The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  ‘Excuse me. Do you mind not leaning against my car?’ she snaps, and I stutter apologies as I step away from her.

  My mind and body feel detached from each other and my head swims. I reach out a hand and steady myself against the wall as though I can stop myself floating away.

  Is it all in my head? The engine of the yellow car I’d been so sure was Chris’s thrums, and I am angry. Scared. Confused. I am everything but certain of my own thoughts. I know I can’t go on like this, and leaning against the rough brick I make a call.

  ‘Please help me,’ I beg.

  28

  Vanessa tells me it is nice to see me and asks me to take a seat. She doesn’t ask why I implored Beverley, her receptionist, to fit me in. Thunking my bag onto the floor I sink into the sofa. Vanessa slides a box of Kleenex closer to me, as if this might be the day she breaks me. I can’t stop my knees jiggling up and down while I fight to put the things I am desperate to tell her into some kind of order. Vanessa sloshes water from a jug into two glasses, and I take a sip, grateful for its coolness. I’m sweating and shaking after running all the way from the police station. My head thumps and each time I inhale the lavender from her potpourri, the band around my forehead tightens.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me in your lunch hour. I really appreciate it.’ My voice is flat and I fall silent again.

  ‘How are you, Jenna?’

  I open my mouth to speak but a sob bursts forth instead. Vanessa sits silently as I help myself to the tissues I never thought I’d need. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, but every time I try to talk my breath catches and the words get stuck in my throat.

  ‘Take your time,’ Vanessa says and I nod, embarrassed I can’t seem to pull myself together.

  At last, my shoulders stop shaking, and Vanessa passes a brown wicker bin over the table and I drop my balled-up tissues inside. ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’ I gaze out of the window at the rolling clouds, not wanting to meet her eye.

  She doesn’t ask any questions, and I know it’s a ploy. She thinks if she stays silent for long enough I’ll fill the space between us with words but I honestly don’t know where to start. She’ll think I’m crazy, and I’m beginning to wonder if I am.

  ‘I think something bad happened to Callie.’ I twist my head back around to face her but her expression is impartial. ‘And I don’t know what to do about it.’

  ‘What do you think happened to Callie?’ she asks.

  I tug another tissue out of the box and twist it round and round in my fingers.

  ‘I think she was scared. I think someone hurt her. I’ve been to the police station but they didn’t take me seriously. I think she might have been…’ I hesitate, not wanting to say the word aloud. Not wanting to even think it. ‘I think she might have been murdered,’ I whisper and I brace myself for her reaction.

  Vanessa doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t even register surprise. Instead she asks in that neutral tone of hers: ‘Why do you think someone hurt Callie?’ and I feel wrong-footed. I’d expected more of a response.

  ‘I’ve been trying to find out what happened that night – for Tom and Amanda, you know? So they can stop being fixated on why Callie left the wedding, and grieve properly.’ As I say the word ‘fixated’ I think Vanessa’s eyebrow raises a millimetre but I can’t be sure. I push forward. ‘It’s harder than I thought. At first I thought Nathan had hurt her. I feel so much fear and I think it’s her fear. I dream about a man a lot, always the same one, but I never see his face. I’m sure it’s Nathan though.’

  ‘And in these dreams? The man is hurting Callie?’

  ‘No.’ I admit. ‘The dreams are happy, but there’s lots of dark feelings when I’m awake. I think they are Callie’s memories but I can’t figure them out. When I met Chris I got a really strange feeling…’

  ‘Who is Chris?’

  ‘Callie’s boss, at the dentist’s surgery.’ This time Vanessa’s lips purse but I can’t help telling her everything. How I’d thought it would help if I found out where Sophie was in Spain so Tom and Amanda could contact her directly. I recount my experience at the Prince of Wales pub, and it’s a relief to let it all out. By the time I’ve finished I half-expect Vanessa to be leaping to her feet, insisting we call the police right away. But instead, she pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose with one hand while she scribbles notes into my file with the other, and while I wait for her to finish writing I speak again.

  ‘I did some more research. Into Cellular Memory. There’s a documented case where an eight-year-old girl received the heart of a ten-year-old murdered girl and she had horrifying nightmares of a man murdering her donor. The dreams were so traumatic and so detailed her psychiatrist and mother notified the police and they gathered enough evidence to find the murderer and convict him.’

  Vanessa looks up and I think I’ve piqued her interest but she says: ‘I can’t comment on that, Jenna, but I can tell you what you’re experiencing is a completely normal reaction.’

  ‘Thinking someone has been murdered is normal?’ I can’t see how she can convince me of this.

  ‘Are you familiar with Secondary Traumatic Stress – STS – Jenna?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It occurs when an individual, you, in this case, hears about the first-hand trauma of another. The risk is greater among women or those who have unresolved trauma issues themselves. You fit into both categories. The guilt you feel over receiving Callie’s heart, coupled with the empathy you feel towards Tom and Amanda and your helplessness to ease their suffering, has resulted, I believe, in Secondary Traumatic Stress.’ Vanessa sips her water before continuing. ‘The symptoms range from feelings of hopelessness and despair, anxiety, to unwanted thoughts, reliving traumatic events even if you weren’t there at the time and nightmares.’

  ‘But I was followed home; I’m sure of it. I feel so unnerved almost all of the time. Like someone is watching me.’

  ‘Heightened sensitivity and excess vigilance can sometimes be part of the symptoms of STS. It would be quite easy to believe someone is following you, even if they aren’t.’

  ‘I’m not imagining everything though.’ I refuse to believe it’s all in my head.

  ‘I’m not saying you are imagining anything, Jenna. Everything you are thinking and feeling is very real to you. But I believe STS, combined with the medication you are taking – and we know a side effect of prednisone, for example, can be paranoia – is contributing to irrational thoughts. Your preoccupation with Callie’s death is a way of manifesting these symptoms. Do you really believe if there was any suspicion it would have been ruled an accidental death? You said yourself the police investigated the accident thoroughly and ruled out anything suspicious.’

  ‘But Tom and Amanda think there’s something strange.’

  ‘They’re bound to. It’s a coping mechanism. Accidents are too random. They are too difficult to process. It’s natural to want to find a reason why. Nothing makes sense otherwise, do you see?’

  I think about this for a minute. ‘I suppose I can understand they are trying to make sense of it. But Secondary Traumatic Stress doesn’t explain everything, does it? The mobile Sara gave me at the dentist’s and the messages on it — they’re real. I’ll show you.’ I rummage in my bag and pull out the handset. Vanessa turns the phone over slowly in her hands as though she’s never seen one before.

  ‘How do you know this is Callie’s?’ I am asked for the second time today.

  ‘Sara found it in her drawer at work.’

  ‘But where’s the proof that it was Callie’s phone? The texts don’t mention her name, do they? You know Callie had an iPhone that her parents now have. A patient could have left this in reception, and she put it in her drawer to deal with it later. I’ve got a box full of lost property in my cupboard. Hasn’t anyone ever left anything in the vets?’

  Only last week I’d found a baseball cap in reception and I’d stuffed it into my drawer in case the owner came back to reclaim it, but
I don’t share this; instead I change the subject. ‘But the pub? I definitely heard a man say “we could make it look like an accident,” I know I did.’

  ‘That pub is notorious for small-time crooks. It’s teeming with them. You don’t know who it was you heard talking outside and it isn’t somewhere you should be going, especially on your own. You have no proof Sophie or Callie knew Neil.’ And there it is again, that word that’s stopping everyone taking me seriously. Proof.

  ‘But he knew they were sisters,’ I protest.

  ‘Perhaps a natural assumption if they look similar, but are you sure you didn’t mention it?’

  ‘Yes.’ But I’ve hesitated too long before answering. I’m not completely sure and Vanessa knows it.

  ‘Look, Jenna. There’s nothing I can see to demonstrate anything untoward happened to Callie, or Sophie.’

  As she says this I am left with a heavy feeling. I’ve never considered anything might have happened to Sophie. ‘Do you think Sophie’s OK? It seems so strange she hasn’t been in touch.’

  ‘Sophie has been through a traumatic experience. Her big sister has died. It’s not unusual to need some space and distance to deal with grief. I’m sure she’ll be back in contact with her parents when she’s had a chance to process everything. You said she’d disappeared before when things got too much?’

  ‘Yes.’ I chew my lip, my mind tick-tick-ticking as I try to make sense of what Vanessa is saying. Every explanation she’s come up with is plausible. Maybe more plausible than my theories; is it all in my head? I just don’t know any more. I try one last time to convince her. ‘Callie left the wedding… Nathan too. Tom says it wasn’t like her at all not to say goodbye.’

  ‘They could have had a row. Thousands of people do. Look, Jenna’, Vanessa puts down her notes and leans forward, ‘if I thought there was a smidgen of doubt that Callie’s death was anything other than an accident I’d be morally bound to report it, but I don’t see any evidence of that. I really don’t.’

  ‘But I’ve been feeling so strongly Callie wants me to do something.’ I think of my kitchen, plastered in photos of Callie and mind maps but I’m not so certain any more. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. ‘Vanessa, at work, I’ve been making mistakes, forgetting things. Could this be part of it? This Secondary Traumatic Stress thing?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Can it be fixed? Can you make it go away?’ My voice is small.

  ‘We can work together. Keep talking. When are you next due for a medication review?’

  ‘It’s my six-month check next week.’

  ‘All being well your medication should be reduced again. That should make a difference too. You’re not alone, Jenna.’ And she reaches out and squeezes my hand, and for the second time that day tears escape, but this time I’m crying with relief.

  Feeling positive I step out of Vanessa’s office into the bright afternoon sun and slip on my sunglasses over my tired eyes. As I’m walking along the almost empty street I resist the urge to swivel my head around to check whether anyone is following me. Vanessa’s explanation about Secondary Traumatic Stress causing paranoia and irrational thoughts has put my mind at ease somewhat, although I’m not entirely convinced that Cellular Memory doesn’t exist. There’s too much research to just dismiss it. But I do accept the phone could have been anyone’s, and it seems that Callie’s death was properly investigated. The smell of freshly baked bread wafts from the open door of a bakery causing my stomach to growl. Checking my watch, I see it’s gone one thirty. I’m due to meet Nathan at two, and I think I’ll still go, and have one last try to at least find some answer for Tom and Amanda, or even better, Sophie’s address.

  Footsteps pound behind me on the pavement, drawing closer and closer, and my shoulders tense but I don’t look around. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My pace is quicker now, but I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to be late, not because I am nervous. The back of my neck is hot, it’s the heat of the sun I know, not someone’s eyes burning into me. I replay the conversation with Vanessa in my head, reassuring myself my fear is not real, but behind me the clatter of pallets being dropped slices the air and my stomach muscles tighten. I can’t help swinging around, and I think I see someone wearing a black hoodie, despite the heat, darting into the bakery as I catch sight of him or her. My breath quickens and I don’t know why. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Is there?

  29

  Clouds of midges hover over the sun-speckled water of the canal. Nathan’s not here yet, and while I wait I sit on a slatted bench, stifling yawn after yawn. A narrow boat with orange flowers painted on the side drifts lazily past, the smell of bacon wafting across the water. I watch as it stops at a lock. A grey-haired woman and a yapping Yorkshire terrier alight the boat while a man in a flat cap stays on board. A movement on the bridge catches my eye. A shadowy figure. I can’t make them out in the brightness of the sun, but it seems they are looking straight at me. Despite Vanessa’s reassurances I am edgy as I stare back at them but when they raise their arm and wave and step forward I see it’s only Nathan, and I slowly exhale in relief.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ Nathan says as he joins me, kissing me on the cheek as I stand. ‘I have something for you.’ He swings the rucksack from his shoulder and pulls out a bottle of water. ‘So you don’t overheat again,’ he says and I laugh, instantly at ease.

  Making small talk, we walk. The sunshine has brought out families and the towpath is teeming with toddlers on scooters, children on bikes. Dogs strain against leads, desperate to jump into the water.

  ‘Look!’ Nathan stops. A brood of ducklings bob up and down struggling to keep up with their mother as she paddles through the water at an alarming rate.

  ‘Oh, that little one’s getting left behind.’ I point.

  ‘Let’s slow her down.’ Nathan reaches into his rucksack again and produces a bag of bread.

  ‘Here.’ He hands me a crust, and I break it into small pieces before tossing them into the canal where they float on the top of the murky water. The duck weaves towards them, her babies close behind as we watch the bread being gobbled up before the family swim away, disappearing behind reeds.

  Nathan stuffs the empty bag into his rucksack. ‘Ice cream?’

  ‘I’d love one.’ I sit on a bench as Nathan queues at the kiosk; thanking him as he returns with a cone, ice cream swirled into a point, chocolate flake sticking out like a flag.

  I swirl my tongue along the edge of the cornet as Nathan bites into his ice cream. He winces.

  ‘Brain freeze?’

  He nods, curling his lips over his teeth.

  ‘Press your tongue against the roof of your mouth,’ I say. ‘Harry’s always rushing his cornets. It helps generate heat. It really works.’

  A few moments later he’s ready to talk. ‘That did help. It’s a sign of getting older, isn’t it? Not being able to bite into anything too cold. When I was his age,’ He nods towards a young boy chomping away on a Fab lolly, hundreds and thousands scattering over the grass. ‘I used to bite on lollies just like that. Who’s Harry?’

  ‘So you’re still in touch with Sam’s family?’ He frowns after I’ve explained.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t see them for ages after… after me and Sam broke up but I can’t imagine not having Harry in my life. Do you still see Callie’s family?’

  ‘No.’ His reply is curt but I push him to elaborate.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They didn’t want to see me after the accident. Too painful, I suppose.’

  ‘Did she have any brothers? Sisters?’ I watch a brilliant blue dragonfly dip towards the water as I ask, not quite able to look him in the eye. The deceit doesn’t sit well with me.

  ‘She had a sister, Sophie, but I haven’t seen her since before the accident. She couldn’t handle it. Didn’t even come to Callie’s funeral to pay her last respects. Sent a wreath as though that made up for it.’

  ‘Does she live close by, Sophie?
’

  ‘I’ve no idea where she is.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘And Callie’s accident. What happened?’

  Nathan breaks the remainder of his ice-cream cone into pieces and tosses them into the water.

  ‘She was driving and ran into a tree. It was a terrible night. The roads were treacherous.’

  ‘That’s awful. Where was she going?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ His tone is terse. I feel I am interrogating him but it has to be done, for Tom and Amanda’s sake. I try again.

  ‘I just wondered if she’d been on her way to meet you?’

  ‘No.’ His voice breaks and he leans forward and drops his head into his hands, and I feel guilty for pressing him

  ‘You must miss her very much.’ I reach out and squeeze his arm. ‘You were together a long time, weren’t you?’

  He straightens his spine and huffs out air. ‘Five years. Not that it counted for much in the end. I didn’t get a say.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In anything. Where she was buried. She’d have hated the church service. She wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered near the ocean. We talked about it once after watching a film where someone died young. Her parents even allowed her to be cut up. Imagine that. Slicing out parts of her and handing them out as though they’re bits of meat from the butcher’s counter.’

  ‘You don’t agree with organ donation?’ My voice is sharp.

  ‘It’s not natural, is it? Doctors playing God.’ He thrusts his hands deep in his pocket and leans back on the hard wooden support. ‘She was, well, she was just so perfect, beautiful, you know? And to think of her not being whole. It’s not right.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you. But she must have saved lives.’

  ‘I know. She’d have liked that. I just can’t bear the thought of her not being Callie any more. And I should have had a say. We were going to get married. Tom and Amanda were handed the pen and the consent forms, and I didn’t even get asked my opinion. I remember when it was all over and the nurses handed Tom Callie’s belongings; he passed them to me as if all I was good for was holding her things. I crushed them so tightly to my chest I thought my ribs might snap. I was so bloody angry.’