‘Whatever happened, all those years ago, certainly never warranted what happened since. You never deserved that. And all the things that have happened must have changed you. I would really like to find out who Nora Jennings was then, and who Nora Jennings is now. And maybe also have a look together at a plan to help you be who Nora Jennings has been becoming all these years.’ She pauses, watching Nora intently. Only the slow movement of her chest proves that she’s even alive. ‘Lots of parts of you haven’t had the chance to grow, but they still could and we can find out what you want to do.’
Janet is determined to do her damnedest to give this woman the best possible chance of survival, but that’s enough for today. Hopefully, there’ll be plenty of time.
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ she says gently. ‘Ellen will tell you when I’m coming again,’ she tells Nora, and watches as she shuffles out through the consulting room door.
All these people with wounds tracing back to their childhoods. Lost potential. Lost relationships. Lost peace of mind. The ripples from long-ago traumas still disturbing the waters of the present.
Chapter Five
After several sessions, even though Janet has been beginning to wonder if they’ll ever make any progress, Nora does at least appear less withdrawn. There are other subtle yet positive changes, too. She’s less likely to stoop or curl up and try to disappear, and with every session she sits more upright in her chair. Today, though, they’re ten minutes into the session, and while several times Nora has taken a deep breath as though about to speak, the silence continues. There’s something different today that Janet can’t quite nail down, and she’s intrigued. She takes a deep breath and asks today’s version of a question she usually asks. ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me – or ask me?’ she says.
There’s a long pause, but finally Nora looks up. Momentarily her and Janet’s eyes meet before she lowers them again. ‘You can call me Nora,’ she finally whispers.
‘Thank you, Nora,’ Janet smiles, moved by this gesture of trust. Until this point, Janet has either called her Miss Jennings or, often, nothing at all.
Silence resumes, but then Nora begins in a small voice. ‘Why are you nice to me?’
Janet pauses, taken aback. ‘Aren’t other people nice to you?’ she asks, deflecting the question.
‘Some are.’ Nora twirls her handkerchief in her lap then looks out of the window. ‘But when people are nasty to you, you know where you are with them,’ she mutters.
‘Well, I’d like us to know where we are with each other, but I hope that will be without us being nasty to each other,’ Janet says. ‘Maybe we could just make a deal to be truthful to each other, then we’ll always know where we are.’
Nora continues to look out of the window, her face set.
‘Is there anyone who’s nice and you can still trust?’
Nora lowers her eyes. ‘Ellen. Joe. And I could trust Peggy, but she died, and Dr Stilworth, but he retired.’
‘I hope you will learn to trust me too,’ Janet says, feeling carefully for every word so she doesn’t stem this fragile trickle of communication.
‘Sometimes people say nice things but then do nasty things.’
‘Yes, I guess sometimes they do.’
The conversation seems to come to a natural pause once again, leaving a more comfortable silence in its wake this time. Nora looks around the room, then stops and studies her hands. Janet watches, fascinated – it’s like watching a bud struggling to open.
Nora looks up. ‘Aren’t you going to write this down?’
‘I don’t usually write when I’m with people. I like to listen to what you have to say.’
Uncertainty crosses Nora’s face and she fixes her eyes on the arm of Janet’s chair before falling again into the silence. Janet simply waits, leaving a space for Nora to fill when she’s ready. Eventually the words come out in an astonishingly articulate rush.
‘They wanted me to behave like a tame rabbit,’ she begins, her eyes down but her voice surprisingly strong, the words seeming to come from another place. ‘If I behaved like a tame rabbit, people thought I was good. If I tried to say what I really wanted then I was told I was bad – a bad patient. In the end you behave in the way that makes them think you’re good, but then you have to live with being a liar.’
Janet has to remind herself to breathe. ‘I can see that. It does seem unfair.’
‘I was put here because I might infect other people with my badness. I don’t think I could. I’m not that strong. You are. You want me to talk, but you can make it bad for me if I say something you don’t like. And if I am infectious, I don’t want to infect you as well. You look kind. I never wanted to hurt anybody, but I did. I killed my mother.’
Janet stares, eyes wide. ‘You killed your mother?’
‘I sent her to an early grave.’
Janet breathes out in relief, then feels a flash of anger at whoever first told Nora that. ‘How did you do that?’ she asks.
‘I did something terrible and she never recovered.’
‘Can you tell me about it?’
There’s a long pause and Janet waits while Nora’s eyes flit around the room then back to her lap, seemingly weighing up whether she can trust yet another person who might just betray her. Without lifting her eyes, she begins to speak. ‘I was wicked. I had a baby. She died. I never even saw her. I should have died. Sometimes I still want to, even if it’s a sin. I got my just deserts.’
Janet is frozen, her eyes fixed on Nora’s crown, trying not to allow her sadness and outrage to show on her face. This was all over forty years ago, and Nora has been here ever since. How could anyone ever deserve that?
‘I’m so sorry, Nora,’ is all she can manage.
Nora’s head lifts slowly and she, too, looks shocked, but there’s also something else, and Janet realises with a start that Nora is grateful. Her eyes seem to say that someone listened, didn’t interrupt or try to make the story different. Made no excuse, nor impatiently looked at her watch. And for a moment their eyes meet and words are unnecessary. Then Nora pulls her eyes away and the moment is over.
‘Nora, you didn’t kill your mother,’ Janet says gently.
‘Yes, I did. And I also made my father very angry.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘I was a bad girl.’
‘Were you?’
‘Not all the time. Before I . . . did what I did . . . I think I was a good girl. Well, sometimes I wasn’t, I suppose. My dad sometimes didn’t think I was being good, but I didn’t always understand why.’
Janet understands that very well. ‘Sometimes we are being good and people misunderstand what we’re doing and we get into trouble, but it’s not really our fault.’
‘But that time it was my fault. I committed a mortal sin and deserved everything that happened.’
‘What mortal sin?’
‘I tried to kill my baby and I tried to kill myself. Two mortal sins. And the wages of sin are death.’
Janet cringes inside. ‘Then what happened?’
But before Nora can speak, something seems to switch within her and Janet watches helplessly as Nora gasps and clutches the arms of her chair, her shoulders lifting and her neck disappearing between them. Her brow knits together and her lips form a tight line. Janet logs every sensation and impression, remaining perfectly still until she has fully assessed what is happening, lest any interruption might be misinterpreted as an attack. A neurological episode? A seizure?
Nora twitches, squirming to the left, her hands coming up to cover her face. She whimpers and cowers, curling in on herself, minimising her external surface, obviously trying to protect herself from some sort of assault. Ah, she’s having a flashback, thinks Janet. No wonder she doesn’t want to have to talk and remember.
After a few more seconds, the episode appears to subside, and Janet starts to speak in a low, soothing voice. ‘Nora. Nora, it’s all right. You’re here. You’re safe.’ But s
uddenly Nora raises her hands to cover her ears, her eyes tightly shut, and begins to wail.
Very carefully, Janet leans forward and, as she does, Nora lifts her hands and starts to beat her head and her face. Janet feels a dart of alarm, but tries not to let it show. Gently but firmly, she takes hold of Nora’s hands. ‘Nora, don’t. Nora – try to look at me. Open your eyes.’ But Nora still squirms, her breathing laboured as she rocks back and forth.
‘Nora, open your eyes. You’re here – you’re safe.’ And though Nora flinches, Janet maintains gentle pressure on her skin. ‘Nora, it’s OK. Come back . . .’
Then come the tears, streaming down her face and dripping off her nose. Janet shifts a little but continues to anchor Nora in this reality with the pressure of just one finger, resisting the urge to offer tissues in case that signals to Nora that crying is unacceptable. How she needs this gentle bathing of her soul.
Finally, the sobbing subsides, and Nora returns to the moment, her puffy eyes open and the tip of her nose red.
Janet smiles tenderly. ‘Try to look at me, Nora. Take your time, but when you’re ready, look at me.’
It takes a while, but slowly, Nora’s eyes meet hers.
‘Nora, this was a flashback, and you’ve survived whatever you remembered. You’re safe now.’
They sit a while in silence as Nora recovers, wiping her eyes and looking around the room, dazed, trying to re-orientate herself.
Janet brings her a glass of water and waits as Nora sips it slowly. ‘Nora, sometimes people feel really quite tired after a flashback, but if you can, it would be really helpful to try and find out what just happened. Do you think we could do that?’
Nora nods hesitantly.
‘You looked frightened, Nora, as though someone was hitting you. Who hit you?’
‘My father,’ she whispers.
Janet breathes and checks herself. This isn’t about you, Janet.
‘How did he hit you?’
‘Sometimes with his hand and sometimes with his belt.’
Janet breathes in sharply, but doesn’t make a sound. She commands herself to slow down and be the professional; get her own emotions and her own past under control, and breathe. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, Nora. What did you do when that happened?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I didn’t feel it, like I wasn’t there.’
‘And when you felt like you weren’t there, where were you?’
‘Up in the corner of the ceiling. I used to watch, but I didn’t feel anything.’
‘Nora, did anyone else hit you?’
‘Lots of people.’
‘Who?’
‘Sister Cummings. And the aides when I wouldn’t eat. Sometimes the night nurse. And the maid when I wet on the floor . . .’
Janet checks Nora’s breathing. She’s OK. ‘I’m not surprised that you didn’t want to talk,’ Janet says. ‘I understand. It does stir up old feelings and sometimes makes you have flashbacks. But it will also help you to understand and come to terms with what’s happened to you if we keep on working at it.’
Now she hands Nora a tissue. ‘How often does this happen to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nora says shakily.
‘When was the last one?’
‘About a week ago.’
Janet pauses for a second, thinking. ‘Something must have happened to trigger it. Was there something that reminded you of the past?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Nora shakes her head and tears begin to leak from her eyes.
‘No problem,’ Janet says, glancing discreetly at her watch. She feels a stab of anxiety. She doesn’t want to leave Nora now, but she’s going to be late for her appointment with Dr Pauling. Damn!
She watches Nora for another minute or so, then touches her gently on her arm.
‘Nora, I’m so sorry, but we’re going to need to stop for today. I want us to come back to this next time so we both understand how you can move on from here. I’m going to give you a little book to write in, like a diary. It’ll be your book and no one will look at it but you. You’ll be able to share anything you want with me, but also know you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’ll be your private property.’ Nora looks at her questioningly. ‘Yes, Nora. Your own private property that you can bring to our sessions in case there’s anything you want to remember to talk about.’
Nora lifts her eyes and nods, then steadies herself with her hands on the chair arms and stands shakily. Nora’s eyes meet Janet’s just for a moment and she mouths, ‘Thank you.’ And hobbles out.
As Janet steps outside, she is glad of the sharp breeze to help clear her thoughts. She knows she will need to really sit and look at all of her own father issues at some point. No time now. She pedals her bicycle as quickly as she can back to the acute block, wobbling as she tries to glance at her watch. He’ll be livid.
By the time she arrives at Dr Pauling’s office, Janet has just about caught her breath but lingers outside the door for a few seconds, bracing herself for a less than warm welcome.
‘Sit down, Janet,’ he snaps in just the same tone her father used to use when she had been naughty as a little girl. Her palms start to sweat and she feels the childish urge to resist, but catches herself at the last second. She sinks into the chair, glad of a moment of respite as Dr Pauling still has his eyes glued to the journal he’s annotating. He is not my father. He is not my father.
Finally, he slams down his pen on the desk and looks at her with eyes like flint. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ His voice has the spiteful force of a tsunami, and Janet flinches. What is it with him? ‘Did I ask you to create a lengthy investigation on the back wards?’ he spits, his colour rising as hers ebbs.
Janet frowns, completely flummoxed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ she says, irritated at the tremor in her voice and determined to be her strong, professional self.
‘That’s very clear, though I wonder why not,’ he sneers. ‘You don’t have time to waste hiding away on the back wards.’
Janet bristles. ‘I’m not hiding away,’ she defends, her voice now strong and clear. ‘Nor am I wasting my time.’
‘That’s your opinion.’
She feels her chin jut forward, her face tipping slightly upwards. ‘Yes, it is.’ Careful, Janet . . .
She’s back at the age of sixteen and standing in the room they called the kitchen but is really an all-purpose room to cook, eat and sit in the evening and watch the small black-and-white television.
Janet has asked permission to go to the cinema with her friend and is at stage two of the usual negotiations – first her mother who says, ‘Ask your father’, then to her father who asks, ‘What did your mother say?’
‘She said to ask you.’
‘Are there going to be boys there?’
‘I don’t know. We’re going just the two of us, though.’
Her father snorts. ‘You’re not going anywhere till I say you can.’
Then she makes the fatal mistake. Too late she’s aware of the involuntary roll of her eyes. His hand is swift as it always is, and she gasps with pain and clutches at her already swelling cheek, yet again.
‘You watch yourself, miss,’ her father shouts. ‘You’re going nowhere. Get to your room.’
Her face stings and anger rises at the injustice of it. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘One more word from you and you’ll see what’s not fair,’ he growls.
But this time she can’t let it go, despite what might – what is likely to – happen.
‘Dad, I’m sixteen!’ she cries, her eyes streaming with both pain and frustration.
‘And as long as you live under my roof you’ll behave as I see fit. Get to your room.’
The rest blurs as she’s suddenly aware of Dr Pauling’s voice. Janet blinks back into the moment, desperately trying to concentrate.
‘The task I set should have taken hours, not weeks.’
Janet straightens her back and lifts her
chin, forcing herself to focus. ‘There are ninety-seven patients, many of whom hadn’t been reviewed properly for years—’
‘You feel qualified to criticise the work of those who preceded you?’
‘I’m not intending to criticise anyone. Usually those wards have been looked after by SHOs or registrars who are on rotation, and I’m sure they did what they thought was right. Nevertheless, some medications have been continued for years without proper review. Some patients were taking up to six or seven different meds, some of which had interactions. They needed paring down and sorting out. Some of the patients are much more lively now they’re off sedation, and I’m looking at who among them may yet have a chance of living independently. I—’
‘That’s enough. I will not have you neglecting the acute patients.’
Here it comes . . . Injustice always leads to her losing her cool. ‘Do you have any particular acute patients in mind who have suffered neglect due to my work on the back wards?’
‘That isn’t the point—’
‘With respect, I think it is. I’ve put in longer hours to accommodate the extra work, and have neglected nothing.’
‘If you don’t have enough to do . . .’ he blusters. ‘I want a teaching plan for the students on my desk in the morning,’ he snaps.
‘You will have it,’ she says, rather too sharply.
‘And you’ll present at the journal club on Thursday.’ His petulance matches her determination.
She knows it’s almost impossible to prepare a presentation for the whole faculty in two days. But she also knows that she’ll do it. ‘Thank you for the opportunity,’ she says, her voice brittle.
His eyes lock on hers and he stares but says nothing while she refuses to be the first to look away. ‘That’s all,’ he says, and lowers his eyes.
Janet stomps along the corridor to her own office, fuming, not even returning the smile of Audrey – social worker, Earth Mother supreme, Angel of Hillinghurst Hospital – who flattens against the wall to let her past. She is marching up and down the short length of the room to calm herself when there’s a tap on her door and Dale opens it a crack.
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 18
