“You know him.”
Susanna looks up, half expecting to see someone else in the room. Alina or Ruth or . . . or Emily. But there are just her and Adam in opposite chairs, the ticking clock on the wall between them.
“What?” Susanna says.
Adam looks at her questioningly.
The voice comes again: you know him, and it takes another moment for Susanna to realize it is in her head. She has heard it before. The voice, not the words themselves. She has even seen things. Faces, figures—forms she would rather have forgotten. The voices, the visions, they came fairly frequently at first and for a while Susanna was convinced she was losing her mind. Steadily though, and in particular as she started her training, she came to realize that what she was experiencing was a psychological manifestation of her guilt. Which, at the time, didn’t make it any easier to bear.
“I said I want to talk about Jake, Susanna.”
Susanna feels a pang that forces her to focus.
Adam tips his head. “Did you ever care? About Jake, I mean. Was there ever a point you loved him?”
The room, the voice, the memories that have come raging back, everything slips into a void. There are just Adam and the charge he has laid before her.
“What are you talking about? How can you even . . .” Adam doesn’t interrupt her, but Susanna stops talking as though he does. She is speechless. The opposite. There is so much she wants to say—needs to say—that she doesn’t know where to start. “Of course I loved him. I never stopped loving him. Never.”
Adam seems pleased. That he has riled her again? That she is responding to his accusation so vociferously? Or that Susanna has chosen to engage at all?
She shakes her head. She will not do this. She won’t.
“Where’s Emily? Tell me what’s happened to Emily or so help me God I’ll . . .”
Adam gives her time to finish. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll . . .” Scream? Shout? Kick? Cry? Take your pick, Susanna. Each would be about as effective as any other.
“I’ll take that knife and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”
Susanna hears the words as she utters them and is shocked by them. By the violence, not only in the words themselves, but in her tone. Yet that’s not all. She is pleased too, she realizes. Reassured that she is still capable of standing up for her children. Of protecting them, at whatever cost.
Until Adam starts laughing.
It is not an act. His amusement is real. The implied dismissal, terrifying.
“Go ahead.”
Susanna just stares.
“Here,” Adam prompts, suddenly serious. “Take it.” He offers her the knife hilt first.
He is baiting her, yet Susanna can’t help but consider the odds. She is standing perhaps six feet away from the chair in which Adam sits, meaning the knife is now two feet closer. And it is pointing toward him. He will be primed for her to make the leap but that doesn’t mean he’ll be ready. If she moves quickly, there’s a chance she could seize the handle, or Adam’s arm at least, and then it would come down to whoever was fiercer. Her chances aren’t even, Susanna figures, but they’re not far off.
Minutely Susanna turns her head.
“I didn’t think so.”
Susanna doesn’t look up but she senses Adam place the knife on the arm of his chair.
“Still, at least that’s settled. Now, hopefully, we can get on with things.”
“Please.” So much for being capable. So much for being fierce. “Please,” Susanna repeats. “Just tell me she’s OK. Tell me she’s safe, that you haven’t . . .”
“Haven’t what?”
Susanna flinches from Adam’s gaze. “Haven’t . . . touched her, or . . .”
Adam’s lips twist sideways. “No, I haven’t touched her. As for whether she’s safe, that’s entirely up to you.”
“But—”
“Look. It’s quite simple. The sooner you talk, the sooner this is over. OK? I mean, is that so difficult to understand?”
Susanna recoils. She finds herself nodding.
“So, let’s begin. Shall we? In fact, let’s start with that.”
“With what?”
“With whether or not you ever loved your son.”
It’s not as straightforward as she made out. She told Adam she never stopped loving Jake and she did love him, of course she did. Susanna is as sure of that as she is of her love for Emily. Which is overpowering sometimes. So intense that it stops her sleeping, so smothering that every so often she finds she can’t even draw breath. But with Jake . . . although Susanna knows she loved him, it is a love she struggles to remember. It’s like trying to bring to mind a sunset, when all you can recall clearly is the night.
Susanna has spent a long time over the years exploring how other parents like her have dealt with the emotions she’s experienced: reading memoirs, listening to transcripts, searching archives for interviews. Parents of fundamentalists, for example; of terrorists; of kids who shot up a school. And while Susanna has been able to draw certain parallels, she has also remained acutely aware that her experience was completely apart, not least in how it all ended. That’s confounded Susanna more than anything. How could it not?
“You haven’t answered me.”
“I’m trying to,” Susanna responds. “And anyway I already have. I said to you!”
“Said what?”
“That I loved him. Always. Through it all!”
She needs to calm down. She needs to be able to think clearly, to allow herself to concentrate on Adam. Her best hope is to work out what he wants—and, more specifically, how she can give it to him. He knows who she is, obviously. He knows—or at least suspects—what really happened. And it’s obvious he feels some empathy for Jake, which means he could indeed be a “fan.” In which case it’s possible that Adam has no direct connection to Susanna or her daughter whatsoever, and that Susanna’s best strategy would be to focus on addressing Adam’s sense of self-worth. Of disabusing him, basically, of whatever misconceptions he’s allowed to take root.
Except, You know him. The voice, this time, is like a breathless whisper in her ear.
Adam notices her jump. “Are you OK, Susanna?”
She clasps the desk to steady herself.
“Why don’t you sit back down?”
“No, I—”
“Sit.”
It is not a suggestion. Susanna allows her feet to carry her to her chair, where normally she feels so comfortable. It is usually a safe place for her, in spite of how exposed the act of counseling sometimes makes her feel. But it is exposed in a good way, and—crucially—to other people’s demons instead of her own.
As she takes her seat, however, she can’t help noticing how claustrophobic this room of hers is making her feel. The rug beneath her feet, the comfy upholstered chairs, the normally calming presence of her plants and books—even the sunlight reaching through the slatted blinds: none of it distracts from how close Adam is. Their knees must be two ruler’s lengths apart. Two dagger’s lengths, in fact. Adam’s knife rests on the arm of his chair, in front of his elbow. Susanna cannot help but stare. And, looking at the edges of the blade, all she can think about is Emily.
“You were saying?” Adam prompts.
Susanna feels the strength drain out of her as she exhales. Her head is all at once in her hands.
“Look, you know what happened. Clearly. You think you do, anyway, otherwise why are you here? So if you know, you know as well that what you’re asking me about isn’t that simple. Love is never that simple.”
Adam doesn’t hesitate in his response. “It should be. For the mother of a child, a father of one, it should be.”
Susanna looks up. Is this another clue? Another hint about why Adam is here?
“You say that,” Susanna ventures, “but what does that even mean? ‘It should be,’” she quotes. “Are you saying I had no right to be upset? To be conflicted?”
“Conflicted,” Adam scoffs. “Yes, Susanna. That’s precisely what I’m saying. No parent has the right to be conflicted when it comes to loving their child.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not what they’re there for! They’re there to protect them. To love them. Unconditionally!”
From nowhere Susanna recalls the song she used to sing to Jake when he was small. The tune was something she’d appropriated from a nursery rhyme, the lyrics made-up nonsense, but almost without fail it would make Jake laugh. She even sang it to him when he got older—ten years old, eleven—and though he would squirm in embarrassment, not once did he ever ask her to stop.
“And is that what your parents offered you?” Susanna asks Adam.
“Ha.” Adam has been leaning forward. He slumps back, disgusted, and with the knife starts picking at the upholstery on the arm of his chair. “I told you before, my parents were a waste of space. They were even worse at it than you are.”
The barb cuts, even though Susanna is half expecting it. “You said your father was a waste of space,” she counters. “You didn’t tell me anything about your mother.”
“There’s nothing to tell. My mother died when I was five. The week before my sixth birthday.”
In spite of everything, Susanna feels a pang of sympathy. They say that when a parent loses a child, it’s the worst pain of all and for a long time Susanna believed that to be true. But objectively, and having seen firsthand with her clients the damage it can do, she knows that for a child who’s lost a parent the anguish is often on another scale entirely.
“I’m sorry, Adam. That must have been very hard for you.”
Adam is prodding at the chair, using the tip of the blade to worry at a thinning patch of thread. He stops and looks up. “I barely knew her. And anyway it was worth it, just to see the pain on my father’s face.”
Susanna is well practiced at keeping her reactions neutral but she is powerless to disguise her shock. “What did he do to you to make you hate him so?”
The question, Susanna knows, represents another slip. There is no way, in a normal session, she would ever be so direct.
Even so, for a moment it seems as though Adam might answer. Clearly he is thinking of nothing but his father as the blade pierces and then slices into the fabric of the chair. “Just . . . everything. He . . .”
And then Adam looks up. His expression—astonishingly—is close to one of elation. “You are!” he declares. “You’re good at this!” He laughs, shakes his head, places the knife lengthwise along the chair arm. “You nearly had me,” he says. “You genuinely almost got me speaking. Not that I’m hiding anything,” he adds, spreading his hands. “Ordinarily I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know about my background. But I’m conscious we don’t have much time and really I’m here to talk about you. About your failures as a parent.”
Another barb. Another opening of old wounds.
“Trust me,” Adam says, “I know exactly how my parents fucked me up. I . . .” He stops himself. “I can say that, right? That word, I mean? Because of the poem. All you counselor types love that, I know. ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad, blah-di-blah-di-blah.’” He checks Susanna’s reaction, presumably to see if she’s impressed. “I told you, I’ve done my research.”
Larkin. The poem he means is by Philip Larkin. And Susanna doesn’t like it, as it happens. Not because she doesn’t like swearing (which she doesn’t) but because Larkin’s words cut so close to the bone.
“You can say what you like,” Susanna responds, “use whatever language you like.” In a session—a real session—she would say the same thing, encourage the client to use whatever vocabulary most helps them to get across their feelings. She only says it now, however, because she knows she’s in no position to object.
“Wait.”
Something has occurred to her.
“What did you mean?” Susanna says. “What you said just now, about us not having much time?” There is something hateful filling her insides: a bulging, sick-inducing warmth.
From Adam’s reaction, Susanna can’t escape the impression that somehow, for some reason, he is pleased with her.
“Just what I said,” he answers. “I’m guessing you and I could stay here all night if we had to. It’s your office, after all. But Emily . . .” He lets the sentence dangle, like bait.
Despite the photo, despite the phone, Susanna has until this point been clinging to the hope that Adam is bluffing. It is not a bluff she has been willing to call but she has at least been able to reassure herself that even if Emily is in danger, she is safe while Adam remains with Susanna in this room. Abruptly, however, even that slight comfort has been ripped away from her, and with it the delusion that the worst is not really happening.
“Susanna. Hey, Susanna!”
It must look to Adam as though Susanna is about to fall apart because the sharpness of his words is like a slap. He claps: once, twice, each time closer to Susanna’s face.
“Don’t go to pieces on me, Susanna.”
All Susanna can do is shake her head, and she feels the tears jostle free as she does so. If she weren’t so wary of Adam’s anger she is sure she would already have collapsed in on herself. Physically, mentally: all she feels capable of doing is curling up into a ball.
“Focus, Susanna. Focus on Jake. On what I asked you.”
“But I’ve answered already!” Susanna blurts, repeating herself for what feels like the umpteenth time. “I did love him! I did!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“But that’s . . .” Not fair, she wants to yell. Like a child would. That’s so unfair! She breathes, sobs, breathes again. “You asked me a question, and I answered it,” she says. “I can’t help it if you don’t like what I say!”
Adam considers. “Prove it, then.”
“I beg your pardon?” The challenge sobers her.
“Prove it. You say you loved Jake. Prove you did.”
“How?”
“Tell me something about him that you loved.”
“Just . . . everything! I loved everything about him. He was my son!”
Adam’s face shows clearly that he is growing tired of this. “Answer me this, then,” he says. “And remember, Susanna.” He holds up a finger. “Don’t lie to me. I promise you I know when you’re lying.” He pauses, then asks his question. “Do you deny you’re responsible for what Jake did? For how it all ended?”
Susanna shakes her head. She does curl up then, briefly, until a surge of anger makes her rigid. “I lost my son,” she hisses. “Do you understand that? Whatever happened, whatever you think happened, whyever the hell you care—I’ve already been punished! It’s not possible I could have been punished any worse!”
“Ah.” It is an argument Adam has clearly been expecting. “But you’ve been reborn, Susanna,” he says, emphasizing her name. “Is that fair, would you say?”
“Reborn? No, I . . . My life isn’t about me anymore. Don’t you see? I’ve made it so it’s not about me!”
Adam sneers. “Do you really believe that? You with your cats and your three-bed semi and your neat, cozy little office. Do you really, genuinely believe that?”
She can’t win. Clearly. Whatever game Adam has her playing, it’s obvious it’s been rigged from the start. “I’m not going to sit here and defend myself,” Susanna says, before adding in barely a whisper, “Not again.”
And Adam’s smile, this time, is triumphant.
“Oh, but you are,” he says. “In fact, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. And I’m going to judge you, Susanna. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to judge you—and I’m going to watch as you judge yourself.”