And that was all I needed. That was my romantic proposal and engagement ring and wedding ceremony and honeymoon all in one. As far as I was concerned, we were married from that moment.
But obviously not as far as Patrick was concerned.
Ellen is the sort of woman who makes a man feel the urge to go down on one knee and propose, whereas I am not.
When I walked over to them at that picnic table, I felt like some sort of hideous half-human creature. I could smell my own ugliness.
I accept it. It's fine. They will be forever on the inside, and I will forever be on the outside.
But I'll make sure they always know I'm still there, looking in, peering through the glass, tapping on the window. I will never go away.
"She'll never go away," said Patrick. "If you marry me, you'll have to accept that she's part of the package. My son. My mum. My dad. My brother. My stalker."
"Yes," said Ellen. "I understand."
"I hope it's a girl," said Patrick. "The baby. I hope it's a little girl. I'd love a beautiful little girl. Would you like a little baby girl?"
"Sure," said Ellen.
Patrick wasn't drunk, but his words were softening around the edges. They were sitting on the balcony of their hotel room, and he was drinking the rest of the champagne.
It appeared they were engaged. Ellen was wearing the ring on her left hand. It kept catching her eye. She had said yes.
Patrick was thrilled about the baby. Ecstatic, even. When the news of her pregnancy had finally sunk in, he'd pulled her into his arms and held her like she was something precious. "A baby," he murmured. "Bloody hell. Who cares about anything else? We're having a baby."
Everything was perfect, except that Saskia's face seemed to be permanently floating on the peripheral of Ellen's vision, like the shocking memory of a bad car accident: the crunch of metal, the flinging back of the head. She kept replaying that moment when Saskia walked toward them: the wide, friendly smile, the eyes made blank by her dark sunglasses.
Ellen's righteous fury had abated, and now she felt strangely spent, empty of feeling, as though she really had been in some sort of traumatic accident.
"It's weird, but I didn't feel as angry as I usually do when Saskia turned up today," said Patrick. "I just felt this calmness. A sort of acceptance."
So her posthypnotic suggestion had worked a treat. Ellen felt both professional pride and professional guilt. She said nothing. Her back ached. She wriggled around in her chair, trying to get comfortable, and fiddled with the ring.
"Is it too tight?" asked Patrick, watching her. "We can change the size."
"It's perfect," said Ellen. "I'm just not used to wearing rings."
Patrick emptied the rest of the champagne into his glass and settled back into his chair, stretching his legs out and entwining his toes around the bars of the balcony fence.
"Yes. A beautiful blond-haired little girl who looks just like you," he said happily, looking out at the moonlit night.
"Except I don't have blond hair." Ellen laughed.
"Of course you don't." Patrick rolled his eyes at his own stupidity and reached out to lightly touch his hand against Ellen's hair. "I think I was imagining her looking like Jack."
Ellen thought of the photo she'd seen at his parents' place of Colleen sitting on the hospital bed holding Jack. Her hair, she remembered, was long, wavy and very blond.
When they got back to Sydney, they told all and sundry about the engagement, and just their closest friends and family about the--shhhh--pregnancy.
People seemed surprisingly happy for them. They got tears in their eyes. They sent flowers and cards. They turned up with bottles of champagne and flamboyant hugs.
"Why do you find it surprising?" asked Patrick.
"I don't know," said Ellen. "I guess I didn't think anyone would care that much, at our age."
"They're just happy to hear some good news for a change," said Patrick. "People love happy endings."
For some reason Ellen didn't really like all the fuss and good cheer. She preferred to be the observer rather than the focus of everyone's attention. All the questions--"When are you due?" "When will the wedding be?" "Where will you live?"--made her jittery, because they hadn't worked out the answers yet. Also, it worried her that she would somehow let people down now.
There hadn't been any tears in her mother's violet eyes when she heard about the engagement, just a lift of her eyebrows before she quickly swept on her most gracious persona, the one where she appeared to channel the queen, and completely seduced Patrick with her well-mannered charm--"I really couldn't be more thrilled"--and a check for five thousand dollars.
Privately she said to Ellen, "He doesn't need to marry you just because you're pregnant! You've known the man for all of five minutes!"
"He asked me before he knew I was pregnant," said Ellen. "And I know everything I need to know about him."
"So you think," said Anne under her breath, and Ellen pretended not to hear. She took a deep breath and rose above it.
It was hard to tell exactly what Julia thought about the news. She screamed and hugged Ellen when she heard about the engagement, and said all the right gushy, girly things about the ring, but a fleeting shadow crossed her lovely face when she heard about the pregnancy.
"What do you mean, it was an accident?" she said. "Teenagers get accidentally pregnant! Were you using mind power as contraception?"
Ellen didn't tell her that after her first appointment with the very nice obstetrician recommended by her friend Madeline, she'd worked out that she probably got pregnant after that drunken game of gin rummy, when they'd sort of "forgotten" about contraception. It did make them sound like teenagers.
"Have you been out for that drink yet with Stinky, I mean, Sam?" asked Ellen, changing the subject.
"He canceled at the last minute," said Julia shortly. "He said he had the flu. Couldn't get out of bed."
"So he postponed?"
"Whatever," said Julia. "Don't put on your soft, soothing voice, it drives me nuts. If he's not interested, he's not interested."
"Julia, he probably really did have the flu."
"Stop it! You've got that condescending, tranquil look on your face."
Ellen gave up and told her instead about Saskia's appearance at Noosa, and how it was all Ellen's fault, which cheered Julia up considerably.
Patrick's family was lovely. His mother admitted that she'd been praying for an engagement from the very first night she'd met Ellen.
"And did you pray for a new baby too?" asked Patrick innocently.
"Of course," said Maureen. "Admittedly, I didn't think it would happen quite so soon, but if you're thinking I disapprove, Patrick, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'm not that old-fashioned!" She beamed at Ellen. "Of course, you will get married before the baby is born, won't you?"
Patrick's dad gave her a big fatherly hug, enveloping her in the fragrance of some aftershave that reminded her so strongly of her grandfather she had to stop herself from clinging on to his shirtfront. Patrick's brother, Simon, gave Ellen flowers and cooked them an excellent celebratory dinner (he was a much better cook than Patrick) at his flat. He teased Ellen in a brotherly way she'd never experienced before. She loved it.
Ellen had been worried about how Jack would react to the news that she was going to be his stepmother, especially when he heard about the pregnancy, but he seemed perfectly nonchalant about it all. "I hope that the baby is a boy," he said. "I'll teach him stuff. Like how to drive a car. Fly a plane." He paused and gave Ellen a sidelong look. "Shoot a gun."
"Shoot a gun!" Ellen put on her most horrified face.
"Just messing with your head," said Jack, delighted. It was his new favorite phrase.
And it seemed that all the logistics were going to work out fine too.
Both Patrick and Jack said they were happy to move into Ellen's house. "If you're happy to have us," said Patrick, "we'll keep our house as an investment and rent it out. We'll be prope
rty tycoons!"
"I'll go to the beach every single day of my whole life!" said Jack. "Even when it's raining. Even when there is hail! Nah, not really. Just messing with your head."
Jack would still go to the same primary school. The twenty-minute drive was of no consequence because Patrick's office was in the same direction.
So that was that.
Ellen was part of a new family and her whole life was about to be transformed. She kept wandering through the house, twisting her new engagement ring around and around on her finger, and imagining it filled with new people and new stuff. A room for Jack. A room for the new baby. She would be a mother of two. There would be newsletters from Jack's school on her fridge. Patrick's collection of prints of old surveying equipment would have to go on the walls somewhere. There would be a cot, a change table, a baby's bath. Jack's bike would lie on its side in the front yard. There would be a baby's seat in the car, a stroller and a schoolbag in the hallway.
It was amazing.
It was absolutely terrifying.
"Deborah Vandenberg" was scheduled for an appointment at eleven a.m. Friday morning.
"I assume she won't come," said Ellen. "Now that she knows that I know she's Saskia." (Although she had said, "See you Friday.")
"I'll have to take the day off work," said Patrick. "I don't want you alone with her."
"She won't come," said Ellen. "But if she does, I'll be fine. She's never been violent."
She didn't want Patrick there. If Saskia did turn up, she wanted to talk to her. She longed to have a proper woman-to-woman chat with her. "Why do you do this?" she would say. "Help me understand."
Obviously Ellen could no longer see her on a professional basis, but she could refer her to someone else who could help her both with her leg pain and her inability to let go of Patrick. She would be kind and firm and put an end to all this nonsense.
(Part of her recognized the folly of her own thinking: If only Saskia saw how very nice and understanding Ellen was, she would graciously step aside.)
"This is my problem, not yours," fretted Patrick. "You're pregnant, remember, you should be avoiding stress."
"She won't come," insisted Ellen. "I'm sure she won't come."
"I've got to do something about that restraining order," he said.
Ever since they'd returned from Noosa, he'd been talking about this, but for some reason Ellen still hadn't managed to identify, he never actually got around to doing it. She was sure it wasn't just about his pride; there was something else behind his procrastination, but she didn't push the issue. From what she'd read, restraining orders didn't offer much protection against truly committed stalkers anyway.
In the end, Patrick decided to go to work, because it turned out that Ellen wasn't going to be alone in the house after all. A large plumber would be there replacing the hot water system, which had unexpectedly died the day after they returned from Noosa.
The large plumber was a friend of Patrick's and he promised to stay within earshot the whole time, should Saskia turn up. (Although what if Saskia swiftly removed a gun with a silencer out of her handbag and shot her, or plunged a syringe into her arm that caused total body paralysis, including her vocal cords? Ellen had seen too many horror movies to believe that even the largest plumber could offer any protection from a real psychopath.)
As the time drew nearer for Saskia's appointment, Ellen sat at her desk and pretended not to care either way. She tried to do some paperwork, but her heart was hammering too hard for her to concentrate.
She won't come, she thought.
But actually, she didn't really believe that. At their last session, Ellen had lent Saskia one of her books about hypnosis for pain management. They'd talked about how they both resented people who didn't bother to return books. "Don't worry," Saskia had said. "You'll get it back."
The minutes ticked by and the doorbell stayed silent. Was she disappointed or relieved? She felt she could convince herself that either emotion was authentic.
At twenty past eleven, the phone rang and Ellen snatched up the receiver.
"Ellen O'Farrell Hypnotherapy, how can I help you?" There was only the tiniest tremor in her voice.
Silence. Ellen thought she could hear the muffled sound of traffic on a busy road.
"Hello?" she said.
Nothing. She pressed the phone hard against her ear. She could definitely hear traffic. A horn tooting.
She said quietly, "Saskia?"
The line went dead.
My car broke down on the way to my appointment with Ellen. In the middle lane of the highway. Everyone angrily tooted their horns at me, over and over, like their tooting would finally convince me to make my car work again.
I got out of the car and screamed at the tooters: Just what do you expect me to do? Do you think I'm doing this on purpose?
They wouldn't have been able to hear me over the sounds of the traffic. They would have just seen my mouth moving silently and furiously, my arms waving about. "Crazy," the tooting motorists probably muttered to themselves.
Yes indeed.
While I waited for the NRMA man to come and rescue me and my car, I decided to call Ellen to let her know that I wasn't going to make it. It felt like the polite, normal thing to do. That's what I would have done for any other appointment. After all, that's what I would have done if I was still Deborah.
I had been looking forward to surprising her by turning up as usual for the appointment. I was interested to see how she would handle it. I was wondering if she would even let me in the house. Would she slam the door in my face? I didn't think so. I don't think door slamming is in her sweet, spiritual nature. I suspected that Patrick might be there with her, waiting for me, ready to call the police, ready to finally take out that restraining order he's threatened so often, ready to be protective of his precious, pretty, pregnant fiancee.
But if Patrick wasn't there, and she did let me in, I was going to admire the ring and ask her when the baby was due and if she was planning a big wedding. I was going to ask did she mind if I wore white too or would that be offensive, or was I not on the guest list? Ha ha ha. I was going to ask her if Patrick still liked sex in the shower and Sunday morning blowjobs. I was going to watch that serene expression of hers shatter like broken glass.
Or else I wasn't even going to mention Patrick. I was going to continue in my Deborah role and hand back the book she'd lent me and enjoy watching her pretending not to be "totally freaking out." I have been watching a lot of television this week. Television featuring young American girls. Their language is catching.
I was playing it by ear. I could have handled anything, done anything, said anything. That's what I thought anyway, but as soon as I heard her voice on the phone, my own vanished.
My vocal cords were paralyzed. It was literally physically impossible for me to say, "Oh, hi, Ellen, it's me, Saskia, I'm not going to make my appointment this morning because my car has broken down."
I couldn't act like a normal person again when she now knows me as a crazy person, because that would imply I have a choice. That I can choose to be crazy or normal. And if I have a choice, then that would imply that I'm not really crazy at all, and I should just stop it and get on with my life.
But what life? Patrick and Ellen are my life. Without them, there's just a job and grocery shopping and a car that needs a new automatic transmission and that's about it.
The doorbell rang that afternoon, after the plumber had left, when Ellen was studying the fancy control panel for the new hot water system.
Patrick had chosen a system where you could preset the water temperature that came out of the tap. He said it would be perfect for bath time with the new baby. Ellen hadn't even known such systems existed. (Also, "bath time"! She marveled at his casual reference to something so ordinary and yet extraordinary.) He'd put together a long list of things that needed doing around the house to prepare for the baby: the power-points had to be childproofed, the spiral staircase was a "de
ath trap for toddlers" and so on and so forth. "So I guess we'll have to get quotes." Ellen's stress levels had risen as she looked at the list.
"I'll take care of all that," said Patrick. He puffed his chest out and jutted his jaw like a superhero. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it." She put a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon in his arms. (Actually, it was almost a genuine swoon.)
Ellen looked at the time. She wasn't expecting any clients. Saskia, she thought, as she walked down the stairs. And now there is no large plumber to protect me. Just in case, she picked up one of her grandmother's heavy glass candlestick holders from the hall table, laughing at her serious reflection in the hallway mirror. But, still, she didn't put it down.
She opened the door.
It wasn't Saskia. It was a thin, short, nervous-looking girl smoking a cigarette and smiling up at her apologetically.
Ellen knew her face perfectly well, but for a moment she couldn't place her; she'd been so sure it was Saskia, she couldn't get the name "Saskia" out of her head.
The girl dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath her foot. Then she picked up the butt and held it in her cupped hand.
"I can't believe I lit this up while I was waiting for you," she said. "I'm an idiot. Anyway, as you can see, I'm still at it."
Ellen stared at the crushed cigarette and said, "Rosie."
"Yes," said Rosie. "I'm sorry. I know I don't have an appointment. I just got back from my honeymoon this morning, and I came by on the off chance you had some free time..."
"I saw your wedding photos in the paper last week," said Ellen, trying not to sound resentful. You still married him after our breakthrough! Why did you marry him if you knew you didn't even like him?
"Those photos were awful," said Rosie. "I looked so ugly, and you saw the color of the bridesmaid dresses?"
"The pictures were black and white."
"Oh, right, of course. Well, they were awful. Anyway, do you ... could you fit me in?"
"Of course I could," said Ellen warmly, guilty about her resentment. She stood back and ushered her in, discreetly replacing the candlestick holder on the table.
"You're probably wondering why I still married him," said Rosie, when she was settled in the green recliner.
"Here," said Ellen, offering a tissue in the flat of her hand so that Rosie could finally dispose of the cigarette butt she was still holding.
The Hypnotist’s Love Story Page 18
