Crossing the Line (8 page)

15

S
ince the session this morning with Helen, my pen has been racing, trying to capture the momentous emotions I’m experiencing. I feel so creative, so alive, so energetic. I love Helen. I thought that would be hard to say, but it’s not. I truly love her. And now I want so much to offer something to her that will go beyond the walls of her office, something that she can take with her when she leaves here at night. I am going to create a poem for her.

I write, then scratch out, write again. It is tortuously slow to form. All my words seem inadequate. I want to say thank you for so many things: for being real with me; for not hiding behind platitudes; for allowing me to be so vulnerable; but mostly for holding me, in her arms, like a mother.

‘What are you writing?’ One of the orderlies, a big guy, looms over me.

I slam shut my book and clutch it to my chest. ‘Nothing,’ I mumble, not daring to look at him.

‘Really? You seem to be very busy writing nothing.’ He chuckles to himself as he goes on his way.

There’s no privacy here, no peace. I don’t have a locked door to hide behind. But I do have my journal. I look at what I’ve written. Ever since I can remember, I’ve experienced intense, momentary yearnings for older women – school teachers, mostly, but even women in the street. I imagine being held by them. The idea of sex with a woman doesn’t interest me, so I don’t think I’m a lesbian. I just want the closeness a woman’s embrace – a motherly embrace – can give me. I daydream about Helen, trying to recapture the intense feeling I experienced when she held me, trying to imagine her hand stroking my face.

Late at night, unable to sleep, I sit in the waiting room off the nurses’ office and finish my poem for Helen.

In the Beginning

The sun has dropped from the sky
,

You peer into the girl’s uplifted eyes
,

Her mind ingrained with belief:

‘Love cannot abide here
,

it is a stranger.’

Her tongue is wood, and, you suspect
,

Her heart.

Undaunted
,

You reach out
,

Think

If only this were enough
,

The opening of hands

To help unload grief
,

Heal the soul that has not yet

Learned love.

Endless mother, physician
,

You begin to undo the tongue

Like bandages
,

Release memories

Too powerful to escape from

Like stars being born
,

Sparks begin to rise into air.

Slowly, slowly
,

The dark is melting.

I’m happy with the poem. More than that, I think it’s the best I’ve ever written. If it is good, I owe it to the deep feelings that Helen has awakened in me. But I’m anxious about showing it to her. What if she doesn’t like it? Or just skims through it? Or gives me a polite smile? A platitude? I’ll be crushed.

When the meds are handed out after dinner, I pretend to swallow mine. I want to have a clear head in the morning when I give Helen the poem. I lay awake most of the night thinking about her, going over every scenario, too scared for sleep.

Next morning when it’s my therapy session, Helen smiles and gestures for me to sit. I place the poem on her desk.

‘Is this for me?’

‘Yes.’

She puts down her pen and takes my poem in her hands. I love the way she reads it in silence, slowly, thoughtfully.

My heart pounds when finally she looks at me.

‘You write beautifully, Sophie.’

I feel like crying.

When it’s time to begin talking today, words burst from me.

‘Arlene and Dutch were my aunt and uncle who cared for me when the Department took me from my mother,’ I say. ‘She was into drugs. Used to steal so she could afford her habit. I was too young to remember, but Arlene told me that the reason she and Dutch took me was because of neglect. Apparently my mother would just leave me, sometimes for days at a time. I didn’t see her much after that. When I was about four or five, she vanished altogether.’

Helen’s eyebrows rise.

‘Vanished?’

‘I don’t know where she went. Who cares? Maybe she overdosed and died in an alley somewhere. Stupid junkie.’

She doesn’t comment on that or criticise – she never would – but I feel I have to explain because I know I must seem hard.

‘She was never like a real mother to me, Helen, not the way Arlene was. She and Dutch were so good to me. They tucked me into bed at night, read stories or sang me to sleep. I could always go to either of them if I had a problem. I loved them.’

‘Did they have other children?’

‘No, just me. And they treated me like I was their own.’

Helen smiles in her gentle way and my mind drifts . . .

I remember the day I started school. The moment I saw the other kids I wrenched my hand free of Arlene and rushed away to join them in a game. When I thought to look up, I was amazed to see her crying, her shoulders heaving as if something dreadful had happened. It affected me to know, even back when I was so little, that someone really did love me.

The same feelings sweep back now. Helen passes me a tissue. I touch her hand as I take it.

‘Are you okay, Sophie?’

‘Yes.’ As long as you’re with me. ‘I’m fine.’

For the rest of that day, I withdraw into the whiteboard room and scribble down a multitude of memories which talking with Helen has ignited.

I remember Arlene sending me to birthday parties, always in the prettiest frock, with the biggest and best gift. When I joined the Brownies, Arlene attended all my badge presentations. She taught me the alphabet, how to read, how to tie my laces, how to swim, to sew, to knit, to bake a butter cake. She and Dutch were both proud of me. They boasted to their friends whenever they had the chance. About me.

There are other memories, too. I try to shut them out, but I can’t. Sometimes, when Dutch had too much to drink, he’d tease Arlene until she grew tetchy and snapped at him. Sometimes I lay in bed and heard their loud voices, and shivered with fear. I never thought that either one would hurt me; it was more that I had lived with that fighting and shouting when I was with my mother. She had left me, and in my heart I suspected it was all happening again.

The next day I read to Helen what I’d written.

‘Arlene and Dutch were waiting for me one day when I came home from school. There was a visitor, a stranger who turned out to be Marie. “We’ve something to tell you, sweetheart,” Arlene said.’

I pause, gathering myself together. It’s harder than I thought it would be to share, even with Helen.

I read on.

‘Their faces looked so serious; Arlene’s eyes were redrimmed. I stood there, confused, unable to speak. They were getting a divorce. Arlene had a new boyfriend and they were going to live interstate. Dutch was taking the next flight home to the Netherlands. There was no place for me.’

‘That’s a very sad story,’ Helen says when I pause. ‘How did it make you feel to read it to me?’

I look away from her, holding in my feelings. She gives me a few seconds before continuing.

‘What happened next?’

‘I pleaded with them to change their minds. It was a big shock to me, you know. I thought I would be with them forever.’

Tears are dribbling down my cheeks; my bottom lip quivers.

‘Go on,’ encourages Helen.

‘Marie says, “I’ll be your caseworker. You’ll go to live with a foster family while we try to find your mother.” I put my hands on my ears; I didn’t want to hear her. I begged Arlene, I begged Dutch. I went from one to the other saying, “Please, please, please. Don’t. I love you. You’re my mummy and daddy.”.’

I pause, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘I was so pathetic.’

‘No you weren’t,’ Helen murmurs.

‘Arlene was crying, and I said, “Can’t I come with you?” She said I couldn’t. She never said why. Dutch wouldn’t even look at me.’

‘That must have been so hard.’

‘I couldn’t understand how they could just erase me like that, as if I had never existed, as if I had meant nothing to them. It made me feel worthless then, and it still does now.’

‘No, don’t say that. You’re not . . .’

‘I was only a child, and they threw me away, like I was a piece of rubbish!’

‘Sophie . . .’

Helen holds out her hand and I take it. I never want to let go.

Memories of Arlene and Dutch haunt me for days after. When they finally leave it’s only because I crowd my mind with images of Helen. She becomes my first waking thought and my last. During the day I hang around the nurses’ station hoping someone will say something about her. Or I sit outside the entrance of the ward where I can see staff cars approaching down the driveway. When I glimpse Helen’s car I scuttle indoors so she won’t see me. I don’t want her to know that I watch out for her. When feelings are as intense as mine, people back away. I don’t want that to happen to us.

My sessions with Helen have changed from how they used to be. Now the doors are wide open, the walls of secrecy have tumbled to the ground. I want Helen to know me. Not the shell of a person I usually let people see, but the real me. Memories that have been locked away come flooding back, some good, some bad, but with Helen guiding me, I can handle anything. I talk about thoughts and feelings and hopes: yes, I have hopes now.

One day Helen wears a beret to work. It teases out a memory of a hat that my mother wore. She used to pull the brim forward to partly cover her face, so that when she grabbed someone’s handbag, they wouldn’t recognise her. Helen and I look across the desk at each other. She has a bemused penny-for-your-thoughts look. It occurs to me how wonderful it would be if she was my mother.

‘Can you remember anything else, Sophie? About your early childhood?’

‘Yes. My mother used to make me wait in places while she went off: she never told me what she was doing. I was always scared that she wouldn’t come back.’

Helen soaks up every word as if she is actually back there with me, waiting in some lonely street.

‘We lived in an abandoned car for a while . . . Have we got time for this, Helen? Am I talking too much?’

‘No. Never. Please go on.’

‘Okay. We lived on the street in a car. It was bad: people banging on the doors, tapping on the windows. Now, when I get in a car, first thing I do is slam down the locks. And there was this motel we stayed in sometimes. A real dump: wallpaper peeling, a terrible smell. All through the night we’d hear arguments, swearing and yelling, doors slamming. It was such a hell of a place.’

I let the air rush out of me with a great sigh.

Helen leans forward to rest a hand on mine.

‘You’re doing well, Sophie. It’s brave of you to talk about these things.’

My eyes are closed. I concentrate on the touch of her hand, drink deep from the sound of her voice.

16

F
inally I hear from Amy. We’re not really allowed to take phone calls (nor are we allowed to have our mobiles) but I’ve only had Matt come to visit me those few times, so maybe the nurse feels sorry for me when Amy rings.

‘When are you getting out of that place?’ is her opening question.

‘Who knows?’

‘Are they, like, doing strange things to your brain?’

It’s at that very moment I realise why Amy probably hasn’t contacted me before now. Her mother. Her poor demented mother who walked out on her. Who abandoned her. The thought of Helen screwing with my brain, attaching electrodes or drugging me to get at the truth seems so absurd. If only Amy knew how I spill my guts freely, how I look forward to doing it.

‘No, nobody’s messing with my head. I promise, Amy.’

She peppers me with questions and I duck and weave my way through them.

‘Okay. Enough about me,’ I say. ‘Tell me about the real world.’

‘Thought you’d never ask! I’ve got these new piercings. In my navel and one in my right nipple. So sexy! And a great tatt on my butt. You ought to see them!’

I laugh. ‘I’d rather not, thanks all the same.’

‘You’re jealous, Soph – I know. When you get out of there you should get yourself some tatts. I’ll take you – hold your hand if you like.’

‘No, I’ve told you before, I’m not interested and I don’t know why you would be.’

She protests. ‘I’m making myself a work of art. It’s about improvement. Like I’m claiming my body for my own. You can understand that, can’t you?’

I pause, bite my lip. ‘Yes. Yeah, I guess so.’

We chatter on some more before I bring up the subject that’s most important to me.

‘How’s Matt? Is he coming to see me soon?’

There’s a hesitation at the other end and I have a sudden fear that Amy’s going to tell me Matt has taken up with a girl and hasn’t got time for me. But it’s not that.

‘He’s okay,’ she says at last. ‘He had a prang on his bike.’

‘Oh no! Is he all right?’

‘Geez, cool it, will ya? He’s fine. He busted his hand, that’s all. It’s only a little break.’

‘Thank god it wasn’t serious.’

‘Nah. He’s tough. Only thing is, he’s not supposed to drive for a while. That’s why he hasn’t been in to see you. He’s going to write to you, so you’ll hear all about it – all the gory details.’

‘I’ll write to him, too,’ I say. ‘Will you tell him that I . . . tell him that I hope he gets better soon? And make him look after himself!’

‘I’ve already done that,’ Amy says. ‘I told him, next time you fall off your bike, make sure you land on your head – nothing important to hurt that way.’

We end the conversation there, both of us laughing.

So my life continues at the hospital and I go on sharing my feelings with Helen. Each time that I dredge up a memory, another is there waiting in line for its chance to be heard.

As I sit across from Helen I’m flooded with emotions. She thinks I cry because of the stories I tell her, the broken promises and the sadness. But the real reason is that I can’t say how I truly feel, about her. How much I want her to hold me again. But then if she did, I’d need to ask for more; I’d beg for it. There is no limit to my need. I want Helen to stroke my face, to tell me she cares about me, that she loves me. I want to become her child.

My heart clenches when each session with her ends. I want to scream, to say that she can’t go, I won’t let her go. The only thing that stops me is that I know she will be back the next day, and the next. When I leave her office, I find a place of my own, close my eyes and relive the session. I see Helen so clearly. She is beautiful.

Sometimes, as a way of holding her with me in the long hours when we are separated, I try to sketch her. And always I write in my journal about all the hopes I have for us. More and more, she is my family. I don’t even mind that she has a daughter: she can be my sister. Helen has enough love for both of us. I try to imagine her home and picture myself in it, sitting with Helen or being held by her.

I want to touch the edges of her face
,

soft and smooth as Mother Love.

Contained within her

is a whole continent of understanding.

Unwinding a coil in my heart

she has become

the one blade of grass

in a never-ending desert.

‘What are you writing all the time?’ It’s Ashley’s turn at interrogation.

‘Nothing important.’

‘I bet you’re writing about being in this place and all about us, huh? Is it going to be for a story or something?’

I’ve learnt how to handle Ashley. Be aggressive with her and you’ll get it back twice over. Much easier to go along with her.

‘You guessed it,’ I say. ‘It’s a movie script about this place.’

‘Bull . . . Really?’

‘Yep. It’s true.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She considers this for a moment, before adding, ‘I better be in it.’

‘For sure,’ I lie.

To my dismay she pulls up a chair for herself.

‘You see Marshall today?’

That makes me angry. It’s Helen! I want to say. Helen! But then it occurs to me that they don’t share a special relationship, that’s why she doesn’t use her Christian name. My anger quickly dissipates.

‘Yes, I’m seeing her.’

‘Me too. What do you talk about?’

‘The usual things.’

‘I tell her all sorts of stuff. Really sick stuff.’

I hate her saying these things to me.

‘She probably gets off on hearing it.’

‘She does not!’ I’m on my feet and standing over her.

‘What’s up with you?’

I grab my book and start walking.

‘Nothing,’ I call back. ‘Just stay away from me.’

Soon I’m sitting opposite Helen again.

‘Today I think we should talk about your suicidal feelings,’ Helen says.

She’s dressed as usual in a suit, dark blue, with a white blouse. Her hair is looped into a knot at the back of her neck but strands have come loose and hang in wisps around her face. Her skin is pink and well-scrubbed. She doesn’t wear make-up. I notice for the first time that there’s a small scar on her forehead.

‘Sophie . . .’

‘Yes. Sorry. What were you saying?’

‘Why don’t you tell me about what happened the last time you tried to kill yourself?’

‘You know about that?’

She nods. ‘Doctor Palmer spoke to me on the phone.’

Noel. He keeps stepping into my life, trying to sabotage me.

I take a deep breath and try to focus but I can’t.

‘You took some sleeping pills,’ Helen reminds me.

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you can tell me what happened. Where did you get the pills?’

‘Do we have to talk about this? It’s all finished with. Can’t we just leave it dead?’

‘But is it, Sophie? Is it really dead?’

I stare out of the window.

‘We need to talk about what keeps making you want to harm yourself.’

I won’t do it again now I have something to live for. I’ve got you, Helen.

It kills me that I can’t tell her that simple truth.

I sigh. ‘They were Shirley’s pills.’

‘I don’t think you’ve spoken about Shirley before . . .’

‘Shirley and Doug Patterson. My last foster parents.’

‘I see. And can you tell me what led up to your taking them?’

Tears well in my eyes and cascade down my cheeks. Helen hands me a tissue and I tear more from the box. There never seems to be enough tissues for me nowadays.

‘What can I tell you?’ I say hopelessly. ‘They weren’t bad people. They weren’t child molesters. But they didn’t really care about me. I was worth so much a month to them from the Department, that’s all. And I was lonely, Helen. Desperately. I only wish I could have found more pills.’

‘Do you feel alone very often?’

I’m all emotion, incapable of even one intelligible sentence. Sobbing and sobbing. All the years of feeling that no one on this earth gives a damn about me are tumbling about inside of me – exploding.

Helen doesn’t try to stop me from crying.

My world brightens when Matt comes to visit again. It feels like forever since I last saw him but really it’s only been a couple of weeks. He’s brought me a silly teddy bear with a bow tie.

‘It shouldn’t have a bow tie,’ I tell him.

‘Why not?’

‘Bow ties are a guy thing. And the bear is pink . . .’

‘Well, not everything is perfect.’ Matt holds my hand as we walk across the lawn, spied on, I’m aware, by half the kids in my ward.

‘We’re being watched,’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘Forget about them. The important thing is, what are we going to call our new bear?’

‘Our
bear? I thought you gave it to me.’

‘I did, but it’s a share bear.’

I smile. ‘Then that’s its name. Share Bear.’

We sit with our backs against a tree, as far away from prying eyes as possible.

‘How are things with you, Soph?’

‘Terrific!’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t I look better?’

‘Well, you do seem happier. Are you?’

‘I am, Matt, for the first time in so long.’

Helen is the reason for the happiness, but it might hurt his feelings if I share that with him.

‘Greta’s rung a few times,’ he says.

‘Oh . . . you and she been seeing much of each other?’

‘No. Why would we?’

‘That night at the pub. Remember? Your eyes almost fell out of your head.’

Matt’s face reddens. ‘Aw, that was nothing. She asks about you. Greta is not interested in me, I promise.’

‘But are you interested in her?’

‘No. Not a bit. You know, Soph, I don’t go around giving bears to just anyone.’

I’m flattered, I’m knocked out. Here’s this sweet guy saying beautiful things to me. Sheltered by the tree, we huddle close. I have Helen. And Matt. In this moment, I can’t imagine being happier.