Authors: Giselle Green
Finding You (15 page)
‘Do you think for one moment that having to face the fact that she was ill,
that she was dying
, would have made me love her any the less?’ I blurt out. And then I stop as my father is looking at me in something of astonishment. I’m not up here for this. I didn’t battle all my way up here this morning for this, to dredge up old hurts over some long-forgotten decision on his part when, after all, he was only doing what he thought was best for me at the time.
‘I’m sorry,’ I get out. ‘That was unnecessary.’
My father gives me the look he gives when his feathers have been ruffled but he’s been acknowledged as being in the right. ‘That’s perfectly all right, Charles,’ he says quietly. ‘We all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?’
I sigh, weary all of a sudden, feeling the journey up here tightening about my neck and shoulders, feeling the things that Julia and I talked of, crowding to the front of my mind. Missing her. Does my father
know
about the crosses I have so recently borne, I wonder? He seems so sharp today, so like his old self, I could almost imagine that he does. What would I not give for the gift of hearing just a few of his words of wisdom today. If he could speak to me—properly speak to me—he’d be blunt; what Yorkshireman isn’t? He would still be my father, though, someone I appreciated for many years for all the qualities he did have. But I sense Dad isn’t like his old self, no matter what the appearances may be.
‘Speaking of your mother, she was asking after you last night,’ he tells me crustily. I rub at my head with the palm of my hand, feeling another wave of sadness come over me when he says that. Our semblance of a sensible conversation is over. Where has he gone now? Will he come back, if I play along?
‘Yes?’ I get out softly.
‘She wanted to know if you were staying on for tea.’ He turns his large dark eyes on me with a great deal of dignity, and I can’t,
I won’t
, let on that what he’s saying now has just left the realms of sense.
Shit.
‘Tonight?’ I get out. Is he asking me if I’m staying here to have tea with him, tonight, or is he—as I suspect—now somewhere off in his mind in a different setting? Watching Mum coming in from the kitchen, perhaps? I have no idea, but whatever it is, he seems suddenly happier. Dad leans back against the cushions, more at peace with himself. The way he always used to be when he was around Mum and now ... I am the one who’s left feeling all alone. And I recall for the umpteenth time why it is always so painful for me, coming up to see him. Why it is that he couldn’t stay on in the cottage that he loved so much after retiring.
And I
hate
it. This helpless, strange, unbounded place that my father sometimes finds himself in. It is as if he has wandered into a forgotten garden, a place of tangled weeds and half-dreamed overgrown shrubs and memories, a place of his own making that I can only meet him on the very edge of. But when he chooses to turn and wander off, I can’t follow him in. I can’t be with him anymore, not the real Tony Lowerby, not the man I’ve always known him to be.
‘I don’t know, Dad.’ I shake my head regretfully. I don’t know what I’m going to be doing tonight because once his mind starts to wander, being here with him, seeing him like this; it becomes much too painful and exhausting. I can’t cope with it. I don’t know what to do about it. There
is
nothing I can do.
And generally, when I don’t know what to do about a situation, I find myself wishing I did not have to be there.
So maybe he was right, after all, keeping me away at school all those years ago when the going got tough at home. Julia said it too, the thought kicks at the heels of my mind, she told me that this was what I did: when things around me got too uncomfortable, I didn’t stay, I always left. She told me that the day we got back to Blackberry House, that she worried about that, that when things got too hard, I’d always find a good excuse to be somewhere else. The sun shines bright for a moment against the pane, sending up reflections of all the other people behind us in the room but all I’m aware of is Julia’s words, coming so starkly back she could be here in the room with me saying them:
it isn’t what you failed to do that troubles me the most. It’s what you still might do.
And that bugs me, remembering that just now. Because I am a conscientious man, a caring, loving man, not someone who wants to run away from his family troubles, dear God, I do not want to be like that, but the truth is—
Somewhere else
is exactly where I’d rather be right now.
18 - Julia
‘Do come and join us, by all means.’ We’ve been spotted at the park and Lucien’s mum, Bea, is beckoning me over with an enthusiastic hand wave. ‘The church hall is closed—annual fete planning—so some of us have brought the Mummies and Bubbies session out to the park today.’
The other mums, Chloe and Suzi and Jay and some others whose names I don’t know yet, are all standing in a cosy huddle. They look over at me and Hadyn and I shoot them a nervous smile. I hadn’t expected we’d come across anyone in the park today; we usually have it to ourselves. I hesitate, both hungry for the company of the other mums and also a little wary that we’ve already blotted our copy-book with some of the group who attend Mummies and Bubbies when Hadyn hasn’t behaved as nicely as he could have done.
‘Sure,’ I tell Bea. ‘But we won’t stay. We were just ... on our way home from the shops.’
Finding things to do to make the hours go quicker because Charlie’s at his dad’s today and he won’t be home tonight and I miss him already ...
‘Thought you’d get a bit of fresh air into his lungs first, eh?’ she smiles. ‘The others are all having a good run around. Your little boy is welcome to join them.’
If only he would, though,
I think.
She gestures over to the other side of the park, where a group of about ten, two to four year-olds, a little herd of them, are all galloping over the grass like ponies across a field. ‘They race each other over to the big oak,’ she tells me, ‘then back to home base, that’s the chestnut over there, where their mums are.’
‘They look as if they’re having fun.’ I pull a smile back at her, stamping my feet, hiding the fact that Hadyn’s visit to Dr Fraser yesterday unnerved me more than I like to admit and I’ve come out this way as much as anything because of a need to clear my head. The doctor’s seen the need to refer Hadyn on, hasn’t he? He didn’t really say why, though. He wasn’t clear on
why
, and I should have asked him but somehow, I didn’t. Why didn’t I ask him—is it because of the way Hadyn walks, just a precaution in case there’s something up with his feet? Maybe. Maybe that’s all it is.
It’s cold today. Clear, but with a biting wind. We’re in May already, but the mums and their kids are all muffled up with scarves and gloves and everyone’s got red cheeks. There’s a golden light streaming onto the park this morning, a sense of spring hovering somewhere in amongst the gusts of wind, hiding under the torn-up yellow leaves. The young man over the way who’s been battling with his stunt kite finally gets it airborne. Its blue tail wiggles valiantly as it struggles upwards, and all the mums who’ve been watching give him an encouraging cheer.
‘Hadyn, do you want to come play with all the other children?’ Bea invites as the children swoop past us again, their breaths hot, panting in the cold air, and I find I’m suddenly willing him on with all my might to do so.
Come on, honey-bun. Just do it, go with them. Do what the rest of them are doing.
‘Go on,’ I usher him forward, knowing already that this is a futile exercise and he will ignore me but then ... something unexpected and wonderful happens. As the little group stampedes past, I see a glint come into his eye as something else—a herding instinct?—takes over, and the next thing I know, my child has gone with them, swept up by the irresistible call. I stand mesmerised, watch him go, feeling slightly stunned. My hands go to my mouth.
‘He’s away!’ Bea laughs and the other mums all clap, making the kind of eye contact with me that says
we’re behind you; it’s okay. We understand what you’ve been through and how scary this must be for you.
And off the kids all race once more, huffing and panting, the smaller ones trailing behind just like before, with Hadyn in the middle, easily visible in his blue duffle coat, and my heart soars just like that kite because
finally
, it has happened. My son is following what all the other children are doing. My God, he’s showing an interest in them, joining in.
Could this be the first sign that the tide is turning, after all?
‘Julia, I think ...’ Bea’s screwing up her eyes, gazing with me into the distance as the children reach the oak. As one they turn, organic, flowing, like a huge corkscrew, like those shoals of deep-sea fish you see in nature programmes, and they’re heading back again, rushing back towards the Home Tree and their mums.
‘Julia ...’ Bea says again, her hand on my arm and I’m still smiling at her, not sure what she’s saying, not sure what she’s trying to tell me. ‘There’s an underpass to the road a few metres beyond that tree—I think maybe you’d better ...’ And then the corkscrew thins out a little, the babies of the group straggling behind like a long, uneven thread and I see what she sees; that Hadyn’s not turned to come back to the Home Tree with the rest of them, after all.
He’s still going.
It takes me a good five minutes running like the clappers to catch up with him. By the time I struggle back to the home tree where all the other mums are looking on in interest, deepening sympathy and concern in their eyes, all I want to do is cry.
19 - Charlie
‘Oh, hello. Do come in.’ Philippa Killman’s office space just behind Angus’s consulting room is the same room I worked from when I first came to Drapers Street. She’s got it all laid out differently now, of course: rows of heavy tomes on
Psychoanalytic Solutions to Trauma
line the old oak bookshelves and the furniture is different. It feels comfortable and yet purposeful, business-like somehow. It feels good to be back here nonetheless, welcoming.
‘Dr Lowerby.
Charlie
,’ I remind her, extending my hand, and our resident psychologist quickly wipes her own on a napkin. It’s lunchtime. She was eating a sandwich, I see. I’ve been hoping to catch her for an informal talk about my son ever since the window episode, but Dr Killman’s only here part time at the moment. When I caught her on the phone this morning, she was quick to offer me this lunch break slot as a favour. Julia’s going to be relieved when I tell her and I am heartily grateful.
‘And you must call me Pippa.’ Her handshake is firm and reassuring. ‘Can I offer you anything else? Some water, more coffee, perhaps?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m good, thanks. And thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice,’ I smile.
‘Not at all.’ Our resident psychologist proffers me a seat and takes up the one opposite. I’d judge her to be about Angus’s age—late-fifties to mid-sixties, slim, with an erect bearing and silvering hair, a worn but kind face. It’s the first proper chance we’ve had to make each others’ acquaintance, but I already get a good feeling about her.
‘So. I understand you’re here about your little boy—Hadyn, isn’t it? Since you rang this morning, I’ve taken the liberty—as it was such a public case—of looking up what I could about it online. I see you’ve been back in the UK for some weeks now?”
“Two months,” I tell her. We’re mid-May already.
Her eyes take me in with something akin to admiration. ‘It’s quite some story, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ I take a swig of the coffee I’ve brought in with me. ‘His mother is ... she’s quite some woman.’
‘Agreed.’ Dr Killman nods emphatically. ‘A remarkable woman, from what I can see.’ Then she adds gently, ‘And how is she coping with the return of her child? How are they both coping?’
‘Well. She’s coping well.’ I spread my hands. ‘Everything’s been
fine
, but lately ...’ I clear a small cough. ‘Actually, I’ve been speaking to Julia and ... we’re a little concerned Hadyn might be exhibiting some stress-related symptoms due to the abduction after all.’
‘Which would be perfectly natural if he was,’ she agrees.
Perfectly natural. Of course.
I sip at my coffee. ‘I was hoping you might be able to run me through the most common things we should look out for, just in case he is?’
‘Of course. There might be a whole range of things, Charlie. But basically, I’d look out for symptoms such as bed-wetting, whether or not Hadyn was refusing food, if he was exhibiting an inability to sleep or nightmares, if he suffered from emotional outbursts ... yes?’ she smiles softly now. ‘Some of these things are ringing a bell, I see? You’re nodding your head.’
‘The disrupted sleep certainly rings a bell,’ I tell her. ‘And Julia’s always telling me that she’s worried about his diet.’
‘Hadyn refuses to eat?’ She makes a small note on her pad.
‘He’ll only eat certain things.’
‘Is he obsessive about it, would you judge?’
I spread my hands, not exactly comfortable with her choice of words. ‘I don’t know about obsessive, but ... it’s limited. Maybe he’s got used to different foods? ‘
She’s nodding slowly. ‘He’s picky. Okay. And what about social contact?’
I narrow my eyes questioningly.
‘Would Hadyn prefer to avoid it, would you say? A child of his age who was suffering from trauma will often eschew social contact.’
I think about this carefully before answering her. ‘From what Julia tells me, his understanding of how to operate when he’s around his peers seems limited.’ I pull a rueful smile. ‘I rather imagined that might be because he’s not been exposed much to being around other kids?’ I offer. ‘Maybe what he needs now is some help in finding his feet around them?’
‘You could be right, Charlie, but the difficulty you report around his peers might equally be seen as a symptom of trauma. You’d need to look out for certain pointers. For instance,’ she spreads her hands, ‘a child of Hadyn’s age who’s suffering from trauma-related stress is likely to become very clingy, fearful of being separated from his parent, require a lot of reassurance in the form of hugs and so forth ...’
‘That sounds like the complete opposite of our son,’ I tell her, slightly relieved. He’s certainly not clingy.
‘Oh?’ She seems a little surprised at that revelation.
‘No. Hadyn’s not ...’ I search for the word, ‘he’s not attention-seeking. He’s a self-contained little chap.’
‘And ... he doesn’t feel the need to keep coming to ask for hugs, you say?’
I shake my head.
‘But he does
sometimes,
though?’ she queries.
‘I guess,’ I say. I have to think about that one. I can’t remember if Hadyn ever does come to be hugged or not. ‘I hug
him
, Dr Killman.’
She smiles. ‘Does he ever reciprocate, though?’ She pushes gently. Then, when I can’t answer that, she asks, ‘Are there any special comforters he uses, like a teddy or a blanket, or such?’
She’s stumped me now. I don’t think so. Then I remember. ‘He used to have this elephant he loved to bits—Bap-Bap. He got separated from it when he was taken. Julia kept it with her all the while she was looking for him but we don’t have it any more ...’
‘No special toys, then.’ She notes that down. ‘And may I ask—have you noticed if he ever initiates social contact, either verbal or non-verbal—with yourselves or anyone else?’
‘He’s only two-and-a- half,’ I remind her.
‘Most two-and-a-half year-olds can communicate their needs surprisingly well, Charlie. Even when they have limited vocabulary.’
‘He doesn’t speak much,’ I admit to her now, clearing my throat. I never make a thing of it with Julia, but this one hurts me more than anything else, the fact that he doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t want to speak
. I was the same, once upon a time at boarding school. The painful memory settles somewhere between my shoulder blades. I didn’t speak. What more evidence does anyone need to conclude that our son is having difficulty adjusting to being back with us? ‘Actually, he doesn’t speak at all since he’s come home.’
‘Not since he’s come home?’ She glances at a few scribbled notes she must have made when I spoke to her on the phone this morning.
‘No. Though he was talking
before
they took him.’ I turn my gaze out over towards the partially opened window. Concentrate on the familiar street scene outside.
Hell, was I so different, even aged ten, dropped off at boarding school in a country far from home and with English only as a second language?
I didn’t speak for ages. I didn’t want to speak. Maybe he’s like I was, just protesting at something that’s much too big for him to comprehend, too big for him to speak of?
‘That’s a shame,’ she’s commiserating softly. ‘But it does happen.’
I look into her eyes. ‘What’s worrying me most right now is that Julia reports Hadyn is trying to run away from her a lot,’ I admit. ‘He’s got into some bad habits ...’ I take a sip of my coffee and add, without entirely intending to, ‘It’s got so his Mum’s had to take to keeping the downstairs door locked.’
She’s nodding again, but looking unsurprised. ‘A lot of people might expect a child of his age to seek comfort where he could—and that would be natural—but if you tell me now he’s attempting to run away, it indicates to me that he might be resisting the change.’
‘
Resisting
it?’ I shoot her a pained smile. That sounds familiar. I resisted change too, once upon a time. But she’s wrong. I shake my head. ‘My son is home now, Dr Killman.’
Is she telling me she thinks Julia’s right about Hadyn yearning to be back in Spain?
I lean back in my chair, fold my arms. That’s crap. I don’t believe that.
I
was the one who longed to be back in Spain when they took me from my home, but this is not the same thing. Hadyn
is
home. He is back where he surely must want to be. I’m not convinced.
‘Think about it,’ Pippa tells me. ‘He was dragged away from the safety of the known once before, and now it’s happened again.’
‘Except we don’t know that he
did
feel safe in Spain,’ I remind her. ‘He was not kept in a good place, Pippa.’
‘No, but the mind is the strangest thing, Charlie,’ she tells me softly. ‘It is adapted to survive and to find safety in even the most bizarre of places. I once treated a very young child who sought shelter in a crocodile pit after his village was raided ...’
She nods at me, smiling softly as I stare at her with open curiosity. ‘He did. He lived in there for weeks with the original occupants. When the army found him, he had small tooth lacerations on his arms, on his thighs. They still had a job dragging him out of there, though.’
‘Bizarre.’ I shake my head. Then I ask her the question I have come here to ask. ‘Pippa, I imagined all the little quirks we’ve been seeing might be a normal response to bringing our son back into an environment he’s no longer familiar with. I thought things would get better. I thought they
were
. Julia’s seemed happy enough these past few weeks—she’s never really let on about all the concerns she’s been having before, but the other night ...’ I trail off. The other night, I got a glimpse of how much she must be struggling, didn’t I?
‘Listen, I ...’ I lean forwards a little, ‘I really need Julia to know that I’m supporting her with everything—whatever she needs. If she feels she needs any help to settle our son in, I want her to have it; I want them both to have the best.’ I pause, then I tell her candidly, ‘The truth is, Pippa, I nearly lost them once before when I didn’t support her and I can’t afford to let that happen again.’ I’d do anything not to jeopardise that. ‘I want them settled. I just need to know if you think ... well, what
do
you think? Does it sound to you as if what Hadyn’s going through might be some sort of trauma response?’
‘To being abducted?’ Dr Killman is nodding intently. ‘It’s certainly possible, Charlie. If you’re telling me he was a normally functioning, sociable, compliant child who was starting to speak, sleeping and eating well before the abduction and these are all signs of change, then it seems highly reasonable and indeed probable to think that one has caused the other. It
could
also be other things. I’d certainly get him looked over by a paediatrician, too, but from what you tell me, Hadyn is exhibiting all the classical symptoms of a young child suffering from trauma—in his case, due to the abduction.’
‘You think?’
She nods, her clear grey eyes sympathetic. ‘The picture you’re describing to me is, sadly, one I have seen all too often before.’
‘And all these symptoms ... they are all reversible, right, with the correct treatment?’
‘They should be. They usually are.’ She pauses, then looks me straight in the eye. ‘If I’m being one hundred percent honest with you, early traumatic experiences
can
sometimes alter the brain’s functioning in a way that has permanent repercussions. You’re looking surprised now. I’m sorry if what I’m saying sounds a little upsetting to you, but you’d want us to be honest with each other ...’
‘Totally.’ I swallow. I hadn’t expected that. I sit back, feeling slightly put out but still ... things aren’t that bad with Hadyn. I really don’t think they are
that
bad. Julia’s just—she needs to know I’m supporting her, that’s all. She’s exhausted and she’s depleted and—
this time round—
she needs to know that I’m there for her. ‘So you don’t think,’ I ask hesitantly now, ‘you don’t think what we’re seeing would naturally get better simply by giving Hadyn the chance to normalise, interact with his peers more, go to nursery, and so on?’ I’m clutching at straws, I know it. I just had to be sure.
I get the feeling, looking at Pippa Killman’s face right now, that there is more. She hasn’t told me the worst of it, yet, has she?
