At first I thought that perhaps Mum was under his spell, going along with his plans through fear. But now she doesn’t seem scared at all. I’m shaking as I watch her leave, terrified of the idea that what is happening here is unstoppable. That I don’t have a choice. I don’t trust her despite her assurances that everything will be OK if I just let them help me. I don’t trust her when she says she’s on my side, that my father is to blame, that she is simply following orders.
I dress in warm clothes and a sturdy pair of trainers. When I arrive downstairs, I walk into a scene of relative chaos, consistent with what my mother told me earlier. A general lack of order that feels wrong: dead flowers scattered across the hallway table, a water spill that nobody has bothered to clear up. A few coats hang limply over the banister and another, mine from yesterday, lies in a mucky heap on the floor.
‘Where are they?’ I ask as my father looks up from his newspaper. He’s sitting on the velveteen couch, a bloodstain still noticeable on the cushion like a dirty brown smudge from where Peter treated my wound. The fire crackles as it burns. My head feels like a helium-filled balloon, the after-effects of whatever he gave me last night slow to leave my system. I’m aware now that I’m moving that I don’t feel entirely with it.
‘Jess is out with a friend.’ I remember her visit last night, the insinuation she made that I was keeping secrets. What does she think I know? ‘And your mother has just popped to post a letter. She’ll be back soon. Why don’t you take a seat? It’s important that we start to work together, get you feeling better after last night’s little outburst.’
I perch on the edge of a stool. ‘My husband is alive and you told me he was dead. How did you expect me to react?’
‘Well I never expected you to find out,’ he says, this time it would seem without any shame at all. ‘After all, Andrew took our money, Chloe. He left you.’ He sighs, nods his head as if he can’t get over the awful facts. ‘But I agree it was most unfortunate that you had to find out that way.’
‘I think that’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you?’
He closes his eyes briefly, flippant as he speaks. ‘Not really. After all, we were only following an agreed course of treatment. But I promise I can help you begin to feel better. I was doing very well at one point until the police started meddling and your mother let that old photograph slip through.’ His words are soft, resigned, and yet still they sound like a threat. He rests his elbow on the arm of the sofa, one hand on his chin. ‘We need to get back on track, Chloe.’
I’m not sure what he is suggesting here, but all sorts of thoughts are running through my mind. I thought at first he was a passive liar, somebody who was taking advantage of the situation, using my amnesia to soften my pain at losing my son, to exclude a problematic husband from my future. But the way he is speaking now, I feel like he has some sort of plan. Get back on track? What is supposed to have been agreed? Whatever it is, I want no part of it.
‘I was rather hoping we’d have something positive to tell your mother when she arrives home. I think it would be good to try to make a start right now. There’s no point in wasting any more time. But you know that reconsolidation therapy only works if you are willing. Are you willing, Chloe?’
‘Willing to do what?’ What is he talking about? ‘What is reconsolidation therapy?’
He sighs, frustrated. ‘You know all about it, Chloe. We discussed it right at the start, when you first woke up. We made an agreement.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘That doesn’t change the fact that we discussed it. Reconsolidation therapy, Chloe. A proven way to move forward, to compartmentalise your feelings about the traumatic events of the past. It’s about putting those difficulties behind you and finding a better future.’
It sounds a bit like the blurb on the back of a self-help book. False promises. ‘Cut the bullshit, Dad.’
He clenches his jaw, then stands, sets the newspaper back on the chair. ‘Reconsolidation therapy is a way of dealing with post-traumatic stress, Chloe. It enables the patient or client to resolve their anxiety, move past whatever is holding them back. We discussed our options and you thought it would be for the best if you couldn’t remember what had happened. In some patients it actually facilitates a complete erasure of the traumatic event.’
‘You’re trying to tell me I chose this? I would never have agreed to that.’
‘I can assure you that you did. Isn’t that easier than having to deal with your loss? Your grief?’ He pours a small glass of water and opens the drawer of the antique bureau. He produces a small childproof bottle, taps out a tablet and offers it to me. ‘Let’s not waste any more time.’
‘What is that?’ I ask.
A flash of disappointment crosses his face. He holds out the tablet, expectant and waiting. Eventually he relents. ‘It’s propranolol. You’ve been taking it before each session,’ he says with a sigh. ‘It simply lowers your blood pressure, helps speed the process along. Now come along, lie back on the couch.’
‘I’m not taking that.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ he almost shouts before getting himself under control. A moment of frustration. ‘Leave this place? That’s what you told your mother, isn’t it?’ He sneers, almost as though it’s a dare. ‘And go where? With whom? You’re not ready to leave this house, Chloe. You cannot be alone this soon after surgery. Now come on. It’s high time we made a start.’
‘OK,’ I say. He hands me the tablet, the glass of water, waits for me to comply. I place the tablet on my tongue, then, as I bring the glass up to my lips, move it to the side against my teeth, manage not to swallow it as I take a small sip of water.
‘I’m pleased you’ve finally seen sense, Chloe. We can soon have you back on track. It really is so much better if you can’t remember either of them.’
‘Dad,’ I say, just as he is sitting down, making himself comfortable. While he isn’t looking, I take the tablet from my mouth, push it between the cushions of the settee. ‘Could you do me a favour before we start?’
‘What is it?’ he asks as he looks up.
‘I’m cold. I left my jumper on the bed. Would you get it for me before we begin?’ I rub at my scarred leg. ‘I’d go myself but my leg is sore today.’ He smiles, pats me on the head, his hand cold and damp.
When I hear the creak of his footsteps on the stairs, I stand up from the couch, grab the lawyer’s letter from the mantelpiece and move towards the hallway. I take whatever money is left in a small bowl on the table, a few coins, then slip through the front door, under the dripping arch of wisteria, and run up the driveway as fast as I can. Within a minute or so I’m out through the gate, on my way to Rusperford. I reach into my pocket, pull out the beer mat with Guy’s number on it. He told me to call if I needed help, and I’ve never needed it more than now.