The Offering (4 page)

I scan the rest of the sheet. ‘Then: “Feelings as a Result of Initial Thoughts”?’

‘Exactly, then: “Challenges to Initial Thoughts”.’

‘Then: “Feelings after Challenges”?’

‘Great!’ he says. ‘You get the picture. It’s called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy – CBT. See how you go with it; even a five per cent improvement in negative thoughts is valuable.’

He produces a fifth sheet, a timetable. ‘Graded Exercise,’ he says. ‘This illness of yours has to be targeted and targeted hard.’

‘Eight-thirty: get up,’ I read. ‘Eight-fifty: stretches. Nine-ten: breakfast. Nine-thirty: breathing and relaxation.’ I lower it and look at him. Then, as he gestures for me to continue reading, I resume.

‘Ten o’clock: lie down for half an hour. Eleven o’clock: more stretches. One o’clock: lunch. Walk along the corridor. Two o’clock: Occupational Therapy. Three o’clock: snack, breathing exercises and relaxation. Four o’clock: sleep. Five o’clock: second walk along the corridor. Five-ten: stretches. Five-thirty: tea. Six o’clock: reading. Seven o’clock: social interaction in the lounge. Eight o’clock: thirty minutes’ meditation. Nine o’clock: bed.’

I feel hot and sick. I say: ‘I don’t think I—’

But he is saying: ‘Along with Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Graded Exercise is the second most effective weapon we have in our arsenal against fatigue. Take a look at the last sheet.’

On a sixth sheet there is another table on which to note how many minutes I have been able to walk, how many books I have been able to lift, how many stretches I have completed. The sickness is increasing, winding its way up my arms and screwing itself into the base of my skull.

‘I don’t need this,’ I say. I feel as if I am shouting but my voice is barely audible. ‘It’s not going to help.’

He leans back in the chair as if I have not spoken. ‘I also want you to interact more,’ he says. ‘I’ll expect you to visit the lounge at least once a day. It’s no wonder you feel ill when you see people if you never do.’

‘No,’ I say. I feel dizzy. ‘That isn’t the reason.’

‘Madeline, I know you may have reservations about this schedule but I’d really like you to give it a go, just for a few weeks. Is that acceptable? And report back to me then.’

I hold the sheets for a moment, trying to steady my hands. Then I fold them in half, fold them again, then fold them a third time.

‘I know you’re feeling some resistance; resistance is good, and it’s understandable. But in order to achieve our objective we need to pass through it. And our objective is your rehabilitation, Madeline. I don’t think it’s harmful to remember that. Can I have your word you’ll give this a go?’

Your
objective, I think, but say nothing.

‘Now,’ he is saying, ‘if it’s all right I’d like to talk a little bit more about the time you moved to the island. You were thirteen, weren’t you, when your parents bought the farm?’

I take a very deep breath and look towards the window.

‘Were you thirteen, Madeline?’

I let the breath out. ‘Yes.’

‘And why did you move to the island?’

‘My father wanted to.’

‘But why did he want to move to an island?’

‘He said the need was great.’

‘The need?’

‘For preachers.’

‘Oh yes, your father was a Christian, wasn’t he? Quite a zealous one.’ He pauses a moment and I can hear his pencil scratching the paper. ‘So there were no other Christians on the island?’

I shrug. ‘My father had his own faith, a creed of one.’

‘Or three,’ he says, ‘including you and your mother.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you moved in order to “spread the word”.’

I nod and look down. ‘The island was virgin territory,’ I say.

‘Presumably you were excited to be moving?’

I do not answer.

‘Did you like the farm?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Oh. I thought I read—’

‘“Like” isn’t the word.’ I find I am pleased to correct him.

‘What word would you use?’

I think for a moment. ‘Recognized.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I thought I had seen it before.’

‘Had you?’

‘I don’t know; not in everyday life. Maybe in a dream. There’s a—’ I stop, then, seeing it is too late, go on, angry at myself. ‘A painting by Van Gogh …’

‘Yes?’

‘It looks like it a bit.’

‘Looks like the farm?’

I nod, hot, still angry at myself.

‘Really? What’s it called?’

‘I can’t remember;
Sheds
or something ordinary like that. The place in the picture is almost identical to the drive that led up to the farm. The buildings too. I thought when I saw it that it must have been painted by an artist standing in the lane …’

‘Do you have a copy of this painting?’

‘I’ve got a postcard of it in my room.’

‘Interesting.’ He looks up. ‘Did you know that Jung posited there was a collective consciousness in which images, certain aspects of things – “archetypes”, he called them – become a common psychic property?’ He peers at my file. ‘You arrived at the farm on the 12th June and a little over a year later on the night of the 14th you made your way to the sea. You have no idea why.’

I shake my head, then nod, unsure which action best affirms his statement.

He looks at me from under his eyebrows. ‘You don’t remember why?’

‘No.’

‘But you have a recurring dream about it, don’t you? What happens in the dream, Madeline?’

After a moment I say: ‘I’m walking along a road, I can hear the sea. I can’t walk properly.’

‘I wonder why that is.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What time is it in the dream?’

‘Early morning.’

I hear the sound of the pencil and wonder, not for the first time, why a man who has the best of modern technology at his disposal chooses such an outmoded method to write; does the physical activity of writing provide some hidden benefit? Do the movements of lead on paper, the sound of its scratching, the shapes that appear beneath his hand, in banishing the nothingness from which they arise, encourage other shapes to emerge, other sounds, other movements? From the shadows of his mind, perhaps? Does the fact that the letters lead ineluctably onwards (as one letter cannot help but suggest the next, and the next, and the next) permit some conclusion to be reached – or do they only spawn more of the same?

I am recalled by his voice. ‘The state you were in when the police found you points quite strongly to the fact that you were traumatized. Your clothes were damp. You were dishevelled, visibly distressed.’

He inhales sharply as if about to speak, but instead considers me a moment, then says: ‘So, you’re walking along a road by the sea. And it’s early morning. And you can’t walk properly. Then what happens?’

‘A police car pulls up. They ask me my name, make a phone call and take me back to the farm.’

‘Your mother by this time is in a critical state.’

I feel a prick, disconcerting, but not entirely painful, like the scratch of a needle entering numbed flesh. ‘Yes,’ I say quietly.

He frowns. ‘Madeline, you said you changed when you moved to the island; can you explain a bit more about that?’

‘I don’t remember saying that.’

‘Well, it’s here in the notes. Can you think of anything that made you feel different?’

‘No. Not really.’

But he waits so long that at last I say: ‘Perhaps I began noticing things.’

‘Really? Such as?’

‘Nothing – little things, about people, about the countryside.’

He leans back in the chair and frowns. ‘Why do you think you lasted such a short time on the island? The notes say you ran out of money but your father must have known before he moved what it entailed.’

‘We met with one disaster after another.’

‘So it was just bad luck? Is that how it felt to you, as a child?’

‘At the time—’

‘Yes?’

I smile to show him how ludicrous I find such an idea now. ‘At the time I thought God had withdrawn His protection from us.’

‘Protection from …’

‘The forces of darkness.’

‘Really? Why would He do that?’

‘Transgression,’ I say. And then suddenly I am tired. ‘I don’t feel well, can we stop here?’

‘We’ve nearly finished,’ he says, ‘but this is important, Madeline; transgression – on your part?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are we talking about transgression as a family or by one member?’

‘It wouldn’t matter.’

‘Do you think your parents also thought you were being punished?’

‘I think my father did.’

Lucas writes this down and then he says: ‘Do you remember feeling guilty about anything?’

I say: ‘We’re going to have to leave it here, I can’t talk any more.’ But it is as if I have said nothing at all.

‘Guilt is one of the biggest suppressants of memory,’ he is saying. ‘Do you feel guilty about anything that happened then?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ I say, and I get up and stand, looking down at him. ‘I’m not the person I was then.’

Then I walk to the door.

It has been said that the past is a foreign country. If that is true, then the present is merely a holding centre where this body waits until it is time to go back. This place is merely a wayside, somewhere to stop off. For many of my fellow patients the terminus turns out to be terminal, the tracks do not transport them onwards but narrow inevitably towards a vanishing point, which – while appearing to be deferred for years in a closed circuit, a loop of endless transmission, a living death – nevertheless, in time, turns out to be the final destination, the extremity, the end of the line.

For me the past ended the morning of my fourteenth birthday when police found me wandering the sea road of the island. When they took me home little less than an hour later, I had forgotten the events of the previous twelve hours. I do not consider the intervening twenty years to be ‘past’ in the conventional sense of the word. All that has happened is that my cells have succeeded in reproducing themselves, transforming a pre-pubertal body into this shameful spectacle of a woman.

It was raining the night I arrived here. My father came into my bedroom and picked me up in my blankets. He laid me in the back of the car. The world was a wash of leather and dark branches, hissing tyres and sliding lights. He took me into a foyer, draped in my blanket.

‘My daughter,’ he said, as if presenting a gift.

For the first few months I do not remember doing anything but staring straight ahead of me. The diagnosis was breakdown, unusual in one so young. What part the parents’ religious beliefs played was unknown but in view of the fact that any mention of such matters greatly agitated the patient, further religious activities, despite the father’s concern, were curtailed forthwith.

My father continued to visit me on weekends for several years until his death. We sat opposite each other in high-backed chairs in front of the garden doors that looked onto the horse-chestnut trees and a lawn whose proximity, yet encasement behind two inches of reinforced glass, simultaneously promised and mocked the possibility of closer contact. The room was full of people who dribbled, banged their heads and attempted to fit square plastic blocks into round plastic holes. If they were good (did not bang their heads too often, took their tablets, played their games quietly) they were permitted to walk on the lawn.

Father read on, in the interests of my eternal welfare, the marble cadences of Revelation punctuated by the occasional scream, moan and wrestling match as one or more of my fellow patients refused to take their medicine. It made little difference to him that I was incarcerated in an asylum for the insane. He had never paid too much attention to physical realities. He believed we were all merely waiting, that life was a series of moments significant only in that they brought us closer to the final one, at which time we would be transfigured, one and all, into something immaterial.

Interestingly, over the years that I have been here it has not escaped my notice that despite their personal difficulties – and sometimes when they have more than enough reason to despair – nearly every other patient is a believer of some sort. There is Mary the ex-nun, Eugene the Jesuit, Robyn, who cries bitterly every Sunday because she will have to wait a whole week to go to church again, and Brendan, who is an ardent physicist and born-again Christian. It has made me wonder whether faith pre-dates mental disturbance or is a result of it. The apostle Paul says that faith is the ‘evident demonstration of realities though not yet beheld’, a definition I am also aware comes close to describing psychosis, for behind both faith and delusion lies unshakeable belief. The bible refers to the disciples of God as babes, as children, children of light, children of the promise. The description is fitting because children trust.

I am thinking these things, not wanting to and trying to reach a shoebox. It lies at the back of the top shelf of my wardrobe and inside it are three things: a journal, a bible and a dog’s collar with a red name barrel. The journal is bound with string, the dog collar red, the bible mildewy. The shoebox is behind my books. I pull out an armful and let them clatter to the floor around me, shielding my head with my arms. Then I reach again, holding onto the chairback, and feel it: the lid. I replace the books and sit on the bed with my back to the door and the shoebox in my lap and I take a deep breath. I lift out the bible, the journal I glance at, the dog collar not at all.

It is a small bible, mass-produced. A name in the front is written in a juvenile hand. It is the same name as mine. I recognize the address, the optimism with which it was written, the emphatic bubbles over the ‘i’s, the tails of the ‘y’s bending back on themselves like cheeky upside-down grins. But I did not write it. I open the bible and begin to read but before many minutes I am falling. My child self liked the sensation. At the farm there were steps built into the dairy wall. I would dangle my foot from the top step and see how far I could bend my knee without losing my balance. The knowledge that the air would part and close behind me without a trace was a source of fascination. The sensation now is not so pleasurable. Indeed, for several minutes I cannot move at all.