February 2018
By morning, deep snow covered the roads and paths, and a message on my phone at eight-thirty told me Grace’s nursery school was closed.
I’d always arranged my appointments to coincide with Grace’s nursery sessions. Two clients a day in term time only. At times like these I was grateful to Angela who’d offered as soon as we became friendly to look after Grace if ever I needed her to. Lawrence hadn’t been keen on the arrangement. He had a tendency to be suspicious of ‘Good Samaritan’ strangers. But Grace seemed to like her, and that was good enough for me.
Grace tucked into her cereal, and I approached and sat down beside her. ‘What’s Farrah like?’ I asked, pushing a tendril of her hair behind her ear, wanting her to say she didn’t like her. It was selfish of me. If Farrah was going be in her life, it was better that Grace liked her. And she liked Grace. For my daughter’s sake, I needed to act like a grown-up about Farrah. Grace seemed to be coping OK with her parents living in different houses; I didn’t want to make things harder for her.
‘She’s nice,’ Grace said, nodding. ‘She smells of flowers, and has hair like a princess.’
It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I tried not to show it.
‘Does she kiss Daddy?’ I asked. Stop asking! It wasn’t fair. I didn’t care about Lawrence any more – did I?
She shook her head, so her curls bounced. ‘Finished!’ Grace dropped her spoon into the empty bowl, and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘You’re not going to nursery today, darling,’ I said. ‘You’re going to see Angela.’
She turned up her nose.
‘You like Angela, don’t you?’ Oh God, please like Angela.
She shrugged, and slid from the stool. ‘She’s OK, I suppose. But I want to go to nursery. I like nursery.’
‘Well, I’m afraid it’s closed today, because of the snow.’
‘Snow!’ She dashed to the French window, tugged back the curtain, and leaving handprints on the glass, squealed with excitement. ‘WOW! Can we build a snowman, Mummy?’
‘Later,’ I said, feeling a pang of guilt that I hadn’t built one with her the night before. ‘Promise.’
She glanced over her shoulder at me and pulled a grown-up face. ‘Proper promise, or pretend promise?’
‘Proper,’ I said, through another shot of guilt. ‘This afternoon.’
I washed Grace’s face and hands, before tugging on her coat and fur-lined boots. We headed for the front door, and I went to grab my spare keys from the bowl in the porch. I always gave them to Angela when she had Grace, just in case I’d forgotten something my daughter needed. But they weren’t there. Had Angela returned them last time? I couldn’t remember.
We walked across the garden towards her front door, and rang the doorbell.
Angela opened up, a wide smile stretching across her face. ‘What a lovely surprise this is,’ she said, tugging her robe around her. ‘We can play Snakes and Ladders, like last time.’ She tweaked Grace’s nose.
‘And you promise you won’t fall asleep,’ Grace said, sounding a little precocious, and stepping inside. She dropped onto her bottom and tugged off her snowy boots, clearly remembering Angela’s rules of no shoes in the house.
‘I was resting my eyes that day.’ Angela tipped back her head and laughed. ‘I’m not as young as your mummy.’
I laughed too. ‘Children can be tiring,’ I said, making a mental note to ask Grace more about her time with Angela, who I felt was hardly of an age to need a mid-morning nap.
***
Back home, I had to keep my mind on track – concentrate on my clients – even though I felt I was the one in need of the therapy session. I’d had counselling once, as part of my training. It had been good for me at the time – helped me come to terms with the fact I might never know who my father was.
Despite having all my arrangements in place, my first client cancelled because of the weather, so I trudged down the garden and disappeared into the summerhouse to do some paperwork.
A sharp knock on the window an hour later startled me.
‘Rachel, are you in there?’ I glanced over my shoulder to see a freckled face appear behind the glass, pale green eyes searching.
‘Emmy,’ I said, looking at my watch and realising it was time for her appointment. I smiled. At least Emmy would lift my mood. I enjoyed her sessions now, proud of how far she’d travelled. Maybe it was unprofessional, but we’d become good friends.
I opened the door and she stepped in, looking as though she was about to ski down a snowy mountain, dressed in an all-in-one ski-suit, and boots.
‘How’s things?’ she said, and what I wouldn’t have given at that moment to tell her everything, unburden myself. But I was here to listen to her. Put her back together again – although most of the stitching had been done. ‘God it’s hot in here,’ she went on, shimmying out of her ski-suit.
‘Take a seat,’ I said, once she was down to jeans and a cream cashmere jumper. ‘Would you like a drink?’
She shook her head, and we slipped effortlessly into therapy. I felt sure this would be her last session.
When she first came, her severe panic attacks, stammering, depression and recurring nightmares were being controlled by medication that helped her cope with her job on morning TV. Her mother had died when she was young, and the tragic stillbirth of Emmy’s baby two years ago had triggered memories of her childhood trauma. The desperate need for a mother figure in her life, at a time when she’d come so close to being a mother herself, had seen her fall apart.
Her goal when we first met was to attempt to manage without medication, so she could try for another baby. We were both delighted that she’d now been medication-free for over three months.
‘I think we could end our sessions for now, Emmy,’ I said at the end of our hour together. ‘You’re doing so well.’
‘I agree.’ Her voice was calm and soft. ‘And there’s something else.’ Her eyes shone, as she patted her stomach. ‘I’m going to be a m – mu – mum.’ I picked up on her slight stammer that was mainly under control, only occurring at times of extreme stress or excitement.
‘Oh my God, really?’ I squealed.
‘Really!’ she yelled, cheeks pink.
‘Oh, Emmy, that’s wonderful news.’ I moved in for a hug. This was just the kind of news I needed to lift me. ‘I’m totally made up for you.’
‘I’m not quite three months, so I shouldn’t be telling anyone, especially after … well, you know. But then you’re not just anyone, Rachel. You’ve helped me through the worst time in my life.’ Her eyes filled up, and she snatched a couple of tissues from the box and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m not sure where I would be right now if I hadn’t booked that first appointment a year ago.’
‘I’m just glad I could help,’ I said, through a lump in my throat. It was one of those moments when I was proud to be a psychotherapist. ‘And if you ever need me, you know where I am.’
‘So what about you?’ she said, patting my knee. ‘Something isn’t right. I can tell.’
Was it that obvious? ‘We’re not here to discuss me, Emmy,’ I said, closing her file.
‘But our sessions are over. Talk to me.’ She leaned forward and stared into my face. ‘This isn’t to do with that stupid call to the studio, is it?’
‘God no, I put that out of my head a long time ago,’ I lied.
‘If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.’ She leaned back in the chair, and gave a hurt shrug.
‘It’s just I’ve had a couple of odd friend requests from strangers on Facebook, and they’ve unnerved me a bit, that’s all.’
She leaned forward once more. ‘I used to get them all the time – loads of people do, it’s nothing to worry about. In fact, I once got a message from someone saying he was in the forces, and wanted to marry me.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve now tweaked my settings to only allow friends of friends to add me. It’s easy to do, Rachel. You should get on to that.’
‘Yes, yes I will.’
‘That’s not all, is it?’ She furrowed her forehead. ‘What’s wrong, Rach?’
‘It’s my mum.’ I’d never mentioned her before, keeping my private life private when talking to clients. ‘She’s in a care home. Has dementia.’ I shook my head, wishing the words hadn’t tumbled out. It was unprofessional, but then the boundaries between us were already frayed. ‘The thing is …’ I began, about to tell her about the pictures of the farmhouse, that I thought there were secrets in my mother’s past.
‘Well, at least she’s still alive, Rachel,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘Make the most of any good times you have left.’
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling guilty for complaining, when Emmy would have given anything to still have her mother, even if her lucidity was infrequent. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right.’
She laid her hand on mine. ‘Listen, just call me any time, if you need me.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling unsettled by the sudden role reversal.
When she’d gone, I sat down at my desk, not sure if I wanted to cry or laugh hysterically at the mess I called my life. I rammed my head into my hands, wishing I could purge the worries about my mum from my head – if only for a while.
My mobile rang, forcing me out of my thoughts. It was a number I didn’t recognise.
‘Rachel Hogan?’ A man’s voice – quiet, low, even.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Martin Walker from Dream Meadows Care Home.’ I’d met him a few times. He managed the home. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he continued.
‘Oh, God has my mother wandered off?’
‘I’m afraid your mother passed away this morning. I’m so sorry.’
It took me a moment to catch my breath. My mum. Dead? ‘I don’t understand. She wasn’t ill. How did she die?’
‘A heart attack.’
‘But she was on medication for her heart.’
‘Miss Hogan, perhaps you could come here … it would be better if I we could talk in person. Could you come to the care home today, and we’ll talk here?’ His voice had became more insistent as he added, ‘As soon as possible.’