Chapter Fifteen

I WAS SITTING up in bed when I heard a knock on my door. ‘It’s open.’

Mum walked in and sat on the end of my bed. ‘Not going to school again today?’

‘I just can’t.’

‘Would you like to explain why?’

I chose my words carefully for fear of upsetting her. ‘Some mornings I wake up and think that I’m up to it, but the thought of sitting cooped up in the classroom all day makes me sick.’ I leaned forward, clasping my hands in my lap. ‘I don’t think I can go back.’

Mum’s eyes filled with concern. ‘Is it because of me?’

I gripped my bottom lip between my teeth, searching for the words to express the emptiness that haunted me day and night, but couldn’t bring myself to share, afraid of hurting her. ‘I don’t know, Mum, I can’t put it into words.’

The smile lines around Mum’s eyes deepened, but she wasn’t smiling. ‘You’re not quitting school.’ Mum moved a little closer. ‘Steph, maybe you need help.’

I stared back at her. ‘Help?’

‘Someone you can talk with.’

‘I can speak to you and Dad, and Aunt Cass calls me like every second day. And if you’re suggesting that I start seeing Janice again, you can forget it.’

‘I’m not asking you to see Janice.’

‘If not Janice, who?’

‘I’d like you to see Dr Ferguson. He’s a psychologist.’

‘A shrink?’

‘He’s not a shrink, he’s a clinical psychologist, and he does a lot of work with teenagers. He runs a group, or you can see him in private. He might be able to help you.’

‘A girl at our school started seeing a counsellor, not that he helped her much – they found her dead in the bath after she cut herself.’ The life drained from Mum’s face. ‘I don’t know how or if what’s happening to me can be fixed by a shrink.’

‘He might be able to help you put things into perspective.’

‘I don’t need help to put things into perspective,’ I said, knowing that Mum was right. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Complicated or not, seeing you like this is distressing.’ Mum placed Dr Ferguson’s card beside my pillow. ‘The sooner you get back to your routine, the better you’ll start to feel. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, please, Steph, do it for me.’

When Mum went to get up, I reached for her hand. ‘Why aren’t you angry? You take everything in your stride. That heart was yours, it should have gone to you.’

‘I had an infection, and the operation couldn’t go ahead. It wasn’t my time.’

My chest tightened. ‘It should have been your time.’

‘Will you promise that you’ll consider seeing Dr Ferguson? I’ll come with you.’

‘I promise, but if I decide to go, I’m going alone,’ I said, releasing my hold on her hand, I reached for the card and slid it into my pocket.

When Mum closed my door behind her, I made my way over to the window, opened it and stood blankly gazing out over the zoo to the water beyond.

‘Tell her that she doesn’t have a choice,’ I heard Dad yell. The thought of Mum and Dad fighting because of me sent me fleeing to the attic. I sat rocking back and forth, hugging my tin full of clippings close to my chest. If you hadn’t visited Katie, God might have intervened, and the waiting would be over. I hate you, Stephanie Conner.

I took Dr Ferguson’s card from my pocket and entered the number in my phone, and deleted it. I added the number again, and promptly deleted it again. I added the number a third time and rubbed the phone against my forehead. Since Mum missed out on the heart, I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours a night. Maybe one visit wouldn’t hurt. I could say I tried, and get Dad off Mum’s back.

When I dialled the number, a voice said: ‘For appointments, please leave your name and number or send a text.’

I threw the phone on the mattress, fell back and glanced across the room at my painting. I cringed. ‘Steph, admit it,’ I said out loud, ‘you need help.’ I picked up the phone and sent Dr Ferguson a text.

While I was dressing, I heard a text come through.

I didn’t answer it straight away. I needed to think. I went to head downstairs, doubled back and snatched the phone off the mattress. ‘

Hi Stephanie, we have an appointment tomorrow at 2 pm. Please text ‘yes’ if that suits.

Yes.

I sat on a bench opposite Dr Freguson’s address, building up the courage to go in, and checked the time on my phone. I was already ten minutes late.

I made my way across the road towards an old brick house with a white picket fence. It was cold and uninviting. I stood at the door and read the brass plaque:

Dr Justin Ferguson

Clinical Psychologist

PhD (MED) [UNSW], MClin Psych [UWA], MBA [Macq U].

He needed a longer plaque.

A receptionist sat behind a large desk. Her eyes peered at me over the rims of her glasses as she continued typing.

‘Stephanie Conner. I got held up,’ I lied.

‘Not a problem, Stephanie, the doctor’s running late.’

I glanced beyond the window to a hot guy leaving the house via a side entrance. He was dressed like a model that you see in magazines. Why was someone like him seeing a shrink?

Anger started building in my chest. I realised that I didn’t want to do this. As I went to stand, I heard a door on the opposite side of the room open and a man, Dad’s age, popped his head around the door.

‘Stephanie?’ he asked. ‘I’m Dr Ferguson, please come in.’ I was trapped in his cage.

Dr Ferguson’s office had a weird smell, a cross between Dad’s cheap aftershave and Mum’s expensive perfume. There was a brown leather lounge under the window, but I opted to sit on the floral fabric chair with worn fabric on the end of the arms.

‘So, how do we do this?’ I asked. ‘Do you ask the questions, I answer, and you work out if I’m crazy?’

Dr Ferguson grinned. ‘Stephanie, you called me.’

I analysed his reply and wriggled into his chair. ‘I prefer Steph. Dad calls me Stephanie when he’s angry.’

‘Is your father angry often?’

‘Lately, he is. Which one called you, my dad or my mum?’ I asked.

‘Your mother.’

I scratched my arm. ‘Ants live under my skin,’ I said, and waited for a response, but there wasn’t one.

‘Are your friends supportive?’

‘I’m amazed that they don’t give up on me.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I used to be fun, and now I’m not.’

‘Did they say that?’

‘No, not in words, but who wants to be around a crazy person?’

‘What makes you think that you’re out of your mind?’

‘I have nightmares.’

‘So, you’re sleeping?’

‘Enough to have nightmares.’

‘The nightmares, are they recurring, or do they change?’

‘Are you a nightmare specialist as well as a shrink?’

‘Neither – I’m a psychologist. Didn’t your parents tell you?’

‘What’s the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist?’

‘I don’t write prescriptions.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Maybe I need drugs to stop my brain from thinking.’

Dr Ferguson started writing. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

‘So, what now?’

‘We could start with a nightmare,’ he said, and kept writing.

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the chair. ‘Aunt Cass and I are boarding a barge with strangers. They’re all carrying small blue Eskies. A wave comes, and everyone is thrown high into the air, arms and legs flopping around like rag dolls, and then darkness comes.’ My throat starts to ache. I stop to take a breath. ‘Aunt Cass is crying and shouting. “Can you see her? Can anyone see her?” I’m in the water surrounded by body parts. It’s the pain on Aunt Cass’s face that makes me wake up screaming.’

When I opened my eyes, Dr Ferguson’s pen was moving swiftly across the page. I glanced at my hands gripping the ends of the arms of the chair. I released my hold, and my hands ached.

‘So, Dr Ferguson, am I crazy?’

‘No, Stephanie, you’re far from crazy. Why do you think that you keep having nightmares?’

I moved forward in the chair and stared coldly into his eyes, knowing that my anger had taken on a life of its own. ‘Because my mother is dying, Dr Ferguson, and they gave her freaking donor heart to another person, and my mum might not get another chance.’

‘But what if your mother does get another chance? What if you’ve put yourself through all this pain, anger and doubt, and the ending is happily ever after?’

My jaw locked. I sat back in the chair, nodding, and released the air in the lower lobe of my lungs. ‘Heads or tails?’ I asked, pretending to flick a coin. ‘Take your pick.’

‘Meaning?’ said Dr Ferguson.

‘If there’s doubt, I can’t help but worry. It’s life or death. It’s not as simple as the flick of a coin.’