Day 25 / 09:08
What Noah likes about Ms Turner is how she takes who he is and works with it.
So far … Remember, she is not to be trusted.
Ms Turner’s talking about his 5s.
‘I’ve been thinking about how important five is to you, Noah. Perhaps there’s a way we can work with that.’
She pauses, looks at him carefully, but he keeps his face neutral, doesn’t let her see how hard it is to hear her use his number so casually. Be careful, he wants to say to her. It’s powerful.
She’s tossing it around like it means nothing.
She’s still talking and Noah forces himself to listen.
‘So, Noah. You know we have five senses?’
This is dangerous. Stop her, right now.
Noah can’t, because he has to listen to her. He has to breathe, and he has to tap. He’s gathering strength. He’s going to have to push back at her, but—
‘What I’d like you to do is try a really easy meditation technique. I’m going to hold on to your hands at the beginning. Will that be all right?’
Noah’s not sure, but he nods.
‘Pull your hands away from me at any time, Noah. I won’t hold them unless you want me to.’
She’s holding them now, and Noah’s becoming more agitated. He wants to tap, to feel his fingers moving, but he can’t. Instead he calls on his feet and asks them to beat faster and faster. If he could just get to his stones, but her hands are firm on his and he doesn’t want to let them go. If he can get through this—
Then what? Are you hoping for some kind of miracle cure?
Noah shakes his head. No miracles, he knows that, but if he does The Work … It doesn’t mean he’s going to let down all his defences. It will show he’s willing to try.
‘Trust me, Noah.’
He looks at her and her face is the same as always, kind, open.
‘I’m not trying to trick you. I won’t ask you to do something unless I think you can. It’s all part of a process. If you trust it, it could work really well.’
Her voice is quiet. Commanding, almost, but not strong enough or firm enough to fight the Dark.
Trust her? Think of the consequences.
Its voice is blacker than a scowl. More frightening than it’s ever been.
Listen! Look at me.
A glint in the deep shadow, burning orange, bright and fearful. Ms Turner’s holding his hands, holding him still and talking about 5s.
‘Stop, Noah. Let everything slow down.’
Her voice is soft. He listens, takes in her words. The swirling in his head slows, quietens.
‘Once you’re calm, Noah, I want you to do five things. Breathe now. Tell me when you’re ready.’
He breathes. He breathes. He breathes. He breathes. He breathes.
The world stops spinning.
‘Ready,’ he says.
‘Close your eyes, Noah.’
He closes them.
‘Now, listen. Find one sound to concentrate on.’
So many sounds. Running feet outside in the corridor. A telephone ringing from another room. Wandile and Simon talking outside on the lawn. And above them all, the rough gwaa-gwaa-gwaa of a hadedah.
‘The hadedah,’ he says.
‘Good. Listen to him, Noah.’
She’s still holding his hands, keeping them – him – in place.
‘All good?’
He nods.
‘Next, Noah, I want you to taste. Concentrate on the taste in your mouth.’
That’s easy. Minty toothpaste still fresh after breakfast.
‘Run your tongue around your mouth, Noah. Can you taste it?’
Another nod.
‘Great.’
You are too obedient. This is not the time—
She’s talking again. ‘Breathe in, Noah. Only this time, what do you smell?’
She’s close to him and he picks up the scent of her shampoo. Something lemony. Beyond that, the sprig of jasmine on her desk, its faint perfume reaching across the carpet to where they’re sitting. Does heat have a smell? He breathes into the warm air and inhales the sharpness of the soap he used to wash his hands after breakfast.
In the end, he settles on the sharp tang of Ms Turner’s hair. It’s the strongest, the easiest to identify; it’s fresh, not blurred by heat or muggy air.
‘You’re doing so well, Noah. Are you okay?’
A nod.
‘Right. I’m going to let go of your hands now. But keep your eyes closed.’
Her hands let go of his.
‘Find something to touch, Noah.’
He moves his hands to his hair, to the fabric of his white shirt, to his jeans, to the skin on the back of his hand. Back to his hair, washed that morning. He rubs a lock between his fingers, stops to wonder for a moment how many individual hairs he’s holding, remembers his mom telling him how she loves him, more than all the hairs on his head, thinks how much he loves her too, and Maddie … and his father.
What is this nonsense, Noah?
His hair is soft, slippery, and if he concentrates, he can block out every noise.
He’s still thinking about his family, feeling his hair under his fingers when Ms Turner says, ‘Now open your eyes. Slowly. Look around. Let your eyes rest on one object.’
His eyelids feel as though they have weights attached to them and it’s a strain to open them. The room is filled with sunlight. It shines on Ms Turner’s lemony hair and makes the indigenous flowers glow brightly in their frames. He settles on the graceful beauty of the wild iris.
‘Good, Noah. Now, one last thing. I want you to tap.’
He swivels to face her. ‘What?’
‘I know.’ She smiles. ‘Who’d have thought? But this is why. One tap for what you hear. One tap for what you taste. One tap for what you smell, one for what you see. One final tap for the fingers doing the touching. Do it lightly and quickly.’
He looks at her and she’s not joking. With unexpected permission, he taps lightly and quickly, ears, mouth, nose and eyes and a final tap of his fingers together.
‘Now choose one sense, Noah.’
His hand moves up to his hair.
‘You’re doing so well. So, then, Noah, can you tell yourself exactly where you are? Tell me too, if you can.’
‘I’m here. In your office.’ The words are out in a flash.
‘That’s right. You’re here. And the time is now. Right this very moment. Agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, when you get worried, Noah, or anxious, take the time to pause. Ask your five senses to help you. Hear one thing. Taste one thing. Smell one thing, feel one thing, see one thing. Then, choose just one of your senses. It doesn’t have to be the same one every time. Concentrate on the very one you have chosen. Let the others fall away. Go from five, to four, to three, to two, to one.’
Her voice is soothing, hypnotic and as she speaks his eyes close. Gently, he rubs a few strands between his fingers. The sound of the hadedah fades, he can’t taste toothpaste or smell Ms Turner’s hair. He doesn’t look at the botanical prints that remind him of his father’s garden.
‘Tell yourself where you are, Noah.’
‘I’m here.’
‘Tell yourself what time it is.’
‘It’s now.’
‘That’s good Noah. Really good. We’re almost finished.’
Her hand is back again, covering his free one.
‘Where are you Noah?’
‘I’m Here and Now,’ he says, and he likes the way capitals form for the words.
‘Can you do anything about what happened in the past?’
‘No,’ he says. The Dark blooms.
His hand pulls back, but relaxes slightly as she holds on. ‘Feel your hair, Noah. Where are you?’
‘I’m Here,’ he says. ‘And Now.’
‘That’s right. You’re in here, and it’s now. So tell, me, Noah, if you can, can you do anything about the future?’
It’s too much.
He pulls his hand away and uses both to tap the arm of the chair.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ms Turner says.
He looks at her and noise surrounds him, at full volume.
Do not say anything else. Not a single thing. It’s a cruel trick.
He’s shaking, but Ms Turner looks exactly the same. Same kind smile, same calm face. She’s talking, as if nothing has happened.
‘We’ll do this again, Noah. Practise it together. And once you get the hang of it, you can do it on your own.’
He gets to his feet. Three minutes left of their session, but he must get out, away from the place where she’s used his 5s.
Used them against you. Underneath all that sweetness, she is twisted and crooked.
His getaway isn’t quick and easy. It never is when he leaves her office. He’s shaking, fear-filled.
She stops him at the door and asks him a question. ‘May I ask one thing?’
He manages a small nod.
‘How did it feel, Noah?’
‘What?’ His voice is an angry croak. ‘How did what feel?’ His hand is on the handle and all he wants is to down-up-down-up-down, but she’s asking again. More specifically.
‘How did it feel to rest a while? Right here, right now, without letting the past back in. Without’ – Don’t say it, he’s begging in his head, but her voice continues – ‘worrying about what might be waiting in the future. Think about it, Noah. Give it a few moments’ thought until our next meeting.’
Down-up-down-up-down and the door’s open.