The Doll's House

Thanks to Orla, I know Martin has listened to the recordings on my phone. Before I leave for Gerard’s, I listen to them again, pleased, at least, that he hasn’t deleted them.

On the way over to Gerard’s in the taxi, Ruby calls. There’s something different about her too. She seems less angry. When she asks if I want to meet her tomorrow, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. I say, ‘That would be great.’ It gives me a real boost. Maybe things can be different. Maybe we can start afresh.

The phone call also makes me feel more assured. I even chat to the taxi driver about how cold the weather has turned. I feel like a normal person. But that will soon change.

When I reach Gerard’s, I will go back to that point from yesterday. Gerard isn’t one to give opinions. He says he needs to be beyond reproach. He can’t manipulate my thought processes. But he does more than listen, even if his words are carefully chosen. And I know he believes this is all connected to some trauma, and the darkness I feel exists in my past.

As I get out of the taxi, a sharp breeze nearly knocks me over, pulling me from my thoughts. The same apprehension I felt on that first day gathers inside me, a form of nervous panic. What if this time it doesn’t work? I want to go back to that little girl more than anything, but will my conscious mind let me?

Again Gerard answers the door as if he has been waiting for me beside it. Neither of us says anything beyond a simple ‘Hello’, but I realise I’m walking down the hallway faster than before. He makes no comment, but begins the ritual as he has done on other days, closing the blinds, lighting the candles, asking me if I’m ready to start. Today there is no need for any elongated delivery. It is as if, within seconds of listening to his voice, I’m back where we left off the day before.

‘Clodagh, you say you’re walking across the landing.’

‘I’m following my little-girl self. When she talks, she sounds like Debbie. We’re going on an adventure. We’re standing at the door to Mum and Dad’s bedroom. It’s dark, but I can see streetlights coming in from outside.’

‘Do you feel safe, Clodagh?’

‘Safe?’

‘Yes, safe. Are you afraid?’

‘I don’t know. It’s strange.’

‘What’s strange?’

‘Even though I don’t know what’s going to happen, I know I need to open this door, the one to my parents’ bedroom.’

‘Remember, Clodagh, the past cannot hurt you. It has all happened before. All we are doing is visiting it. Do you understand me, Clodagh?’

‘Yes.’ My little-girl self opens the door for me. She struggles with the handle at first, but then it opens, not completely, but enough to see into the room. The slit is narrow, making it hard at first to distinguish who is in there. But then I see both of them. ‘I can see my parents,’ I hear myself saying.

‘Are you inside the room, Clodagh?’

‘Not yet, but I’m pushing the door further over. My dad is sitting in the darkest corner of the bedroom. His head is in his hands. He’s wearing his favourite pinstripe navy suit, the one with the long straight lines that travel for ever and ever.’ I pause. ‘He’s crying, Gerard.’

‘And where is your mother, Clodagh? Where is she?’

‘She’s standing by the window. She looks tall. She’s wearing really high heels. There is a cigarette in her mouth. I can see the mark of her red lipstick on the tip when she takes it out, blowing smoke clouds. Her face is angry, but it’s more than angry.’

‘You’re doing great, Clodagh. Now think hard. What other emotion do you think your mother is feeling?’

I look at her then, really look at her. Past the cigarette smoke, past her beauty, her long neck and lovely hair, tied neatly in a bun. I’m drawn to her eyes, and when I am, my first thought is to look away, for I see what is hiding beyond the anger. It’s a form of madness. I’ve seen it before, when I looked at myself in the mirror, at those times when I felt the most lost, and instead of my own reflection, I saw the warped face of ugliness inside of me.

‘My mother is …’

‘What is your mother, Clodagh?’

‘She looks like she’s on the edge.’ It’s only then that I glance at my little-girl self. She doesn’t sound like Debbie any more. She is singing that lullaby again, and when she does, without knowing why, I stare at the cradle in the corner, the one opposite where Dad is crying. I walk over to it, unsure of what I’m going to do or see.

‘I need to look into the cradle,’ I hear myself saying to Gerard, and all the while, my little-girl self is singing, swinging her arms back and forth as if she’s holding a baby doll.