Once she starts talking, I don't think about Patrick at all.
Last time she asked me to remember a "fleeting perfect moment" when I felt filled with confidence or joy or peace or power, and so I remembered Sunday morning breakfasts in the summer with my mum when I was a child. I'd make a whole stack of pancakes and Mum would always act so impressed, and then we'd sit on a picnic rug in the backyard and read our books and eat the pancakes with lemon and sugar, and sometimes we'd stay there until lunchtime.
I'm meant to be using the "power of that memory" to help with my leg pain.
It's a load of crap, of course.
I think.
I can remember the first time I experienced the pain in my leg. It was just after Mum told me her diagnosis. I was buying groceries with Jack, and it was taking ages because Jack kept seeing things he wanted, which we had to argue over, and we were having a dinner party with one of Patrick's clients whom we were trying to impress, so I was looking for obscure ingredients. "Just do something simple," Patrick always said, but I said that people feel special when you go to some trouble, when you have the table set with a good linen tablecloth, with fresh flowers and cloth napkins and gleaming glasses. I loved a beautifully set table. Now I eat sitting on the couch, with the plate on my lap, or standing at the kitchen counter, or in bed.
I noticed this ache creeping up the side of my leg. It wasn't excruciating, just annoying, like I'd pulled a muscle, and eventually I had to sit on the edge of a specials display in the middle of the supermarket aisle and rest it, and Jack said, "What are you doing, Sas?"
Then it happened again the next day. I still didn't give it much thought. It certainly never crossed my mind that five years later I would still be dealing with it.
I was so confident when I went to see that first physiotherapist that she would be able to fix it. I thought it was something that needed to be crossed off my "to do" list, like getting my car serviced or my legs waxed. Quick, fix this pain, please, it's annoying me.
Patrick was sympathetic at first, but then he seemed to lose patience and interest. We couldn't do our bushwalks anymore. We couldn't walk through the city to a restaurant for more than two blocks without me having to find a bus stop to sit down. We couldn't stand in a group at a party without me saying, I need a chair. I caught a flicker of impatience cross his face once when he came home and found me sitting on the kitchen floor with the chopping board on my lap, slicing up carrots. I guess it was just so boring for him to have a girlfriend who behaved like an elderly person.
Then Mum died, and then he "ended the relationship." Perhaps he'd been getting bored and my leg was the final straw.
The pain in my leg isn't as bad as it was, but it got to a certain point and then it never went away. It's like a permanent physical reminder of that time in my life, when everything changed forever. It's the marker between the person I am now--strange, obsessive, flabby and unfit--and the person I was before--normal, happy, very fit, could go for years without seeing a doctor. As soon as I start to feel that creeping ache, I feel a corresponding creeping sense of hopelessness and pointlessness and nothingness.
And of all the people I've been to see about this pain, Ellen is the first person who seemed even remotely interested in how much it's affected me.
"It must be incredibly frustrating," she said, and she seemed so sympathetic, for a horrifying moment I thought I might cry.
Yes, Ellen, it is incredibly frustrating, especially when one of my hobbies is following my ex-boyfriend, who, by the way, happens to be your current boyfriend, often on foot, and it makes it very difficult, although I'm proud to say that I've never given up, I just keep going, no matter how bad the pain is, and people stare, because I guess I'm grimacing. There she goes, a twisted old witch, hobbling after her old pain-free life with outstretched clawed hands, trying to snatch it back.
Chapter 11
From the moment we're born everyone is hypnotizing us. We are all, to some degree, in a trance. Our clients think we're "putting them to sleep," but our ultimate goal is the opposite. We're trying to wake them up.
--Excerpt from an article written by Ellen O'Farrell for
the journal Hypnotherapy Today
Saturday was wonderful. They slept late. Breakfast and the papers in bed. A long walk on the beach and a quick swim (very quick; Patrick started shivering after only a few minutes). Coffee and cake by the river. Lunch by the pool. An afternoon nap.
Ellen's senses seemed sharper. The sun and the sea breeze caressed her skin. As they walked down Hastings Street, she could smell everything: coffee, the ocean, the perfume and aftershave and sunscreen of passersby. She heard every fragment of conversation, every burst of laughter.
There appeared to be some sort of baby boom happening in Noosa. The place was crowded with babies and toddlers and roundly pregnant women. Every baby was gorgeous: their big melting eyes seemed to fix on Ellen as if they knew her secret. The pregnant women seemed to know too. They gave her gentle, mysterious smiles from behind their sunglasses.
She'd felt so excluded from this club of mothers and children. She kept catching herself thinking: Would it be allowed? For me to push a big complicated-looking stroller like that? For me to pick up a baby without first asking someone else's permission? For me to grab hold of a toddler's hand while crossing the street?
Why not you? she asked herself. Why not?
But still she didn't tell him.
Moment after moment slipped by when she could have told him. They had all the time in the world. She'd never seen him so relaxed. His forehead seemed smoother. He touched her constantly.
There was no sign of Saskia. Ellen's stomach slowly unclenched and she stopped scanning the crowds for her. She was so relieved for Patrick. The poor man deserved a weekend without having to constantly look over his shoulder.
And how did she feel about the fact that Saskia had been in her home? Did she feel frightened, furious, violated?
She pondered this when she woke up first from their afternoon nap, Patrick's body still curved around hers, their fingers still interlaced from when they'd fallen asleep together.
All of those feelings felt like possibilities. Yes, when she thought about Saskia sitting in her glass office, deceiving her, secretly observing her, there was most certainly a tremble of genuine fear and a flare of rage. What did she want from her? What was she planning? And how dare she? The audacity.
But she was still intrigued. Even more so than before. Fascinated. Beneath the fear, she still felt ... no, surely not. But, yes, as inappropriate as it was, that's what she felt: a mild sense of pleasure. She liked the fact that someone was that interested in her. It gave everything a definite edge. A spark. Maybe it was a tiny seductive taste of life as a celebrity: the feeling that everything you did was important and worth noting. Or maybe Ellen had some sort of personality flaw that perfectly complemented Saskia's. She was the yin and Saskia was the yang, and together they formed a psychopathic whole.
(Or was she just trying to make herself seem as interestingly peculiar as Saskia?)
At any rate, Patrick would have to be told about Saskia's subterfuge at some point. But she wouldn't ruin this little interlude from real life. She would wait until they were back in Sydney. Also, there was still the pregnancy. The baby.
She felt Patrick's hand tighten around hers as he stirred and woke up.
"Hello, you," he yawned, running his other hand over her shoulder, down her waist and letting it rest on her hip. "Sleep well?"
"Like a baby," she said, without even a tremor in her voice.
"Mmmm. Me too."
After they got up, Patrick suggested a walk. He pulled her to the window. "See the headland? There's a spot just by the entrance to the national park where I thought we could watch the sun go down. How does that sound?"
"Perfect," said Ellen.
And it almost was.
There was a table and bench right on the headland. The lush green of the national park con
trasted with the deep blue of the ocean. The sky was all soft pastels: pink and blue and orange.
Patrick had bought an expensive bottle of champagne and cheese and biscuits and strawberries. He'd carefully wrapped two champagne glasses from the hotel mini-bar in his beach towel.
"This is very impressive," said Ellen, as Patrick uncorked the champagne with a celebratory pop.
"Stick with me, babe." Patrick filled their glasses. "Us surveyors know how to treat a woman right."
She decided she'd have one glass of champagne. Her mother had told her that the "occasional glass of wine is hardly going to cause fetal alcohol syndrome."
"To us." Patrick clinked his glass against hers. "May we have many more weekends exactly like this."
"May we drink many more glasses of champagne exactly like this," said Ellen. The champagne was excellent: dry and creamy.
"May we--oops, just let me get that."
"What did you drop?" asked Ellen, confused, as Patrick scrabbled about at her feet.
He didn't answer. He seemed to be getting back up in an extremely awkward manner, like an old, arthritic man.
"Have you hurt yourself?" Ellen stood up and went to help him.
"Sit down, woman! I haven't hurt myself." Patrick seemed to be trying not to laugh.
"What are you doing then?"
"Ellen," said Patrick, and his voice changed, becoming deep and ponderous. His face had a silly, sheepish look about it, as if he was playing a game of charades.
He had one knee on the ground and the other propped out in front of him. He held up a little black velvet case in the palm of his hand.
Oh, my Lord in heaven, he was proposing. He was doing one of those proper, bended-knee, ring-already-purchased proposals. How wonderful.
And yet how strangely excruciating.
Her eye was caught by something behind him. A slight movement. There was somebody standing at the lookout, taking photos of the sunset.
"Ellen," said Patrick again. He cleared his throat. "OK, I feel sort of stupid. And there's something digging into my knee. It looks so much easier in the movies."
Ellen laughed and put down her champagne glass with slightly trembling fingers. She blinked back tears, overcome with flattered self-consciousness. A man is proposing to me at sunset.
She saw the woman with the camera turn around and face them. She was smiling.
"Ellen, will you, I mean, could you, I would be honored, would you, that is, marry me?"
"There are two things I need to tell you first," said Ellen. She was surprised at the clarity of her voice.
"OK." Patrick immediately dropped his hand holding the black velvet case and then almost lost his balance. He gripped the side of the picnic table for support. "Umm. Should I get back up?"
"I'm pregnant," said Ellen. She paused. "Also, I'm pretty sure that woman over there is Saskia, and she's coming this way."
Then she laid one hand firmly on his right shoulder and hoped for the best.
Chapter 12
One of the effects of increasing urbanization is the increasing isolation and loneliness of the individual. It has therefore been suggested that psychiatrists and psychologists be invited to join town planning committees to contribute their thoughts on this complex issue.
--Excerpt from a paper delivered by Saskia Brown
at Urban Development for 2004 and
Beyond Conference, Noosa, 2004
Hi, Patrick. Hi, Ellen! I thought I recognized you!" Saskia came striding toward them and stopped at the picnic table, removed her sunglasses and smiled brightly down at them. She was wearing shorts (Ellen noted beautiful long, smooth legs) and a T-shirt and baseball cap, and her whole demeanor seemed perfectly sane and ordinary. She looked sporty and attractive. No one watching would ever guess that she was anything other than a woman out for a walk who had happened to run into some friends. If anything, they would think that Ellen and Patrick were the ones behaving strangely. Neither of them spoke; they stared dully up at Saskia.
"It's such a beautiful evening." Saskia polished the lenses of her sunglasses with the edge of her T-shirt and put them back on, gesturing at the sky. "It's one of those sunsets that should be on a postcard."
"Saskia," said Patrick hoarsely. He went to stand up; his back hunched, like an old man.
"Oh, no, Patrick, please don't let me interrupt!" Saskia made friendly, flapping gestures with her hands, indicating that he should kneel back down. "You get right back to proposing. Lovely to see you both!"
She went striding off.
Patrick sat down heavily on the bench opposite Ellen, picked up the champagne glass and drained it.
Saskia stopped and called back. "I'll see you on Friday for our appointment, Ellen!" She slapped her thigh. "The leg is doing pretty well!" She waved.
Ellen's hand automatically went up and she waved back.
"You know her?" said Patrick. A panicky expression flew across his face. "Have you always known her? Is this like some sort of weird setup between the two of you?"
"No, no, no!" Ellen rushed to explain. "I knew her as Deborah. That's what she called herself. Deborah Vandenberg. She's been coming to see me about her leg pain."
"Deborah," repeated Patrick, and his eyes brightened with suspicion. "But you knew it was Saskia. Just then! You knew it was her."
"I worked it out on the plane," said Ellen. "When you told me about her bad leg. But I didn't want to upset you by mentioning it. It's my fault she's here. I told her we were coming to Noosa ... when I thought she was Deborah. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
She felt as though she had actually been part of a wicked conspiracy with Saskia.
Patrick lifted the lid of the jewelry box, then snapped it shut. He laughed disbelievingly, to himself. "I was sure I was safe. I thought I'd be able to propose without her watching, but I couldn't even do that."
"May I see the ring?" asked Ellen.
"It's an antique," said Patrick. "It's got a history. Someone else's history, I mean. It's not like it's from my own family, but I thought you'd like that." He opened the box and flipped it shut again without looking at it. "I didn't think you were the type for one of those standard shiny diamond rings. Jack helped me choose it."
He was talking sadly and nostalgically, as if about something that had happened a long time in the past.
"It sounds perfect," said Ellen. "So, could I ... ?"
He pushed the ring across the table to her and she opened the box.
"Oh, Patrick." The ring was white gold with a small oval aquamarine stone the color of the ocean. "It's beautiful. It's exactly what I would have chosen for myself."
Ellen had never been especially interested in jewelry. She was not one of those women who could speak authoritatively about carats or cuts. "Ooh, sparkly!" she would say when newly engaged friends drooped their left hands at her. To her, their rings all looked identical.
But the absolute rightness of Patrick's choice made her want to cry. It was like tangible evidence that he really saw her. It was a ring she could never have envisaged, or described, but one that said "Didn't you know? This is who you are."
Ellen regretfully closed the lid, unsure what to do next; she hadn't actually said yes to his proposal yet. For the first time since she'd heard about Saskia's existence, she felt a satisfying, righteous flash of rage. That moment had been hers. Right now she was meant to be doing that half-sobbing, half-laughing thing that women did, burying her head in Patrick's chest, stopping every now and then to hold up her hand and examine her ring. It was meant to be a memory to cherish, and now it was gone forever.
"It was probably too soon to ask you," said Patrick. "But it just felt so right and I thought, to hell with it, I know she's the one, so I--"
He stopped and blinked slowly, like one of her clients coming out of a trance.
"Did you say you were pregnant?"
So he's going to be the hypnotist's husband.
He was doing the whole movie-scene deal. The pink-
sky sunset. The champagne. The bended knee.
I thought: They're actually going to live that life. See, it really does happen to some people. They're going to have a beautiful, elegant wedding, probably on the beach, and it won't rain, but if it does it will be funny; the men will hold up big umbrellas and the women will giggle and run in their high heels. She'll only have one glass of champagne because she's pregnant. And then the baby will be born, and everyone will gather in the hospital room, with flowers and jokes and cameras. Then they'll have another baby, the opposite sex of the first one. They'll have dinner parties with friends and such busy weekends, and they'll brush away sentimental tears at their children's concerts, and when the kids are older they'll travel and take up hobbies and eventually move into a friendly retirement village, and when they die their children and grandchildren will gather around and mourn them.
Who would mourn me if I died today? My colleagues? I think they'd get over it pretty fast and then they'd be fighting for my office. Friends? In the space of a few years I've got myself crossed off everyone's Christmas card list. It was my fault. I couldn't be bothered. I never returned their calls or answered their e-mails. I was too busy following Patrick. It's quite a time-consuming hobby. My hairdresser seems fond of me, but who would tell her that I'd died? She'd just think I'd left her for another hairdresser. Which I would never do. Maybe I should leave a note. In the event of my death please let my hairdresser know.
There will be no grief or pain for the hypnotist and her husband, and if there is, it will always pass. They'll support each other until they're over it. The doctor will give them prescriptions to fix the pain.
It's strange, but now that this has happened I find I can no longer imagine getting back together with Patrick. Something has changed. He never proposed to me. We never even talked about it. He'd already had the big white wedding with Colleen. I spent ages looking through their huge leather-bound rectangle of a photo album, staring at Colleen and her big white poufy-sleeved dress, wondering what she would have thought of me.
One morning when we were lying in bed, Patrick said, out of the blue, "I'm keeping you forever."
The Hypnotist’s Love Story Page 17
