gave to me, I was okay. I could have a normal life and go to school and stuff. But their drugs tired me. I used to fall asleep in class, and teachers would tell me off. I also gained weight. I had never been fat, but I became a piggy, a drowsy little piggy, and teenagers don’t forgive that. Or they didn’t when I was sixteen, back in the nineties. My life sucked, so I stopped taking the drugs.
“One night, when I was sleeping, I heard somebody insulting me. He sounded like an old man shouting in my ear. I switched the lights on and saw nobody. But he was very real to me. It wasn’t a familiar voice. It wasn’t one of the voices I’d heard before starting taking the drugs. This was a new one. Angrier. I know now it fed on my own rage. I was the one making it strong and powerful and cruel. ‘Kill them,’ he said. ‘Kill them all.’
“I didn’t want to. I covered my ears with my hands, but it was useless. He was louder and louder. ‘Kill them!’ It hurt. ‘Kill them!’ I knew he wouldn’t stop until I did as he said, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t kill my family. I closed my eyes. Really tight. So tight, it ached. The voice went away. For a moment, I was happy. It had gone, and I hadn’t had to take the bloody drugs. I was healed.
“But all my joy disappeared when I opened my eyes again. I screamed. I didn’t know I could scream so loud. The voice had gone, but a laugh had replaced it. An evil laugh, the soundtrack of a scene I will never forget. They were holding hands. My mum and my dad. On the floor. That image broke my heart. They loved each other so much, and they loved me. More than anything. There was blood everywhere. It was so red. I came to doubt it was actual blood. Only for a second. Until I saw the slit on my mum’s throat and a red stream still coming out very slowly. I screamed and screamed. I stood there crying and screaming like a scared little boy until my neighbour told me from the threshold ‘drop the knife!’ I hadn’t even realised I was holding a knife. ‘Drop the knife!�
� His command was the awful confirmation of what I had just done. I was a killer, a murderer, and I’d be a threat to people for the rest of my life.”
Gregor was quiet for a while. His serene calm had given in to a contained trace of sadness which went away in a few seconds. “Don’t you remember anything at all?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I remember having opened my eyes, only to learn I’d killed my parents.”
“Did you know it had been you straight away?”
“And who else?” he asked. “We were alone at home. The three of us. Yes, I knew I’d done it.”
“What happened after that?” I asked. But he didn’t seem to feel like speaking any longer.
“Nothing happened,” he answered.
“But the voices,” I insisted. “Did they go away?”
“They did. As soon as I took the drugs again.”
“Did they stop forever?”
“Oh, no!” he said with a sarcastic smile. “They never go away! Whenever I stop taking the drugs, they come back!”
“But then why do you stop taking them?”
“Well, when I grew up, I didn’t mind being a drowsy piggy anymore, as you can see.”
“I…”
“Save me your condescension,” he interrupted me. “But there are more side effects. Plenty of them. I am very annoyed at a particular one, and so was my girlfriend.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. But I don’t need your pity either,” he said. “It is what it is.”
I wished things were so clear on my mind. I didn’t really know the difference between schizophrenia and psychosis, but we apparently shared one or two symptoms, according to my psychiatrist.
“You’re troubled,” he said. “You remind me very much of myself. The pain will go. With time. And so will the guilt. You’ll learn to live with it. It won’t be easy, but you’ll get there.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Trust me, you will.”
“I killed my son.”
“I know,” he said. “Noreen told me.”
Bitch. It took me one week to trust someone enough to open myself, and she had run to tell Gregor the following day. “Shit,” I said. “She wasn’t supposed to tell anybody!”
“Don’t be mad at her. She’s very close to me. She won’t tell anybody else,” he said. “But the important thing here is to forgive yourself.”
“I’m not even sure it was me,” I said. “I was convinced I didn’t do it, but all these people; the psychiatrist, the judge, the police, they keep telling me I killed my boy, and I can’t stand it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Pardon?”
“It doesn’t matter who killed him. Whether it was you or not, the result is the same: he’s dead, and you’ll have to live with it.”
“How can I live with it if it was me the one who killed him?”
“You weren’t even conscious. There’s nothing you could’ve done. Where there’s no consciousness, there’s no will.”
“But still.”
“I get it. As I told you, I’ve been there before. Exactly where you are right now. It will take time. A lot of time. How much will depend on you and how soon you accept and forgive yourself.”
That was beyond my comprehension. The pain was real. It was almost bearable because of the drugs, but it was there. All the time. Like a stain of fuel on the sea stopping the sunlight on the surface and killing any living thing underneath.
Chapter 30
Mark
They told me I’d see Marcus. “Marcus,” I pronounced his name and coloured every letter in my mind. The “m” was brown. The “a” sounded more like blue. I couldn’t decide if the “r” should be yellow or green, but the “c” was definitely grey, the “u” maroon and the “s” red. It had been months since the last time I held him in my arms, and all I could think about was letters and colours. The outline of his face had grown diffused and distant as if he were nothing else than the main character of a series of nostalgic dreams. But his name on my lips eased me off. “Marcus.” It was pure music, a long “a” interrupted by the dry, occlusive “c.” “Marcus.” I was unable to feel anything. Or rather, the drugs made me feel equally happy about everything. Seeing Marcus was good news. And so was having moussaka for dinner. I knew it was something special. I should feel exultant. In a different way. But time had passed, and I had lost any hope of having my baby back. I was going to see him only once, one more time, and perhaps never again.
I couldn’t even start to guess Mark’s intentions. Bringing our baby here. To see me at this place. It puzzled me. After all this time, I still couldn’t completely read him. He said I was a threat, that I was dangerous, and it was for the best to keep me away from Marcus. It had been his lawyer’s advice. Did he think I wasn’t a threat anymore? I doubted it. He was up to something, as usual.
I was being medicated. No illusions. What I felt was real this time. Susan had been talking about this for a week, preparing me for this moment. She was concerned about my health. She didn’t think it was a good idea to see Mark, but she never tried to stop me. She encouraged me instead to focus on the good things, although she knew that it’d be a hell of a challenge.
“Mark and Marcus are visiting,” I told her.
“Oh, okay,” she said, frowning. “How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I want to see Marcus, but Mark has hurt me.”
“Do you want to see him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess. Yes, I want to see him. I need to see him. I need to know why. Why he betrayed me.”
“He might not think he betrayed you, Laura. You need to be ready for that.”
“How could he? He handed me over the first chance he had!”
“I understand your point of view,” she said, “I really do, but in his mind he might think he did the right thing.”
“How can you say that?” I asked.
“He says he saw you kill your baby,” she said, raising her right hand for me not to interrupt. “If he’s telling the truth and he actually believes he saw you do that, it’s only right to tell the authorities to keep you and your family safe. At the end of the day, that’s why you’re here, Laura, to keep you safe.”
“So you’re on his side now?” I said.
“Of course I’m not,” she answered, “you know that. I just want you to think about it. He may feel awful for having had to take such a difficult decision. You’re his wife and his son’s mother. I’m sure he’d love you to be by his side and be a family again.”
“If he’s telling the truth,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“If he’s telling the truth,” she repeated.
“What do you want me to do, then?” I said. “To greet him as a hero? To say thanks for helping send me here?”
“No. That’s not what I want,” she said. “I want you to recover, to be at peace, and you won’t be able to do it until you understand everything that happened and forgive yourself.”
It was the ward motto. Forgive yourself. Gregor had been told that so many times that it was carved in his brain in blood letters. Forgive yourself. They demanded I accept something I didn’t even remember. “Will this help me recover?” I said.
“Marcus will help,” she said.
I was about to find out.
I was walking and listening to music in the gardens. I did that for thirty minutes every morning. Very early. At dawn. It was relaxing. It made my mind go blank. The vibration of the pebbles sinking under my feet at every footstep was exhausting and monotonous, but it made me want to keep walking. The hedge was perfectly trimmed, not a single leaf stood out, and I rubbed it along with my left hand as I walked from time to time, feeling the touch and the harmless scratches on my fingertips. It was cold that day, and dry, and the dim blue sky seemed to be falling in minuscule ice crystals that adhered to my hair and to the grass and formed a whitish crust. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I had
n’t heard her approach.
She was a member of staff, smiling at me and stroking my arm as I put my headphones around my neck. “He’s here,” she said.
It was happening. I’d get to see them. Mark and my little Marcus. I hurried to the entrance of the main building, the sound of the gravel loud in my ears and the chilling morning air coming into my lungs and freezing my breath. They would be in the left wing of the main building. Visits could be met at the common areas most times, but they had smaller, private rooms for more intimate reunions. They would be there. I had told the porters I wanted to be alone with them, but they said they couldn’t allow it. Was I that dangerous? They granted me permission to use one of the small rooms, though, supervised by two security guards. At least they won’t handcuff me, I thought.
I felt my blood rushing as my crazy heart pumped it around my body. I could sense it beating under my skin. Every pulse. I realised I was smiling. My eyes slightly bathed in tears of excitement. “Marcus,” I said to myself once again, savouring every sound as I heard its vibration through my skull and the air. One of the guards opened the door for me. Mark was there, sitting on a chair. He stood up when he saw me. I looked around. At the table, at the corners, at the one-way mirror, only to see the reflection of a too empty room.
“Where’s Marcus?” I asked when Mark was about to say hello.
“He couldn’t come,” he answered, lowering his head but without losing eye contact with me.
“What?” I said.
“He’s with Karen right now.”
“But why?” I had to contain my tears. I needed to be strong, to show him I was strong.
“Andrew didn’t think it was a good idea to…”
“Andrew?” I interrupted. “Seriously?”
“Laura, please,” he said, “I haven’t come here to fight.”
I breathed in and out a few times. Staring at his face. Trying to calm myself down and think if I could even get something positive from that meeting. “What have you come for, then?”
“To talk to you.”
“Now you want to talk to me? After all this time? You forget about me, Mark. You leave me here to rot and to age alone and bitter. This is your first visit, for fuck’s sake!”
The Outcast Son Page 23
