Ms Ellen Turner sits back in her chair and looks at them, her expression serious. A little girl playing at being doctor, Dominic thinks sourly, with her black jacket and name tag, her hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail, her short-cropped nails, just the top of her white shirt showing. Dark trousers, too, and plain black pumps with a low heel. All very professional and conservative but none of it helping to make her look a day older than twenty. And she, this near-child, this wet-behind-the-ears child, wants to talk to them about guilt.
‘What I want to talk about,’ Dominic says, ‘is why I’m paying a pile of money to come here and be lectured by a girl young enough to be my daughter.’
He knows that Kate wants to creep under the young woman’s desk and look up at her beseechingly and say, ‘I’m so sorry, Ms Turner, my husband didn’t mean—’
But Dominic’s tired. He’s tired of all the talking and the tiptoeing and the to-and-froing and the endless talk, talk, talk about Noah. He’s tired of Kate trying to make out that this is the sort of thing that happens in every family. It isn’t, and he knows it, and Kate knows it, and Little Ms Therapist with her serious face and her kindly concern knows it. Just like she knows that Kate is crawling with guilt, that it keeps her awake at night, and her guilt is trying to invade him too, send him from their bed to sit at his computer, clicking obsessively, keeping his mind closed against the invidious thought creeping closer and closer, the one that hasn’t been mentioned, the elephant standing unmoving and unmovable. Dominic feels his mouth open and out come the words he has avoided saying aloud for almost two years.
‘Why us, Ms Turner? Can you tell us that? Why did we land up with a son like Noah? Why don’t we talk about that, Ms Turner? Why don’t we go back to the scene of the accident?’
Kate’s horrified, he can see, but there’s no stopping him. He’s on his way, siren wailing, lights flashing.
He’s going to say things that can’t be taken back, and once he does, once he sets foot on this path, there will be no turning back. He’s going to pull them all along, and the only way will be down, with him.
He’s letting it all out, and Kate finds herself wishing she could stop the flow, push his words back into that pent-up place where Dominic keeps all his emotions tightly bundled up and labelled ‘Do Not Open’.
Return to the scene of the accident? Kate shudders. Is this what his marriage, their life together, their children are to him? One gigantic and ugly scene? And Dominic? He’s not racing to save them. His family’s standing at the side of the road, yelling for help, and he’s screaming past them, his siren blaring defiance. He’s cutting himself loose with every word that leaves his mouth, vanishing as fast as he can. Her husband won’t be tethered to the crash site of their lives.
‘Let’s forget about guilt, Ms Turner.’
‘I—’ the young woman says, but Dominic interrupts.
‘I’m not going to sit and wring my hands and feel sorry and guilt-ridden and ask what we could have done better and bemoan this decision we had to make and ask you to help us find some way of forgiving ourselves for putting Noah here.’
Dominic feels a quick spurt of satisfaction. See how you deal with this one, Ms Turner. Not exactly a textbook outburst, is it?
He’s sitting so far forward on his seat that he’s almost touching Ms Turner’s knees.
‘Why don’t we look at the facts, Ms Turner, and forget about the feelings? Why don’t we all take a deep breath and let the bullshit fly out the window? Here’s the situation, plain and simple. Our son can’t cope with life, and we can’t cope with him. So why are you asking us to feel guilty about having him here?’
‘I wouldn’t say—’ Ellen Turner tries to interject, but Dominic is ready for her.
‘You wouldn’t say? You don’t have to. Just using the word presumes the feeling. My son is in the best place, Ms Turner. Allow us to accept that.’
Ms Turner can’t stop him, but Kate is going to try. It’s her turn now. She’s at the side of the road watching her life fall to pieces and her mouth is open and she’s yelling at him to stop, calling him every name she can think of. He is smug, he’s shallow, he’s callous, he’s an egotistical prick, he can’t think of anyone but himself. He shuts himself away from her, she doesn’t know who he is any more. Has she ever known who he is? But more than that, over and above all of that, just answer this question, she shouts: ‘Is this the way you’ve always felt, Dominic? Is this why you battle to look your son in the eye and call him by his name?’
Ms Turner starts to speak, but this time Kate holds up a hand to silence her.
‘Let him answer,’ she says.
He lifts his head, and looks her in the eye. ‘I don’t know, Kate. I don’t know how I feel. I’m glad Greenhills exists, that they’re happy to look after him here. I know you want me to visit every Sunday, but I can’t. I just can’t.’
Dominic turns his head to the window. He doesn’t want to look at Kate, he wants to get it all out. ‘Life’s easier without him.’