said. “You can’t be expected to find the right words.”
Nobody laughed. I sat down, folded my arms and watched the television.
“What I mean,” said Adrian, “is that you’ve not been yourself since—since—”
He wouldn’t say it. Nobody ever does. They come dangerouslyclose, I’m ready for them, but then they don’t. It’s as if there is a big hole around it and everyone is afraid of falling in. They teeter on the edge briefly, then turn round and walk away.
“Well,” said Adrian after an embarrassed pause. “We’d like you to talk to a doctor, someone who understands you. We’re worried about you, and I’m sure James would agree with us.”
Oh no, I thought, James doesn’t agree. I looked at him, but he was composing a kind, compassionate look for me, so I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“You realize that certainly Emily and possibly Rosie have lost faith in you?”
“It was a treat,” I said. “It was meant to be a surprise.”
“I don’t know if Lesley will be able to trust you again,” said Adrian.
So here I am, trapped, back where I was three years ago.
“Katherine Maitland?” says the receptionist and points to the door on her left. James smiles encouragingly at me as I get up, and I try to look keen, to please him.
Actually, I quite like Dr. Cross. She’s always calm and I sometimes take some of that calmness away with me. I just don’t want to be pushed into seeing her.
I used to come and see her a lot once—I’m not sure why I stopped—so it’s not difficult to explain why I’m here. I tell her about Rosie and Emily, about Adrian and James, about Peter Pan. I don’t tell her about the yellow period, or the train tickets to Edinburgh.
When I’ve finished talking, she sits for a while as if she’s thinking hard. She is a small woman, and very neat and precise in appearance. Her words are neat too, and it’s clear somehow that she knows much more than she says.
“So,” she says after a pause. “Do you feel you acted responsibly?”
I know her well enough to understand that she wants me tothink about it. “I don’t know,” I say. “Adrian says I’m mad.”
“And what do you think?”
I think he might be right, but I don’t say so. “I don’t know. I suppose I was stupid.”
How does she make me confess this? I haven’t admitted it to anyone else.
“Do you think you might be depressed?”
I knew she was going to say that. “I suppose I must be,” I say and start to cry.
She waits. She doesn’t say anything. I like her stillness and eventually I stop crying. She passes me a box of tissues and I take one and blow my nose.
“Sorry,” I say.
“How would you feel about taking antidepressants again?”
I look at her. She doesn’t smile. She just looks at me.
“I don’t know how I feel,” I say.
“I think it might be a good idea to try them again,” she says.
“OK.” I nod. I’m afraid of where I am going, and I think she knows this.
“It’s three years now since Henry died?”
There is no embarrassment with her. She just says it and I accept that she can say it. “Three years,” I say, “two months, and five days.”
“And it doesn’t get any easier?”
“No.”
She looks down at her notes. “It doesn’t seem that long ago.”
“He would be going to nursery school by now. He would have friends—” I hear my voice disintegrating, so I stop for a few seconds and look out of the window. “Lots of babies survive at twenty-eight weeks. I keep seeing it on the television—in the paper. Babies everywhere survive …”
A silence grows between us. There is something fluid and tangible about this silence. It flows through the air and seeps into me.
Eventually she moves. “What about James? Does he talk about Henry?”
“No,” I say. “He won’t.”
She nods. “I’m going to give you a month’s supply of tablets. You know that they take two or three weeks to start working, so don’t expect any
Nobody laughed. I sat down, folded my arms and watched the television.
“What I mean,” said Adrian, “is that you’ve not been yourself since—since—”
He wouldn’t say it. Nobody ever does. They come dangerouslyclose, I’m ready for them, but then they don’t. It’s as if there is a big hole around it and everyone is afraid of falling in. They teeter on the edge briefly, then turn round and walk away.
“Well,” said Adrian after an embarrassed pause. “We’d like you to talk to a doctor, someone who understands you. We’re worried about you, and I’m sure James would agree with us.”
Oh no, I thought, James doesn’t agree. I looked at him, but he was composing a kind, compassionate look for me, so I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“You realize that certainly Emily and possibly Rosie have lost faith in you?”
“It was a treat,” I said. “It was meant to be a surprise.”
“I don’t know if Lesley will be able to trust you again,” said Adrian.
So here I am, trapped, back where I was three years ago.
“Katherine Maitland?” says the receptionist and points to the door on her left. James smiles encouragingly at me as I get up, and I try to look keen, to please him.
Actually, I quite like Dr. Cross. She’s always calm and I sometimes take some of that calmness away with me. I just don’t want to be pushed into seeing her.
I used to come and see her a lot once—I’m not sure why I stopped—so it’s not difficult to explain why I’m here. I tell her about Rosie and Emily, about Adrian and James, about Peter Pan. I don’t tell her about the yellow period, or the train tickets to Edinburgh.
When I’ve finished talking, she sits for a while as if she’s thinking hard. She is a small woman, and very neat and precise in appearance. Her words are neat too, and it’s clear somehow that she knows much more than she says.
“So,” she says after a pause. “Do you feel you acted responsibly?”
I know her well enough to understand that she wants me tothink about it. “I don’t know,” I say. “Adrian says I’m mad.”
“And what do you think?”
I think he might be right, but I don’t say so. “I don’t know. I suppose I was stupid.”
How does she make me confess this? I haven’t admitted it to anyone else.
“Do you think you might be depressed?”
I knew she was going to say that. “I suppose I must be,” I say and start to cry.
She waits. She doesn’t say anything. I like her stillness and eventually I stop crying. She passes me a box of tissues and I take one and blow my nose.
“Sorry,” I say.
“How would you feel about taking antidepressants again?”
I look at her. She doesn’t smile. She just looks at me.
“I don’t know how I feel,” I say.
“I think it might be a good idea to try them again,” she says.
“OK.” I nod. I’m afraid of where I am going, and I think she knows this.
“It’s three years now since Henry died?”
There is no embarrassment with her. She just says it and I accept that she can say it. “Three years,” I say, “two months, and five days.”
“And it doesn’t get any easier?”
“No.”
She looks down at her notes. “It doesn’t seem that long ago.”
“He would be going to nursery school by now. He would have friends—” I hear my voice disintegrating, so I stop for a few seconds and look out of the window. “Lots of babies survive at twenty-eight weeks. I keep seeing it on the television—in the paper. Babies everywhere survive …”
A silence grows between us. There is something fluid and tangible about this silence. It flows through the air and seeps into me.
Eventually she moves. “What about James? Does he talk about Henry?”
“No,” I say. “He won’t.”
She nods. “I’m going to give you a month’s supply of tablets. You know that they take two or three weeks to start working, so don’t expect any
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