Postcards From Berlin

by Margaret Leroy

  She considers. “It’s thought to be attention-seeking behavior. For some people, being a mother of a sick child makes them feel needed and admired. As a society, we tend to view mothers of sick children as rather heroic and special.”

  I think of the school gate — Daisy crying; me, frantic and somehow ashamed, peeling her fingers from my wrist like sticking plasters.

  “I don’t feel special,” I tell her.

  She shrugs a little. “That’s how it’s generally understood.”

  I’m trying to find a way through the maze in my mind.

  “What happens to these women? What happens to their children?”

  The blotches are dark on her throat.

  “Well, in extreme cases the children have to be taken into Care. In extreme cases. To be protected from their mothers.”

  This is all so stupid, laughable, nothing to do with me. But the inside of my mouth has turned to blotting paper.

  She pushes back the cuff of her jacket and looks at her watch rather pointedly. The consultation is nearly over, and still I haven’t said what I need to say.

  “This isn’t what I came for,” I tell her. “I came to ask to be referred to somebody — you know, a specialist. Someone who will be able to work out what’s wrong.”

  She shakes her head a little. “I just don’t think that’s how we should go about things,” she says. “I really think that for now we’d do best to go along with what’s been recommended. We don’t want to keep chopping and changing. All he’s asking is for you to see a psychiatrist — just to check some of this out.”

  “But I don’t want to see this psychiatrist — I want to stop all this right now. It’s mad; it won’t help Daisy.”

  “Mrs. Lydgate, I don’t think you understand,” she says. “I’m trying to help you here.” She leans toward me across the desk. Her breath smells of spearmint, and her teeth are very white. “And my advice would be that you should go along with this. You see, if you don’t cooperate, it’ll only make him more certain he’s onto something. It’s up to you, of course. No one can make you do it, not at this stage. But I really think you should.”

  “What d’you mean, not at this stage? Is there a stage when they can make me?”

  She ignores this.

  “Listen,” she says. “Just go and see the psychiatrist — and I’m sure this will all blow over. Dr. McGuire will have his assessment and that’ll reassure him. And hopefully it will help us find out what’s really going on with Daisy.”

  She folds up the letter, pressing on the creases so it’s really neat: She’s going to tuck it back in Daisy’s folder. The consultation is over.

  “Could I see that?”

  She hesitates.

  I have some vague sense that patients have rights, that there’s a charter or something.

  “I think I have the right to read the letter, don’t I? To see my daughter’s notes?”

  She raises an eyebrow; she wasn’t expecting this.

  “Well, yes, you do,” she says.

  It surprises me how readily she acquiesces.

  She hands it across to me. I unfold it. There are two pages stapled together.

  “Not here,” she says. She looks again at her watch. “D’you mind? I’m running out of time. Could I ask you to read it in reception?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just give it to Sheryl at the desk when you’ve finished.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I go out to the waiting room, holding the letter with care, as though it could hurt my hand.

  There are only two people waiting: a bleary, huddled woman, coughing over a copy of Hello! and a mother with a baby in a sling. The mother is preoccupied with the baby, pressing her lips to his head. I know how that feels, the sensuous simplicity of it, the tender heat of a baby’s hairless head. I envy her. There are two receptionists: one in a blue cardigan who’s hunting around in the filing cabinet, the other on the phone.

  I sit down and reach for a magazine and open it, to shield the letter from view.

  It starts with a paragraph about the results of the tests on Daisy. I skim through this, not really understanding.

  On the next page, the tone of the letter changes.

  “After I had explained the results to the parents, I broached the possibility that their daughter’s illness might have a psychological cause, and suggested that this possibility should be further investigated. The mother immediately became extremely hostile and aggressive, and adamantly refused to consider this possibility. This reaction concerned me a great deal, and in view of this concern, I would suggest that Munchausen syndrome by proxy or fabricated illness should be part of the differential diagnosis.

  “This mother does in several respects fit the stereotype that is described in cases of MSBP. She presents, as these mothers usually do, as very nurturing and concerned, and is also somewhat overprotective — for instance, not allowing her daughter to speak for herself, in a way that is quite inappropriate with an eight-year-old child. She is very demanding of medical staff, and appears excessively knowledgeable about and preoccupied with her daughter’s illness — flourishing a sheaf of detailed notes on the girl’s symptoms during the conversation — but has nonetheless failed to comply with the recommended treatment.

  “In view of these concerns, as well as the shifting and elusive nature of Daisy’s illness, I am referring the family to child psychiatry for an in-depth assessment. In the meantime, I have suggested that Daisy continue with the prescribed medication, though I am not over-optimistic about the mother’s willingness to comply.”

  Tears start in my eyes.

  I glance round the waiting room. The other patients are lost in their worlds, the mother murmuring to the baby, the coughing woman intent on her magazine. One receptionist has her back turned, and the other is still on the phone, talking in her brisk Glaswegian accent, explaining something to somebody down the line who keeps interrupting; her head is turned away. I fold the letter and tuck it in my pocket and walk briskly through the door.

  Chapter 20

  HE COMES STRAIGHT TO ME where I’m sitting on the sofa, under the masks from Venice. He’s home quite early tonight, for his string quartet rehearsal. He kisses the top of my head, then moves a little away. He’s leaning against the windowsill, looking at me. Behind him, there’s an operatic sunset, a wash of apricot light, and the new leaves of the birch tree are sharp, as though cut with a blade against the florid sky.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Is something wrong? What’s happened?”

  I put my glass of wine on the side table, moving slowly, carefully: It could so easily spill.

  “I went to see Dr. Carey.” I can’t breathe; there’s a constriction in my chest. “She showed me this letter.… She says one of the things they’re considering, to explain Daisy’s illness … it’s called Munchausen by proxy.” The awkward words are like solid things in my mouth; it’s hard to spit them out.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Like that nurse who killed all those children? Someone’s getting a bit carried away there,” he says dryly.

  “No, not like that. Dr. Carey says it’s when mothers make their children’s symptoms worse, or exaggerate them, or invent their children’s illnesses. Like it’s the mother who’s actually causing the illness …”

  I put out my hand to pick up my glass, but I can’t — my hand is shaking.

  His eyes are narrow, watching me.

  “What are we going to do, Richard? Should we make a complaint? D’you know how to do that? D’you think we should do that? Isn’t there a committee or something we could go to?”

  “Darling, hang on a minute,” he says. “Let’s just try and sort this out.” He’s leaning back against the window sill. He’s dark with the light behind him, his face in shadow; I can’t see his expression. “I don’t suppose for a moment we need to do anything drastic. It’s probably just that some medical student’s out to impress the consultant — had this bright idea.
Coming up with something really obscure.”

  I shake my head. “No, it was him, it was Dr. McGuire.”

  He frowns a little. “Anyway, didn’t you say it was just one of the things they were considering?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then. Maybe it’s something they always consider with sick children. I mean, they’ve got to be on the alert — there are some very weird people out there.”

  “No,” I say, “it’s not like that. It’s not something they always think of. It’s about me. There’s this letter about me. About how aggressive I am.”

  He thinks about this. “To be fair to Dr. McGuire,” he says, “you did get rather upset. I mean, I’m just trying to see both sides of the picture. I know he was tactless, but you did rather lose your cool.”

  “Anyone would; he was foul.” There’s a splinter of rage in my voice.

  He shrugs, moves his hand a little: as though his point is made.

  I was going to show him the letter. It’s there in the hall, in the pocket of my jacket. I had some kind of inchoate notion that he could copy it before we took it back to the surgery, and we could take the copy to show someone. There are surely people who will help you — advisers, advocates, local councillors — people to advise you if you want to make a complaint: There must be; I’m sure I’ve read about these things. All I have to do is to get up and go to the hall and take the letter from my pocket. But my body is slow and heavy, as though my limbs are drenched.

  “What did Dr. Carey make of all this?” he asks.

  “She said she thought it was a wrong diagnosis. But she seemed to think we ought to go along with what he was suggesting or he’d just be even more convinced he’s right. That’s like blackmail, isn’t it?”

  “Blackmail?”

  Why can’t he see?

  “It’s like a trap,” I tell him. “If you say he’s wrong and won’t do what he wants, it only proves he’s right, so either way you lose.”

  “Darling, you make it sound like some kind of battle,” he says. “I mean, I know you’re very opposed to the psychological approach. But what if there’s something in it? They must have seen so many of these cases. And lots of illnesses are thought to be psychosomatic, aren’t they?”

  “Not Daisy’s illness. It started with flu, for God’s sake. She’s a happy child. I’d know if she wasn’t — I’d just know if something was wrong. And look at us. I mean, we’re happy, aren’t we? We’re a happy family.…”

  He doesn’t instantly reply. There’s a little silence between us. There’s a rushing sound in my ears: the chill movement of air, the windmills turning.

  But then he smiles. “Of course we are,” he says. “Of course. Well, that goes without saying.”

  “I mean, what am I doing wrong exactly?” The injustice of it all seizes me. “I try to find food she’ll eat, I take her to the doctor, I try to get her to take the medicines, but she can’t; I’m always hunting around for people we can go to, people who might help.… What’s wrong with that exactly? What do they expect?”

  “Darling, I had wanted to say …” He’s turned away from me, profiled darkly against the apricot sky. “Well, maybe now’s not quite the time to raise this. And it’s your thing — I don’t like to interfere. But some of the people you’ve taken Daisy to have been rather iffy.”

  “Helmut Wolf, you mean? But Nicky said he was good.”

  He shrugs. “Exactly,” he says.

  Sinead is walking around upstairs. There’s a blare of ferocious rap from her room, and the bang of the bathroom door.

  “Richard.” My voice is a whisper; I don’t want her to hear. “They want us to see a psychiatrist.”

  He nods. “OK. But I’ll need a bit of warning so I can schedule it in.”

  “But I don’t think we should go. I don’t see why you’re just accepting it like that. This is all wrong, Richard. Daisy needs someone to make her well — she doesn’t need a psychiatrist.”

  “Sweetheart, I know what you think. But I guess they’re just asking — is there anything going on in the home that could be adding to the problem? And that’s a perfectly valid question: you know, if one stands back a little, gets some kind of distance. Sometimes it helps to stand a little outside things.”

  The tears that I’ve been holding back start spilling down my face.

  At last he comes and sits on the sofa beside me and puts his arm around me. I cling to him, his warmth, the rich smell of his aftershave, wanting to hide in him.

  He strokes my wet face. “You’re shaking,” he says. “You seem so frightened. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

  “Richard, it’s serious,” I say through my tears. I wipe my eyes. “These are really serious things they’re saying. It’s a really serious allegation.”

  “Only if we let it be,” he says.

  ______________

  He’s ready for his rehearsal, but he’s a little reluctant.

  “Will you be all right?” he asks. “Maybe I should give it a miss this once.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  He gets his violin and goes to say good-bye to Daisy, the violin case in his hand. She’s propped up in bed, her hot-water bottle clutched to her stomach.

  “Dad, play me something,” she says.

  “Daisy, Dad has to go now,” I tell her.

  “No, that’s OK,” he says. He takes out his violin.

  “Play ‘The Long and Winding Road,’” she says.

  This always impresses her so much — not the dazzling ripples of notes in the pieces he practices for his string quartet, but that he can call up any tune she chooses. He plays and she watches raptly: It’s the wide-eyed, wondering look she’d have for a magician who conjures rabbits and pigeons out of swirls of magenta silk. The tension in her face begins to ease away.

  When he’s finished, she reaches out and plucks a string with her finger. He kisses the top of her head.

  We go downstairs.

  “She doesn’t seem too bad,” he says, as he puts on his jacket.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  He touches my shoulder. “Cat, are you sure I shouldn’t stay? You look quite shaky,” he says.

  “Really, I’ll be OK.”

  Daisy settles more quickly tonight. I stay for a while and watch her sleeping. Her face is soft, easy, now she’s asleep, and the light from her lamp in its terra-cotta shade makes her skin look warmer, healthier. A strand of hair, dark blond like wet sand, has fallen over her face. Her hair needs washing, but she hates to have it washed, and I haven’t the heart to do it when it’s not important. One arm is flung out on top of the duvet, as if she was reaching out to somebody just as she fell asleep. The braided friendship bracelet of tatty wool is still wrapped round her wrist. I feel a surge of love for her: so strong, I believe for a moment that it could make her well, that it’s like an amulet or a witch’s circle of fire, to drive away whatever is harming her. I kiss her gently so as not to wake her.

  Sinead is watching ER in her room. There are urgent voices, and monitors going off.

  I take the rest of the bottle of wine and my glass and go up to the attic. I don’t turn on the light: There’s still a little brightness in the sky. The pictures I’ve been drawing are there on the table. More children. They’re trapped or imprisoned or seeking to find their way through twisty labyrinths, and some of them have chains on their hands and feet. I look at them for a moment. I don’t know if they’re any good — though Sinead assures me that Mr. Phillips, her adored art teacher, would like them: He likes weird stuff, she says. There’s a paradox in these pictures — the images themselves, the sense of limitation and constriction, and the freedom and flow with which they seem to emerge from my pen. But I know that won’t happen tonight. It’s not even worth trying tonight; I know I couldn’t draw.

  I lean on the windowsill, looking out. I can see down into Monica’s garden, where in the shadowed places under the apple trees the darkness is dense and absol
ute as ink. I hear the sound of foxes, screeching at one another, the noise they make when they fight. When we first came here and I heard their screeching, I rushed out into the garden, not knowing what had happened, afraid I might find some maimed or slaughtered creature.

  I feel the wine loosening me. I drink and think about things. I remember Daisy’s story about the voodoo dolls, the girl who was given a doll for bad luck and broke her ankle. I wonder if someone has cursed us. Is that possible? Can such things be? I think about the letters from Berlin, about my mother: who knows where I live, who warns me to visit her. I see I am afraid of her — as though she has some occult power over us, as though her knowledge of me and of Daisy could harm us. I don’t want us to be there in her mind — even if now, as she claims, she wishes us well: I fear she could harm us just by thinking about us. As if all this has happened because of her. And I think about the letter from Dr. McGuire that’s downstairs in the pocket of my jacket. I feel his hostility reaching out to me from the letter, as if his words could hurt me. Words, phrases, graze me — saying that I am demanding and overprotective and aggressive.

  The apricot fades from the sky and the shadows lengthen and night comes into my room. I’m wandering through the maze in my mind, the paths that don’t take you anywhere. Dead ends, confusions, curses. Outside, the trees are a deeper darkness against the sky and there are spiky stars and a thin, fine moon.

  The alcohol eases into my veins, making everything simple. I feel a sudden certainty.

  I go downstairs, quickly, purposefully, although my steps are unsteady. I get some matches from the kitchen and a big glass ashtray that we never use. There’s that sound in my ears again, the windmills caught in the wind. I take Dr. McGuire’s letter from my jacket pocket and go back to the top of the house.

  I don’t turn on the light. I glance at the letter, but there’s only the light of the moon and I can’t read the words. I strike a match and hold it to the pages; the paper flares. I drop it in the ashtray so as not to burn my fingers, the brief heat searing my skin. It happens so quickly: the transient, fierce brightness, rapidly extinguished, the last few scraps of paper edged with beads of flame. Then the final sparks go out, but the sudden dark is full of the scent of burning.