Hush (33 page)

‘So how can I help you?’ the receptionist asked, warm yet businesslike, settling herself down in the chair in front of her computer.

‘I – wanted to make an appointment.’

‘Well, we actually only see children in this clinic. There’s an adults’ centre just down the road –’

‘I want to see Dr Mervyn.’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

‘I was – a patient.’

‘I see. Well, he’s a busy man, and if this is a social call I’d suggest getting in contact with him out of hours.’

‘It’s not a social call.’ Lily looked down at the floor. She could feel the teenager watching her. ‘I need to talk to him about – some treatments. That he gave me.’ The woman stared at her blankly. ‘When I was younger,’ she said, trying not to let desperation creep into her voice. ‘It will only take ten minutes.’

‘I’m afraid he’s booked solid for today –’

‘Ten minutes? Please?’

The woman looked at her for a moment, as if weighing up her options. ‘It might be quite a wait. But, if you sit down, I’ll have a word with him when he’s free.’

‘Thank you.’

She sat down opposite the teenager, whose gaze had moved to the large bay window that faced out on to the street. Lily picked up a magazine and started to flick through it, but the words blurred on the page and made her feel dizzy. She closed her eyes. The room was silent except for the tapping of the receptionist’s fingers on the keyboard, and the occasional roar of a car passing by outside.

After fifteen minutes or so she heard a door open upstairs. There was the low murmur of voices; three sets of footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened, and then closed. And then one set of footsteps, coming closer. Pausing at the door. And then the shock of a voice so familiar, speaking an unfamiliar name: ‘Jenny?’

Lily opened her eyes. He didn’t look at her; his gaze was fixed on the teenager, who looked up, smiled faintly, and stood up. The woman – Lily realised it must be her mother – touched her arm as she stood. ‘I’ll be right here,’ she murmured, but the teenager shook her off and followed Dr Mervyn without looking back.

Lily had no idea how long she sat there. The rain grew heavier outside; the sky darkened and thick raindrops pelted the window. Patients came and went. Sometimes doctors appeared briefly, summoning their patients. Other doctors seemed less willing to come out of their offices, and their patients were escorted by the receptionist, who smiled and took hold of their arms like an elderly nurse.

Lily sat silently, staring at the floor, tracing the patterns of the carpet with her gaze.

Eventually she was the only one left. The receptionist left the room and went upstairs. Lily heard the soft tread of her shoes on the carpet, the creaking of the stairs under her feet. The light rapping of her knuckles on a door upstairs. The low groan of the door’s hinges as she eased it open.

Five minutes, in which Lily wondered what on earth she would say to him.

And then she heard two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs.

When he looked at her from the doorway, his gaze was the same as it had been twenty-one years before, and she felt momentarily sure she wouldn’t have to explain herself. But there was no recognition in his eyes. ‘Do you want to come upstairs?’ he asked, his voice kind but puzzled.

She followed him up the stairs and into his office. It was markedly different from the one she had spent so much time in – that had been a school office that he’d borrowed, and the objects within it had been impersonal, meaningless. This was different. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and dotted here and there with framed photographs, diplomas. On his desk sat a family photograph: Dr Mervyn, wife, two daughters. She’d never realised he had children.

Maybe he hadn’t, back then.

They sat down opposite each other, separated by his desk, as they always had been. She realised he was in his mid-fifties. The same age as her father would have been, had he lived. The doctor’s eyes had stayed the same, but his face had crumpled slightly around them, weathered with age. His hair was mostly grey.

‘So, are you going to make me guess who you are?’ he asked. His smile was the same.

‘Lily Emmett. I was almost twelve, last time you saw me.’

He leaned back in his chair, and gave her a long look; appraising. She couldn’t tell whether he remembered her or not. ‘And how old are you now?’

‘Thirty-three.’

‘I’m afraid you’re a bit old for me to be able to treat you.’ His voice was firm, but his smile was kind. ‘Was it treatment you were after?’

The question made her pause. What was it she was after? ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening?’

She said nothing for a moment, clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap. She realised she’d been hoping he would just know, without her having to explain.

‘I’ve been having – similar problems. The same problems as I used to have. And I wondered if you could help.’

Dr Mervyn looked at her kindly. ‘I’m a child psychiatrist, Lily. Don’t you think you’d be better off with someone who deals with adult problems?’

‘But it’s the same problem.’ Her voice was stubborn.

‘It might be related to the same problem. But the nature of it is likely to have changed as you’ve grown older, and the treatment would be different now.’ He leaned back in his chair, fingers clasped in front of him on the desk. ‘Do you still have difficulty talking?’

So he did remember her. ‘Not really. I don’t talk as much as other people, I guess. But I don’t avoid it.’ She looked him in the eye, to gauge his reaction. ‘I’m a lecturer now.’

He laughed. He looked genuinely delighted. ‘Really? That’s amazing.’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose it might seem that way. But it’s a different sort of speech.’

‘Yes, I can see why you would feel like that. But –’ he leaned forward slightly ‘– it’s not really, you know. It’s all communication.’

She shrugged again. ‘It’s not that that’s the issue.’

‘Okay. So what is the issue?’

She looked out of the window. It was dark outside now – the clock behind Dr Mervyn’s head said it was past four o’clock – and there was a street-lamp directly outside the window, casting an orangey glow across the corner of the room. It reminded her of the kitchen in her old flat.

‘I’ve been collapsing. Like I used to, only – worse, I suppose. I’m on sabbatical from work. And I…’ She wondered if she dared tell him, and then realised that this was the real reason she had come to him. Because she couldn’t admit it to anyone else. ‘I’ve been hallucinating.’

‘I see. What form do the hallucinations take?’

‘They’re – me. And my sister. As children.’

‘And what are they doing?’

‘They want me to go into the garden. To where Billy died.’

They sat in silence for a while, Dr Mervyn tapping the tips of his fingers together as he thought. The ticking of the clock behind him filled the room, marking the rising of the moon. Lily thought that maybe she shouldn’t have come.

‘Did you ever remember what happened?’ he asked, eventually.

‘No.’

‘Do you want to?’

She looked down at her hands. Didn’t reply.

‘I don’t know if anyone would be able to help you remember. It was a long time ago, and if you’ve gone this long without any hint of remembering then it’s likely that the memory just isn’t there. But there are other treatments for dealing with the symptoms you’re experiencing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Talking therapies. Antidepressants. Have you not spoken to any doctors about it in recent years?’

‘It’s not depression. They said it was, um, conversion disorder.’

‘Yes, that would be consistent with my diagnosis of you when you were a child. Did they explain what that was?’

‘Sort of.’ He looked at her, expectant. ‘They said my brain gives me physical symptoms to deal with because I’m not coping with stress properly.’

‘Right. The selective mutism you suffered from as a child was of a similar nature. My guess is that, as you’ve grown older, your symptoms have adapted to ensure that you keep managing them. In cases of conversion disorder, there’s often an underlying anxiety problem, and that’s why I would suggest antidepressants.’

She nodded. ‘Would they help with the other stuff?’

‘No. The only way your symptoms are going to get better is if you address the root cause. You need to come to terms with the things that have happened to you, the stresses you have been suppressing since you were a child.’

‘It sounds like psychobabble.’

‘It’s a recognised psychiatric disorder.’

She looked at him, sceptical.

‘Here, look.’ He walked to his bookcase, pulled out a large grey paperback and laid it on the desk in front of her.
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
He flipped it open at the index, traced his finger over the right section, entitled
Somatoform Disorders
, and there it was:
Conversion Disorder
. Lily stared at it for a moment, then flipped the book closed. It was enough to see the words, without seeing her symptoms listed in black and white.

‘So what would you suggest?’

‘Well, I would recommend therapy. With someone who is a qualified adult psychologist. I can recommend a few people.’

‘What if I don’t want therapy?’

He looked at her over steepled fingertips. ‘You remember the exercise we tried? Exposing yourself to various stimuli in order to bring back memories?’

‘It didn’t work.’

‘I beg to differ.’ He smiled again. ‘If you remember, it had quite an effect on you.’

‘But it didn’t help me remember.’

‘Well, no. But that’s not really the object any more.’ His voice was gentle, prodding her subtly into agreement. ‘It’s not important for you to remember, as such. You just need to stop being scared of remembering. You need to confront whatever it is that’s causing you distress.’

‘So where would I find the stimuli?’

Dr Mervyn raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you tried talking to your sister?’

Connie stepped out of Gatwick Airport into the wet warmth of late April. She was thinner than she had been when she left, and tanned from working outside, though it hadn’t seemed especially sunny when she’d been there. Her hair was lighter, making her eyes appear bluer, and she looked older. She’d been away for nearly a year.

The familiarity was momentarily disarming – the chatter of English voices around her, the signposts and symbols that were instantly recognisable. The line of black cabs, and the patient queue of passengers in front of it, were so British that they made her want to cry. She followed the signs to the train station and emerged on to a busy platform, filled with people of all nationalities standing near piles of luggage, watching the departure screens anxiously.

She got on the first train heading southeast, and secured a cluster of four seats and a table to herself, piling up luggage on the seat next to her and putting her feet on the one opposite. The train crawled lazily through the countryside, past rolling hills, lush trees, picturesque rivers. The sky darkened with gathering clouds, and before long raindrops splattered against the glass, obscuring the view. Connie leaned her head against the glass and closed her eyes.

The train stopped and the doors opened, letting in a blast of excited conversation and cold air. Several people got on, and Connie slid her feet reluctantly off the seat as an elderly man moved towards her. He took the seat diagonally across
from her, and nodded at the space next to him, saying, ‘You can put them back, if you like.’

She smiled faintly. ‘Thanks, but it feels rude, making you sit next to my feet.’

‘I’ve sat next to worse things.’

He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, and after a moment Connie put her feet back where they had been.

The train continued, the sky growing steadily darker, until all Connie could see through the glass was her own face reflected back at her. A ticket collector checked her ticket, and looked pointedly from her feet to the sign above them which expressly forbade her from putting them on the seat. She glared at him and moved them, snatching her ticket back ungraciously. The elderly man laughed at her expression. ‘At least you know to pick your battles,’ he said, his voice kind, and closed his eyes again.

An hour later, they arrived at the nearest station to the village, and she hauled her bag on to the platform, shivering the second she got outside.

The rain had not abated, and made visibility difficult, but she knew exactly where she was going. The steps into the car park were slippery with rainwater, the car park partially flooded. She grimaced, and hopped across it, trying to avoid the worst of the puddles.

Two cabs waited at the entrance to the station, and she jumped into the first one, giving the driver the address between grunts as she hauled her bag in after her. He nodded and started the engine wordlessly. They drove along the dark roads in silence, as Connie stared out of the window and tried not to think about the reception she would receive. The rain pounded on the windscreen, and the windows were steamy and opaque. Connie traced a ‘C’ in the condensation, and then rubbed it out, creating a clear patch through which she could see the orange glow of street-lamps outside.

The driver pulled up outside the house, and Connie felt a momentary shock at seeing it still standing there, exactly the same as it had been when she left. There were lights on in the living room; she could see the glow through the gap in the curtains. She paid the driver with a note and told him to keep the change, though she had no idea how much she’d given him.

As she walked to the front door she felt sure she was being watched, the dark windows above her looming like eyes. She wondered whether she should knock, and then shook her head at her own ridiculousness and dug around in the front pocket of her bag until she found her key. It turned easily in the lock, and the door swung open into darkness.

She waited, breathless, but there was no indication that anyone was coming to greet her.

She could hear the murmur of the TV in the living room, and movement in the kitchen: someone making dinner. She closed the door behind her quietly and crept forward, wondering about the best way of announcing herself. She considered shouting hello, but she felt nervous, almost unwelcome. She realised she had been envisaging some kind of hero’s welcome all the way home, but now she was here she didn’t feel anywhere near so certain of being well received.

Admonishing herself for being ridiculous, she dropped her bag on the floor and stepped forward more confidently. ‘Dad?’ she called, and she felt rather than heard the movement freeze in the kitchen. No answering call, though. ‘Mama?’

Her mother stepped into the doorway, confusion giving way smoothly to relief. ‘Connie,’ she breathed, rushing forward to hug her, and then hesitating when she was just a step away. ‘It’s – it’s really you?’

‘It’s really me,’ she confirmed, allowing herself to be swept into a hug. She felt her mother’s sharp edges digging into her as their collarbones pressed together.

‘Oh, darling, I thought you were dead,’ her mother whispered into her hair. ‘And the last words we ever spoke were an argument –’

‘Shh. It’s fine. I’m not dead.’ Connie stepped away awkwardly, brushing her mother’s tears out of her hair. ‘Where are the others? It seems quiet.’

Her mother looked anxiously back at the kitchen doorway. ‘What made you decide to come back?’ she asked, ignoring Connie’s question.

‘I don’t know, really. Just got bored of sleeping in strange beds.’ Her mother looked at her sharply, making Connie laugh. ‘On my own, Mama. I promise.’

‘Good. Good.’ She looked behind her again. ‘Have you – spoken to anyone? Lily, or anyone?’

‘No. You know what Lily’s like on the phone.’ Connie looked at her mother closely, trying to work out what in her behaviour was so off-putting. She was acting like a trapped rabbit. And she kept looking at the kitchen door as if something horrible was going to burst through it. ‘Mama? Is everything okay?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Her mother turned to face her, lifted her hands to Connie’s cheeks. ‘It’s so good to see you home.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. It just seemed – well. I needed some space.’ She thought about what she had glimpsed through the kitchen window on the night that she left, and flinched involuntarily.

‘It’s okay. That doesn’t matter now.’ Her mother’s gaze again, darting back to the kitchen door. What was she afraid of?

‘Mama?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Where’s Dad? And Lily? Have they gone out?’

Her mother looked down, reaching out for Connie’s hands. ‘Look at the state of your nails, darling. They’re filthy.
Really… really filthy.’ She rubbed the pads of her fingers along the edges of Connie’s nails. ‘You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?’

‘Mama.’

‘Don’t.’ Her mother looked up then, and the expression in her eyes was so desperate, Connie
felt
what she was trying to say, without really understanding it.

‘Mama,
please
.’

She opened her mouth, but then shook her head, no sound escaping. From behind her, in the kitchen, a male voice carried easily, though it didn’t speak particularly loudly.

‘You’re going to have to tell her some time, Anna.’

Connie looked up, and found herself looking straight into the eyes of the man she had run away from.