Honest Page 6

  He bent lower and whispered something in her ear, making her snort and giggle. I heard the word leg but that was all. When he resurfaced, she kissed him square on the lips, before turning to me and saying, ‘I’ll see you later Emily.’

  ‘Ellen,’ I corrected her, but she was already crossing the road, her arms hugging her torso against the wind, while David hovered awkwardly in my periphery.

  ‘I’ll drop you home then,’ he said. I wasn’t listening. I was watching her white blonde hair whipping about in the wind. I could see just a crescent of her left eye, turning to a black smudge the further she got away.

  When I slammed the front door closed and hobbled toward my wheelchair, I knew something didn’t feel right. The cottage seemed too still, even for our cottage, which had always been as quiet as a church since we first started coming here. But there was something else; I didn’t know how to describe it.

  I wheeled myself towards the stairs and looked up, beyond the ugly stair lift. The bathroom door was slightly ajar.

  I stared and stared at the door, a seam of light glowing between the wall and hinges where the little window let the daylight in. I held my breath; kept very still. I watched and watched that doorway, but nothing stirred.

  I could hear the tap dripping in the kitchen, but nothing from the bathroom. I wasn’t satisfied. Something was up.

  Using the method Dad had shown me, I grabbed my stick and heaved myself into the ugly stained chair, before stabbing the button to begin the slow ascent to the landing. All the while I went, my wheelchair gradually moving away, an ill feeling crept under my skin.

  I looked up at the off–white ceiling, to the matted carpet, to the bathroom with its door ajar, then finally down at my hands. They were pale and pimpled, quivering in the chill.

  But that wasn’t it. Something had caught my attention, like a radio flitting in and out of tune, and I was picking up on it. Something.

  I drew my eyes from the bathroom as the stair lift halted at the top, and looked toward my bedroom. I could hear something, just faintly, coming from inside. Hobbling my way along the landing, my sandals catching on the threadbare carpet, I picked up on the sound more clearly, just like tuning a radio.

  I tucked my wet hair behind my ear and listened hard, tipping my head to one side. Voices.

  I could hear voices.

  I lurched forward and beat open the door with my fist, swooping into the room, facing them directly.

  The room was empty. Still and quiet as a church, like always.

  But the sound, the voices, they kept going on. I stepped into the room, glancing over the bedspread and the iron bedposts, up at the old armoire and down at the rug, searching for the source of those sounds.

  I put a hand to my temple and massaged it, pressing extra hard with my fingertips. I was not going mad, I knew that much. But there was definitely a voice somewhere, somewhere, muttering away, a long, wailing whining sound coming after it, like something terrible, like something—

  I tore off the bedspread with one hand, and there it was, right in the middle.

  My iPod, switched on, with a song still playing.

  I let out a long anxious laugh, all hollow and rattling like a tin can. Just my iPod. Yet the cold, empty feeling remained, chilling me all over.

  Then I saw why.

  My pillow, left plump this morning, had a large dip in the centre for a neck and head, the material pleated where it lay.

  There was nothing there on that bed. And yet, and yet, there was that space where a resting head should be.

  And that song was playing.

  ‘Peter,’ I muttered, stepping closer, my mouth drying up. I took a swift breath and plucked the iPod from the mattress, the headphone cable snaking around my wrist, and held it to my ear.

  The voice I’d heard was coming from there, but it didn’t give me relief to know it. It terrified me.

  It was playing a song I knew very well. A very specific song from my list of hundreds. It was All Along the Watchtower.

  A sudden fury came over me, hearing that song playing out, niggling away inside my brain. I threw the iPod at the floor and swung my stick down upon it, again and again, panting and crying while I did it, until the plastic was in bits and the song had long since died.

  Sighing, leaning on my stick, the iPod in bits, I looked back at my pillow, plumped up and inviting. The space where the head should have been was gone, and so was the song. I looked back and forth between them, my panting breaths the only sound to be heard anymore.

  Somehow, that didn’t comfort me.

  Chapter Eight

  The counsellor came again a week later. We did the same routine, one that I knew we’d stick to from now on: I let her in, we go to the living room, she sits on the couch in her brown suit with her plum red hair. I sit in my wheelchair. Rinse and repeat.

  By now the house looked a little more lived–in, which she picked up on with a forced grin on her face. ‘What’s that you’ve been reading?’ she asked, nodding at the magazines scattered on the armchair by the fireplace.

  ‘It’s Cosmopolitan,’ I said. ‘Just a magazine.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, nodding, twirling her pen between her long fingers. ‘Anything good?’

  I shrugged. ‘How to dress for an interview. There was an article about marriage, and whether women considered marriage a sign of success.’

  ‘And what did you think about it?’

  I shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. I suppose if you can’t please a man, you can’t perform the most basic task a woman possesses by nature. That’s what we were made for.’

  Melanie frowned and cocked her head to one side, her curls bobbing. ‘How so?’

  ‘I’m not religious but I suppose there’s the whole Adam and Eve thing. Evolution. Male stags fight to the death over the females,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, but do humans behave the same way, do you think?’

  ‘Well, yeah. It’s just...I don’t know how to explain it.’

  ‘Try.’

  I scratched my head. When I pulled my hand away, a few strands of hair came with it. I tucked them under my leg. ‘Guys don’t fight over girls ‘cause they have more choice. You have to make them like you. And if you don’t, then you aren’t good enough and you won’t get picked. They won’t even notice you’re alive.’

  Melanie tapped the pen on her pad of paper. ‘Do you honestly think that, hm?’

  ‘That’s basically what they say in the articles. I mean they don’t come right out with it, but it’s...What’s it called? That English term. Rhetoric?’

  She smiled, but her eyes remained cold. She was getting concerned, I could tell. I was experienced with these things from my last counsellor. This was how it all starts. I knew that any minute now, she was going to ask me about him.

  ‘Well that’s nicely observed. You should look into journalism. Are you interested in journalism? I know you haven’t applied to go to any colleges in September, but—’

  ‘I really don’t want to,’ I said. ‘I don’t see the point. I was thinking of taking up photography or something like that.’

  ‘Well, it’s the perfect location for it, with all this scenery on your doorstep. How’s things with dad?’

  My body went cold. In my mind I could hear a tapping sound on a door, followed by a bed creaking. In my mind’s eye I could see Peter’s silhouette on the cliff top. I could see frosting smeared on a toilet seat. I pinched the bridge of my nose, bowed my head, and closed my eyes.

  ‘Ellen? What’s the matter, not feeling well?’ Melanie tapped my bad knee with her fingertips.

  ‘That’s my bad leg,’ I said, flinching. I opened my eyes. ‘Everything’s fine. He’s at work.’

  ‘Good, good.’ She took a slow, deep breath. Here it comes, I thought. She wasn’t done yet. And I was right.

  ‘Ellen, I wonder if we could chat a little bit about Dennis Denton. You might have heard recently that—’

  I clamped my hands over my ears. �
�Shut up,’ I said. ‘Not today.’

  Her cold eyes softened. ‘We’ll have to at some point, Ellen. We’ve got things to address. We need to discuss you being here when—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I urged, tightening my hands over my ears. Her mouth kept moving, but I squeezed and squeezed so hard I couldn’t hear a word of it. When the mouth stopped moving, I took my hands away.

  ‘Were you listening to me? We’ve got to sort this out, Ellen. I’m worried.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I said. I had no idea what she was worried about, seeing as I wasn’t listening. I just knew I didn’t want to talk about Peter’s dad. Not now. Not when things were going so well.

  ‘I’ve got a boyfriend,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Wh—oh? A boyfriend? Back at home, you mean? Sharon didn’t make mention of that in the information she forwarded to me.’ She began rifling through her papers, a deep crease in her forehead. She gave up.

  ‘Sharon wouldn’t know. I haven’t told her.’

  Melanie nodded quickly, still picking at the papers, itching to search again. ‘Right, right. And this is a boyfriend back in London? Where did you meet him?’

  ‘No, he’s not in London. He lives here.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘But you haven’t been here very long. How old is he, Ellen?’

  ‘Forty–two,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘We’re very much in love.’

  Melanie put her pen down and sighed. ‘Oh Ellen, please. Let’s not do this. I have to ask these questions, you know that. I just want to establish that you’re safe and in control.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘Things happen fast sometimes. I’ve read a million stories about these girls who knew they loved someone the first time they met them. People who got married after three weeks, stuff like that.’

  She cocked an eyebrow. ‘So you’ve already decided you love this man?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, smiling. ‘You know how it is. What is it they say?’ I searched my mind, filing through article after article in Comso, Marie Claire....In the end it was the simplest, most common phrase that came to mind. ‘Treat them mean, keep them keen,’ I said, grinning in triumph.

  ‘Right. So where did you meet? How old is he? I mean, what’s his name?’ I could see she was getting frustrated already, her hands flapping about while her cheeks went as red as her hair. As far as she was concerned, I was a victim of child abuse — I wasn’t supposed to be into boys. I wasn’t supposed to be remotely concerned with them, not until I felt ‘stable’ and ‘ready’.

  Well, that was my decision, not hers.

  ‘I’ve known him forever. His name is David.’

  She put her pen down again and looked at me, her eyes glazing over. ‘David Peirce.’

  I looked down at my knees, smiling, suddenly feeling very coy. ‘Might be.’

  There was a long pause. It was a grey afternoon, and the living room was dark and dull. Her eyes stuck out like two coloured diamonds, watching me. ‘Ellen, David Peirce is one of my—’ she shut her lips tight before she could say anymore. I could practically hear her cursing herself inwardly.

  ‘Client confidentiality,’ I said, grinning. ‘I could report you for that, you know.’

  She sat back in her seat and exhaled deeply. ‘That was a slip of the tongue, I’m sorry. Look, what I’m trying to say is that I know David has as girlfriend, and it isn’t you, Ellen.’

  ‘What?’ I said, going cold.

  ‘David’s girlfriend is called Lauren. They’ve been together a couple of years now.’

  I bit my lip. ‘Well, it’s early days yet. I never said—’

  ‘Your words were I have a boyfriend, Ellen. David Peirce is seeing Lauren.’

  ‘Lauren Anders. Yeah, yeah, I know her name,’ I said, huffing. I pulled one of the loose hairs off my hand and toyed with it. ‘Look, things are rocky between them. And what with me returning after all this time...Well, it’s like one of those Cosmo stories isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Melanie. ‘How do you know her surname? Ellen? What is that you’re playing with?’

  ‘My hair,’ I said, wrapping it around my finger.

  ‘Ellen, you’re not losing your hair again, are you? Sharon put in the report—’

  ‘Shut up! I’m not talking about Bulimia today. Or Dennis.’

  Melanie leaned forward, arms resting on her knees. She stared intently into my eyes. ‘Ellen, we will have to talk about Dennis at some point today, because there’s news—’

  I clamped my hands over my ears again. She sighed and stopped talking. When I took my hands away, she continued. ‘But I want to know more about what you’ve been saying is going on between you and David. How many times have you seen one another?’

  ‘A couple,’ I said.

  ‘Ahuh. And does dad know you’ve been seeing David?’

  ‘Dad said I should go and say hi to him. He wanted me to.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Right. So what has made you think there might be something going on between you two?’

  ‘He kissed me in his car. He even touched me.’ I felt my breast with my hand to show her exactly where, just to rub it in her face a little. If there was one thing I hated about counsellors, it was their inability to let anyone else be happy, especially their clients. You had to be firm with these people.

  She took my hand and pulled it off my breast. ‘That’s enough, Ellen. I get the point.’ Her eyes were wide, alarmed. ‘Look, Ellen, if what you’re saying is true—’

  ‘It is. I’m seventeen, for Christ’s sake. It’s up to me if I want to let David touch me up.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Melanie. ‘But in all seriousness Ellen, I’m finding this — no, no. All right. If you say it happened, then fine, it happened. Would you like me to take this up with David?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

  Melanie crossed one leg over the other. ‘Ellen, this is your first time back since the boat accident. This is a lot for you to take in. I’m concerned because you’ve made no indication to Sharon that you’re ready for a relationship, not since the abuse and the tragic accident with Peter. I mean your leg is barely healed and Dennis’ sentence has just been—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up about Dennis!’ I shouted, moving so abruptly I nearly fell from my wheelchair. ‘And don’t you dare bring up Peter! If I want to talk about Peter, I will.’ I fiercely wiped the tears from my eyes.

  Melanie pressed her lips together. ‘David has been in contact with me, Ellen. If you want to talk about David, then fine, but you won’t like it. He seems to think someone has been calling his house at all hours and he thinks you might know who it is. He’s also made no mention of you and him being an item.’

  I ground my teeth together. How dare he! ‘What? So you already knew about all of this and you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘No,’ said Melanie. ‘David made a complaint because he knew there was a likelihood that I would be visiting with you.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ I said. ‘I don’t have his number. He came on to me.’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Melanie, holding her hands up and waving them up and down, as if I was a puff of smoke that she wanted to waft away. ‘You might be getting confused. You haven’t had much experience with men and that’s completely understandable, but where David is concerned—’

  ‘Are you saying I’m naive? Are you saying I don’t know how to handle men? Please!’

  ‘Don’t make this harder than it is.’ Melanie pleaded, leaning over to touch me again. I batted her hand away. The thought of her touching me made my skin crawl, the old witch. ‘Since Dennis was put away you and Sharon have made some real progress getting over the abuse. Coming back here was a bad idea on your father’s part. It might be a good idea if the two of you went back home where you weren’t surrounded by old faces.’

  ‘Dennis was a dirty old bastard and he deserved to be put away,’ I insisted, gripping the arms of my chair for strength. It was a painf
ul, painful thing to say about Peter’s father.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Melanie. ‘But do you think getting involved with David — in whatever way — is really going to help you come to terms with what happened?’

  ‘What do you want me to do, run away? I’m not doing it! This is my cottage and this is where Peter died and this is my fucking home and that little bitch isn’t going to shove me out of here! She isn’t! He loves me, I know he does, he always has—’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait, calm down. Who are we talking about here?’

  ‘Peter!’ I cried, my nose dribbling. I wiped it with my arm and smacked the tires of my chair, breathing heavily.

  ‘Then who’s ‘she’? Who’s trying to push you out?’

  I thought rapidly, my eyes searching around the room for clues and finding nothing. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. I really didn’t.

  ‘We were talking about Lauren before. Is that what you think is going to happen? Maybe you feel like David has moved on—’

  I held my hand up to stop her. A thought was coming to me. A memory of when Peter was alive.

  His mum, Diane, golden tanned skin with her Moroccan hair and English face — English rose, they called it in Cosmo— hugging Peter, folding his underwear, making his bed, changing his sheets. Smiling, all the time, smiling. She looks at Peter like she really loves him, more than me, more than I could ever love him. It’s a love I can’t understand —

  ‘Peter,’ I said, weeping, staring at the threadbare carpet.

  ‘What does Lauren have to do with Peter, Ellen? Try and think. Let’s try and get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘No.’ I covered my face and cried, my shoulders hunching up, my whole body shaking. Suddenly I felt so small. I could see Dennis’ face in my mind, and Diane’s, and I could remember how good it felt to see her face crumbling up into something way beyond terror. Even after everything, I’d still relished that moment. It had felt good.

  ‘I want to be left alone. Go away.’

  She patted my knee. I could sense her pausing, as if to say one final thing. Deciding against it, she silently left the house.