Crossing the Line (11 page)

‘Thanks,’ I say, and leave it at that.

‘Well then . . . Goodnight, Soph.’

‘Night.’

In my room I take out Helen’s photo and trace my finger around the shape of her face. ‘Goodnight, my dear friend.’

21

B
efore heading off to see Noel, I do something I haven’t done for ages: I take myself for a long walk through town to the beach. It’s a gorgeous early spring day, the air crisp, the sun shining and a slight breeze ruffling the seaside grasses. I lie in my shorts and top on the sand and soak up the ambience. It’s so good being without a care, revelling in the sun on my face and body, breathing deep, smelling the tangy aroma of salt air.

At last it feels as if things are starting to come together. I’m settled at home with Matt and Amy. Just thinking
home
is very special. And I liked meeting the neighbours. I hope I’ll see more of them. Best of all, I feel closer to Helen. Now I know where she lives I don’t feel so lost and alone. It’s as if I have a get-out-of-jail card in my back pocket. If things ever get really bad, I can see her. And I know that as soon as she puts her arms around me, I’ll be complete.

All morning I’ve been trying to write a poem, a gift for Helen. I want it to be something she’ll cherish. Now I’m watching surfers, wondering if Helen ever swims here at this beach, and letting my mind grasp at images for the poem. I sit scribbling furiously for a long while. Gradually words and phrases glide into place. Until at last it’s finished.

All the way to Noel’s office I debate whether or not to show him the poem. Will I? Won’t I? I’m like a very small girl with a very big secret. We’re only five minutes into the session when I mention I’ve written it. ‘For Doctor Marshall.’

‘A poem?’ He curls the word around as he says it. ‘How interesting. And why did you write it?’

I shrug.

‘Would you like to show it to me?’

Still unsure, I find myself nodding anyway, and I pass it across the desk.

‘Shall I read it aloud?’

‘If you want to.’

On sun-soaked weekends

the sea drowns it –

the anguished confessions
,

other people’s pain
,

that might become hers

if she did not dive beneath the long green claw

that curls above her
,

plunging through water that goes

forever down.

In her swirling, buoyant element
,

her mind unlocked
,

she hears

the watery world singing around her
,

deep-throated

and pregnant with freedom.

Noel’s gaze lifts slowly from the page, and falls on me.

‘Well, well. You have a gift with words, Sophie.’

‘No big deal.’ I’m ecstatic that my writing has impressed him.

He takes another look at it, nodding as he reads.

‘Yes. This shows a great deal of empathy and compassion.’

‘Thanks.’

I want to snatch the poem back now. He’s read it. I’ve got my praise. Let’s move on before he starts examining every word for hidden meanings.

‘You seem to understand that Doctor Marshall needs to have a life apart from her patients.’

I say nothing. It’s safer that way.

‘You’re going to post it?’

I’ve already decided I’m giving it to Helen in person, but I’m not telling him that.

‘Probably. I’m not sure.’

‘How do you think she’ll feel, reading your poem?’

I shrug at first and then add, ‘I hope she likes it, of course. Nothing strange about wanting that, is there?’

‘Not at all. It’s a perfectly natural thing to hope for.’

Now I do take the poem back. Folding it carefully before placing it in my blouse pocket I say, ‘Finished with that. New subject.’

‘What would you like to talk about today?’

‘You tell me, Noel.’

He raises an eyebrow. So atypical; he hardly ever does anything that lets me know that he has had some kind of emotional reaction to what I’ve said.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Noel
? You’ve never used my Christian name before.’

‘You don’t want me to?’

‘I don’t mind. I was just wondering, why today?’

‘That’s how I think of you.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since forever. Though I did give you a nickname when I first met you . . .’ I pause, waiting for his response.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yep.’

‘Are you going to tell me?’ he says after a while.

I grin. ‘Have a guess.’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Freudie Babe, that’s what I called you!’

‘And why is that?’

‘Well, you’re a shrink . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘And you look a bit like the photos you see of Freud.’

Noel ducks his head and smiles broadly. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile so happily. He seems kind of cute, like a benevolent father.

‘Can I ask you something personal?’

Noel purses his mouth, says nothing. I take the plunge. ‘Do you have a family? Are you someone’s dad?’

‘Why do you need to know about my family?’

‘God! Now we’re back to this “you make a statement and I repeat it or I ask a question” game. I just wish for once that you would give me a bit of power in this relationship. Or that we could be equals – for even a minute!’

He puts up a passive-face shield. Impossible to know what he’s thinking. It’s championship chess.

After a while I break into the silence by saying, almost flippantly, that I miss the hospital.

‘Oh?’

‘Well, not the hospital exactly. Things about being there.’

‘Doctor Marshall?’

The poem told him everything, so I might as well spit it out. ‘I want to see her again.’

‘And why is that, Sophie?’

I stare at the photo on the wall of the boy and girl kissing and say nothing more. What is there to say? It’s obvious he doesn’t approve. There’s bound to be some law against it, some stupid rule. But he can’t stop me. No one can.

‘Perhaps we can talk about this next time,’ he says.

It’s time to go again. My life is a procession of clocks and doors. I’m only of interest for a certain amount of time. After that doors are only opened to let me out, to be rid of me.

Noel smiles. ‘I liked your poem, Sophie.’ And he closes the door.

22

M
arie comes to visit. She brings with her a pile of school work which teachers have sent to be finished over the holidays. I look at the work – including three thick novels to be read – and moan.

‘There goes my two weeks of fun!’ I complain.

‘I’m sure you’ll still find time for fun,’ Marie says. I expect her to scuttle away as she usually does but this time she sits down and isn’t in a hurry.

‘Perhaps we could have a cup of tea together,’ she suggests, ‘and a little chat.’

I can manage having tea with her but the chat sounds ominous. This woman doesn’t spend time with the likes of me unless she has to. Soon we’re sitting opposite each other, drowning in a sea of awkward silence. And then the bombshell drops.

‘We’ve been thinking, Sophie, that it might be a good idea for you to go back into fostering.’

I stare at her, dumbfounded, and shake my head. The urge to cut jerks into my mind.

‘We’ve been discussing your case . . .’

It’s not my case, it’s my life!

‘And there are very real concerns about your wellbeing, especially if you’re having suicidal thoughts.’

‘I’m not! Who told you that? That was weeks and weeks ago. I’m all right now. Helen – the doctor at the hospital – has given me antidepressants, and besides I’ve promised her if I get depressed again I’ll talk to Noel about it. Doctor Palmer.’

‘Yes, well that may be so –’ Marie’s attempt at a smile makes her look like she has a mouthful of prunes – ‘but as you can appreciate, we are charged with your care. It would be remiss of the Department not to act if we had any doubts about how you’re coping.’

I try to stay calm. Try to think Helen into my mind. She won’t come. Too much panic.

‘I can’t believe this!’ I bang my head down on the table. It hurts but I don’t care.

‘Now, now, Sophie, it’s this very sort of behaviour which makes us concerned. You are a risk to yourself, dear.’

‘I’m not! I’m happy here. I like being with Matt and Amy. We get on really well.’

‘But they aren’t always here. Are they? Hmm? Now we have in mind a really nice couple who’ve fostered teenagers for years . . .’

Helen. Helen. Helen.

‘I’d like to take you to visit them. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there.’

‘I won’t go.’

‘This is in your own best interest.’

I take a deep breath, regroup. Yelling and banging my head is only going to give her more ammunition. I have to be calm in this storm, as Helen would.

‘I’ve learned coping mechanisms from Hel – from Doctor Marshall at the hospital.’ I speak quietly and slowly. Back in control now. ‘And I’m working with Doctor Palmer. If you move me again now, when I’m at last settling down, you would do so much damage, Miss Jarmine. That’s the only reason I’d hurt myself. Please don’t make me go.’

I can almost hear the wheels of thought tumbling around in Marie’s mind. And as she drains the last of her tea, I can guess what she’s thinking.
If we do force this on her, and she does kill herself, then it could come back and implicate us at the Department.

‘Well then,’ she says, placing the cup on the table, ‘this is something that will have to be considered. I’ll take this information back to my supervisor and we’ll see what we can do. I’d like to report that you’re feeling better. Is that the case?’

‘Much better.’

‘And you’re still seeing Doctor Palmer twice a week?’

‘Three times.’

‘Excellent.’

‘And he’s helping.’

‘I’m so pleased. Now I want you to think about that placement I mentioned, but for the time being, since you seem to be making progress, we might just keep things as they are – but of course, my supervisor will have the final word.’

When Marie has gone, I sit for a while, trying to overcome the compulsion to cut. Talking to Helen in my head helps. I know she’d be disappointed if I cut myself. I close my eyes and picture her holding me. ‘Be calm,’ she keeps repeating. ‘They won’t move you again. You’re safe where you are. Safe with me.’

Before long though, I’m in the bathroom, the razor in my hand. I can’t keep doing this but I have such need. I look in the mirror and find Helen’s face. No, I won’t cut myself, I tell her.
But I need you so much.
In my head, ever so faintly, I hear her calling,
Come to me
.

I put the razor away and grab a jacket. I’m going to see my Helen at the hospital. I’ll give her my poem. The thought of being with her again restores my spirits.

Outside the train window there is sunshine and children playing and bright colours. The world is alive and so am I, the need to cut fading with every passing station, with every step I move closer to Helen.

However, at the hospital there is a brick wall.

‘I’m sorry.’ The secretary cleans her glasses as she speaks. ‘You can’t see Doctor Marshall without an appointment. In any case she’s booked up with patients all day.’

I’m disappointed of course, but not shattered. Secretaries always think they know everything. They know nothing.

‘That’s okay,’ I reply. ‘No problem.’

I take a seat in the waiting room, find a good magazine, and settle in. Helen always comes to the door to say goodbye when she finishes with a patient. The next time her door opens, I’ll be there. The secretary rolls her eyes when she sees me still there, but she doesn’t say anything.

The clock ticks slowly and loudly. Just before the hour, a bundle of bones comes in and sits opposite me. Anorexic, and a patient for sure. Does Helen show her the love that she showed to me? The thought of this girl being hugged is unbearable. I glare at her, blatantly, rudely. She burrows her gaze into a magazine, not daring to look at me. ‘Why can’t you just go away?’ I say it so loudly the secretary looks up. I glare at her, too.

Twenty-seven minutes pass, and then a man with dreadlocks and a scruffy beard walks out of Helen’s consulting room. I see her. And she sees me.

‘Sophie!’

I want to rush into her arms but my legs are stuck in cement. My brain is calling the shots.

Let there be a sign from her first. Let her say my name again, not in shock but affection. Wait.

Helen looks perplexed. ‘We don’t have an appointment, do we?’

‘No. But I need to see you.’ I mumble, embarrassed that her patients are staring at me.

Helen gestures for me to follow her. ‘Come into my office for a moment.’

Yes! I knew she’d see me. I knew it!

But then, before the door is even closed behind us, she changes – her tone, her features – all have suddenly grown cold.

‘You are Doctor Palmer’s patient now. I thought I made that clear. You can’t just turn up, Sophie. It’s not acceptable.’

I’m crying. Unable to stop. Unable to stand. I lie on the floor. I want to sink into it and disappear.

‘Up you get.’ Helen’s strong hands help lift me to my feet. ‘This is childish. It’s a tantrum. And I don’t appreciate it.’ She opens the door for me to leave. ‘It’s important that you talk to Doctor Palmer in future. Not me.’

She walks into the waiting room, smiles at Miss Anorexic and asks her to wait in the office.

‘I must go, Sophie,’ she says, turning. ‘And I’d like you to go, too.’

Then she walks away. Just like that.

The secretary has her smarmy face glued on my every move. I want to hit her. Hit everyone. Most of all myself. Choked with tears, I run to the exit door. Outside in a small courtyard, I lie down on the path and sob. Helen doesn’t want me. She never wanted me. My whole life is a charade. No one cares! I don’t matter! It’s not a tantrum! It’s not! I love you! Helen, Helen, Helen – over and over – Helen, Helen.

People stop and stare. Others touch my arm – ‘Are you all right?’ I ignore them. Curled up, I lie there. Waiting. Helen is sure to come out. She’ll see me from her window. She’ll sit beside me, stroking my cheek, brushing away the tears.

‘Come on, darlin’. Move yourself.’

Two security guards, one on each side of me.

‘I’m not going! You can’t make me! Get your hands off me!’

‘C’mon, love. It’s time to go. Up you get, on your feet. That’s the way.’

I look up at Helen’s window. She must be watching this. I won’t be humiliated in front of her.

‘All right!’ I wrench my arms free of the guards. ‘I’m going.’

My head held high I go with them, drained of all emotion except one. Love. For Helen. Something happened today that I can’t explain. But if you truly love someone, you don’t give up. You don’t give up on love. Never, ever.

I still have Helen’s poem in my pocket. Somehow I will get it to her.