‘Sas, she’s our daughter, not something to fix. She’s angry because –’
‘Because of me, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’ Saskia replies. ‘It’s my fault. It was years ago now but it’s still my fault, right?’
‘That’s not what I meant. Look, I’ll talk to her, just not tonight.’
‘Perhaps if you spent more time with your own daughter things would improve.’
A low blow, she’s sorry as soon as she says it, apologizes immediately. I stare at her thin body, not much different in size from Phoebe’s, same hair, eyes. Much like a teenager herself but out of her depth in a house with us teenage-for-real girls. The lessons these days, faster. Cruder.
On the way to Mike’s study he explains that the psychiatrist from the unit called him today, checking in about my current medication regime. I remember his office well. Walls full of framed degrees and certificates. The questions, the same every week. Appetite. Headaches. Flashbacks. And finally, sleep. How are you sleeping? Every night’s different, I told him. Yes, to be expected, he replied. A rip of a pad, another cocktail of pills ordered. Blue for the morning, white for the night. Pink, if I didn’t want to think at all. One of the other teenagers showed me how to hold them in the side of my mouth, spit them out in the toilet afterwards.
Taking them felt like cheating.
A kindness I didn’t deserve, still don’t when I think back to what I let happen to Daniel the night before I handed you in.
‘How would you feel about increasing your night-time dose?’ Mike asks.
I tell him I feel groggy at school, first thing in the morning.
‘Still? That’s not great, let me note that down so I remember to mention it when I call him back tomorrow. We’ll arrange a full review once the trial’s over.’
Mike, so diligent at dispensing my medication. Not so at making sure I take them. A sock full of tablets in my top drawer. He opens his diary, writes a note in it, then sits down in the chair opposite me.
‘Ready?’ he asks.
‘Not really.’
‘This is important work, Milly. There are parts of your mind we need to access in order for you to be able to move on. For example, the night-time episode you had a few days ago in the cellar when you were dissociating is linked to guilt, and how you feel about the things you did that weren’t your fault.’
Fear inches up from the lower part of my stomach, moves into my throat.
‘You need to address these feelings, you need to feel secure in the fact your mother can’t control you any more.’
Mike said yesterday he knew what he was doing, he’d been doing it for a long time, so why can’t he see the strings, yours, attached to me still? Why can’t he see what’s going on?
‘Let’s do some relaxing and we can talk more at the end.’
He makes me visualize my safe place but all I can see are faces of ghosts, forming in smoke. The cigarette you enjoyed afterwards. The little ghosts swooping still. They can’t rest in peace, they don’t like where they are.
Where they were put.
‘Describe what you can hear,’ Mike asks.
‘Somebody calling for help.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Somebody in the room opposite mine.’
‘Did you go and look, see who it was?’
‘I knew who it was, I recognized his voice, but the door was locked, I couldn’t get to him.’
‘It wasn’t your job to help him, Milly.’
‘The next morning he was crying, asking for his mummy, but the door was still locked so I couldn’t help him then either. Then we left the house and she drove me to school, sang the same song every time.’
‘What song did she sing?’
‘Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue.’
IF YOU LOVE ME, DILLY DILLY, I WILL LOVE YOU. YOU STILL LOVE ME, DON’T YOU, ANNIE?
‘I was there too, Mike.’
‘Where were you, Milly?’
I open my eyes. He’s leaning forward in his chair.
‘You said you were there too, what did you mean?’
I bite down on my tongue. Bitter and warm as the blood flows.
‘You did everything you could, Milly. Everything you could in the circumstances. It must be especially hard remembering Daniel.’
‘Why do you think it was him I was remembering?’
‘You recognized his voice. He was the only one you knew well enough.’
‘But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about all of the children she took.’
‘I know, and I’m not saying you didn’t, but it must have been that much harder when you realized it was Daniel she’d taken, you’d spent time with him at the refuge.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But you need to. You need to be able to if you go to court.’
‘I will be able to by then.’
‘Why not try now?’
‘I feel like you’re pressuring me, I need more time.’
‘I just want you to know this is a safe space, Milly, you can tell me anything, talk to me. That’s what I’m here for.’
I tell him I know, but I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk any more.
He sits back in his chair, nods, says, okay, let’s leave it there for tonight.
I read until midnight, exhausted, yet sleep doesn’t come. I long to be held, comforted by someone. How your touch hurt, how no touch hurts more. I get out of bed, unlock the balcony door, open it wide. Cold air floods the room, every shiver and goosebump on my body a welcome sensation. My lonely skin.
I sit down on the stool in front of the easel Mike and Saskia bought me. Kindness from them, every day. It’s late now, past two a.m. The night air wraps around me, my feet hum from exposure. I like the noise charcoal makes. The smudges, the smears, perfection left out in the cold. The black on my hands reminds me something is happening. Being done. I rock on the stool as I sketch, back and forward. I close my eyes for a moment, my grip on the charcoal tightens. The wind reaches through the balcony door, pinches my breasts. My nipples, hard and tight.
I rock to the side.
The left and the right. A circular motion. I enjoy the wood of the stool through my knickers, the heat created, a stark contrast to the rest of my cold body. I rub.
Harder on the page.
Harder on the stool.
The charcoal breaks. I’m left with a pulse down below, black dust on my knees.
In the morning a sketch clipped to the easel. You, again. I remove the paper, roll it up, place it in the pull-out drawer under my bed.
14