‘No. He just said, “Can you tell Eve I’ll be in touch?”’
I have no way of contacting him, no mobile number, no address. I know nothing about him. Was he even a genuine PTSD referral? More importantly, what did he mean, ‘tell Eve I’ll be in touch’? Was that a threat or a genuine comment? Why do I feel as though he came here under false pretences? All that outlandishness – have I ever experienced any trauma? – what was all that about?
I prod to silence the rumble from my empty stomach. I feel too nauseous to consider food. I finger the brown envelope, hoping for enlightenment, then tug the insert out again. Tell me, does this have something to do with you? Along with the phone calls, the car following me, and those dark shadows I feel at night. But how could it have anything to do with you, given I unearthed it in my briefcase? The only people with access to my briefcase are the people I care about and trust the most in the world. I can’t go down this dodgy road; I can’t allow myself to suspect any of these people. But if they didn’t plant it, either I’m losing my mind and I put it there myself, or someone else has gained access to the clinic or, God forbid, my home, without my realising. For the life of me, I cannot see how it could be possible.
I jump and turn as Ruan kicks the door open with a mug of coffee in one hand and a box of Jaffa Cakes in the other. The sheet of A4 paper floats in slow motion to the floor.
‘I forgot to mention…’ He places my supplies down on the desk. ‘I’ll get that, don’t worry.’ He begins to bend down.
‘No, it’s fine, leave it. It’s for the bin anyway.’ I bend forwards to scoop up the sheet, before he attempts to help me again. ‘What did you forget to mention?’
‘Someone got hit this morning.’
‘Hit?’
‘Yeah, by the cranky traffic warden. Made his day, probably. The best thing was, the woman was sat there for ages. I thought she was coming in here to begin with. She was looking our way for some time.’
‘Sure,’ I respond, but Ruan’s words are drifting around the room, as I only have eyes for the sheet of paper now in my hands.
‘About… thirty minutes, I reckon. She must have decided to run down to the public loo. She was only gone, what, five minutes…’
‘Really.’ For the first time, on the back of the sheet, I notice a handwritten note.
‘Then, he hit her, didn’t he? I tried to intervene, but he wasn’t having it. She must have been back literally seconds after he got her. She didn’t look very happy.’
‘Oh, dear.’ I quickly shove manila folders on top, to cover the paper. I’d recognise that handwriting anywhere. ‘I bet she wasn’t.’
‘Eve, are you even listening to me?’ He sways back to get a better look at me. ‘You okay? You’ve gone real pale.’
‘I’m fine. I was listening. What a shame, poor woman. Bet she wasn’t expecting that the moment she wasn’t looking.’ I stand, reaching for my jacket. ‘I’m just popping out, won’t be long.’
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I just need some fresh air, Ruan. I’m fine.’
I’m not fine. I wasn’t expecting this. How did I not see it before? It doesn’t make sense – why now? I crash out onto the pavement, a deep breath battling for space within my constricting chest as I fight back the rising taste of bilious disorientation. How would she even know about it? Know about you?
It doesn’t make any sense at all. After all this time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Before
Over time, I became less absorbent, more unflinching by the lessons I was taught; the rules I was required to learn. The punishments, though painfully damaging, had a perverse numbing effect on my conscience. It needed to be this way; to be my coping mechanism, essential for reaching my ‘get out of jail’ card. Fortunately, your incredibly protracted work hours gifted me and Jack bursts of normality, left to our own devices. The interludes that kept me afloat. The nights were the worst as the ghosts of past and present desolation made nightly visits, just at the point my head merged with the pillow. During the daytime, I became expert in burying our living reality deep beneath the surface, invisible to the naked eye; only known by the heart. Always holding my breath.
If you knew how I felt, how I saw you, what I was thinking, you didn’t show it; I suspected it was more because you didn’t care. So long as I behaved myself and played the part; and from time to time showed gratitude for the life you provided us. Most of the time I obliged your rituals and behaviours, plodded along with your conditions. I tried as best I could to keep any consequential upsurges private. It was part of a giant learning curve. I soon learned of the penalties of doing otherwise.
Deception and lies. I became as practised as you. I almost forgot who I was.
My sanity and Jack’s well-being were running on borrowed time. As Jack developed so did his need for regularity, decent archetypes. I found myself continually monitoring him for unwelcome signs; praying that so far, his environment hadn’t tarnished his memory templates, and misinformed his psyche of how to behave. I desperately wanted him to feel ordinariness but didn’t want him to absorb his environment as normal. I decided to go ahead and return to work on a part-time basis; much to your disgust.
‘Pathetic. Preferring to spend your time at the hospital, than time with your son.’
‘Can you not see how it may help us – my ability to hold adult conversation? I’m referring to the many corporate events, every other week. I don’t feel I offer anything near intelligent conversation.’ I lied through my back teeth. I didn’t give two hoots about your corporate events. It was going to kill me being separated from Jack. But somehow, I had to rebuild my confidence in an alien world.
‘Your life is somewhat dull. Now you mention it, what do you manage to talk about?’
I don’t, I thought; you just don’t notice. Or, I lie mostly. I’d noticed how I would blush, feel a slight tremble, be aware of my quickening pulse; I was becoming so self-aware and so horribly distanced at the same time. Losing ground.
Returning to work was essential for the steps I needed to take, but a total wrench; we’d become such a close unit, Jack and me, I cried myself to sleep the night I informed the hospital of my return. I hadn’t cried for a long time, not externally. The following morning, I sat Jack in his favourite spot, on the kitchen work surface, our usual wrestling match tying the laces on his soft boots. Chaotically kicking his legs about, chortling at me trying to catch them. I tried to explain to him as best I could; he was after all just two and a half.
I gently lifted his chin, so his brilliant blue eyes met mine.
‘Listen, Jack; Mummy has some exciting news. I’ve something important to tell you.’
‘We’re gunna go to de farm?’ His eyes lit up further.
‘No, not the farm, sweetheart, not today. Maybe on Friday though.’
‘Doh, me loves de farm.’ His little angel-like face fell sullen as he shrugged his shoulders dramatically.
My heart panged. ‘No, listen, it’s something else, just as exciting. Mummy’s going to go back to work, Jack. Just for a little while anyway. Not every day.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘At de hopipal?’
‘Yes, that’s right, at the hospital.’ He searched my face for clues, with no idea what this meant for him. I wanted to tell him not to worry, I’d changed my mind; I wouldn’t be going anywhere. But I couldn’t do that, not for either of our sakes.
‘I don’t want to leave you, Jack. I will miss you so-o-o much.’ I knew his understanding was limited, but I needed to try, for my own sake. Especially as I couldn’t explain to him just how much hung on my decision.