He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That came out wrong.”
But it was too late. His harsh words had a cruel edge, but that didn’t mask the truth of them. When I spoke, there was a new quaver of uncertainty in my voice. “He’s not a vegetable, is he? He… he’s aware. Isn’t he?”
Jake moved forward, took me by the shoulders and stared deep into my eyes. “Emma, he is psychologically damaged. No matter how much you want to, you can’t do this on your own.”
17
The décor in Dr Foster’s office was designed to convey a bright cheerfulness that verged on the contrived. It was the kind of room I would have hated as a teenager. I sat on a bright red sofa and stared at the abstract painting hung on the wall on the other side of the room. Large, sweeping brushstrokes whirled together every shade of yellow known to the imagination. The carpet was patterned in interconnecting loops of the primary colours, like an 80s lunchbox design.
It was Thursday by the time I’d dragged us out of our withdrawal from the world, and the two of us emerged like a bear from hibernation, rubbing our eyes and squinting at the sun. I’d spent the journey to the surgery trying to stop my hands from trembling as they gripped the steering wheel, and avoiding eye-contact with the people around me. But it was important for Aiden to see a therapist. He’d had a slow adjustment to life outside hospital, and now I knew it was time to listen to Jake. Luckily, Dr Foster was prepared to see Aiden even before his status as ‘deceased’ had been repealed.
When the door opened, it scraped across the wooden floorboards, making a high-pitched squeaking sound. Aiden let out a sudden gasp and sat up very straight. His face paled in a way I hadn’t seen since we’d tried to force him into the woods. I placed my hand on his, moving very slowly as I always did when I touched him.
“Hello again, Emma. Good morning, Aiden.” Dr Foster was as cheerful as her waiting room, but she had an organic quality about her that was less contrived. Her image belonged on the box of organic muesli. She was very natural and easy; a people person. “Would you like to come in?”
Aiden followed my lead into Dr Foster’s office. After Aiden’s disappearance during the flood, I’d spent some time in therapy at a place in York. That had been what I would consider a typical therapist’s office to be like. It was very sparse, with comfortable chairs, a bookcase, and a large, wooden desk. This was the opposite. It was filled with colour, from the baskets of toys, to the artwork on the walls, to a couple of bouquets of fresh flowers on the windowsill.
“Take a seat wherever is comfortable.”
I eyed the bean bag chair but decided I would never get out of it if I sat down, so I chose a plastic upright chair and pulled one across for Aiden.
“I’m so glad you decided to come and see me. I think it will be really useful for Aiden’s progression.”
I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded. It wasn’t that I disagreed with her—I was glad we were going to therapy, but it had been an ordeal to get to the office. I’d had to throw a blanket over Aiden’s head to try to keep the paparazzi from taking any photographs of him. I couldn’t bear for anyone to print his photograph without my consent.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Aiden. I see you’ve had your hair cut.”
“Well, it was me with some blunt scissors over the bathroom sink,” I said with a laugh that felt unnatural. “It’s not the best haircut in the world.”
“Oh, well, I think you look very fetching.” The touch of Yorkshire in her voice helped to calm my nerves. It was like an old friend. Bishoptown residents tended to have slightly posher voices. There were some with strong Yorkshire accents, but more often than not I heard BBC English around the village.
I smiled at Aiden. “I think he likes it. I don’t think he can tell me for a while, but I like to think that if he could, he would.”
There was the smallest hint of a crack in Dr Foster’s smile, and I wasn’t sure I liked the way she regarded me then, with a slow nod of her head. “Absolutely. So, today, Aiden, I would like you to draw me some more pictures. Would you like that? Excellent.” She glossed quickly over Aiden’s lack of response. “How about I set you up on the desk over here. There are some coloured pencils and plenty of paper. Draw whatever pops into your head. That’s it. Very good.”
Once Aiden was set up, Dr Foster came across to sit with me. “Sorry if it seems like I’m talking down to him, but I think it’s best to go gently with him for a while.”
“I do the same. He doesn’t seem like a sixteen-year-old boy.” I thought of the kids at school, so cocksure and loud, full of themselves and full of the belief that they ruled the world.
“No, but that will come in time,” she said. “What can you tell me about his progress?”
“He hasn’t said anything. Not a thing. But…”
“Go on,” she prompted.