Guilt Trip (4 page)

But being next to Dad didn’t stop me
worrying. As soon as we got back to the pub, I’d try one of Dr Henderson’s new
tablets. See if that helped. See if it blotted out the insanity once and for
all.

But what if it didn’t? What if this madness
continued? I couldn’t deceive Dad forever. And then he’d march me straight off
to Dr Henderson, demanding more help. Something different. Because, if stronger
medication on top of almost a year’s worth of weekly sessions with the
psychiatrist didn’t work, then perhaps we needed something more extreme.

And the only thing I could think of was
that they’d put me away. They’d have to, wouldn’t they? In some kind of
hospital. An institution.

Dad would think it was all for the best. Of
course he would. He’d do it with the best intentions. But the result would be
the same, wouldn’t it. He’d send me away from him. Another parent getting rid
of a child who wasn’t ‘normal’. Like the changeling.

And I couldn’t bear that.

That evening back at the Fox and Hound, I
took a long, hot shower. My body was aching: the cold wind seemed to have
seeped into my bones, chilling me to the very marrow. I let the steaming water
pummel my shoulders, warming and relaxing me. I’d secretly taken one of Dr
Henderson’s stronger tablets, and could feel it getting to work already, making
me pleasantly lightheaded.

I still didn’t really understand what was
going on. Not fully. I mean, I was used to the dreams - though why they’d
changed was a mystery - and I could understand hearing Mum’s voice calling out
to me for help. But the teddy bear and the extreme feelings it brought? And the
déjà vu? What was that all about? Dr Henderson had once said that extreme
trauma could bring on hallucinations. But of teddy bears and hands? It seemed an
odd way for my mind to work through its issues.

As I smoothed shower gel over my skin, my
mind wandered to Dad, wondering how
he
was taking it all. Almost a year without her. His best friend. The love of his
life. Mum. But then, he’d thrown himself into his work, hadn’t he. His career
was really starting to take off. And obviously, he had
me
.

I turned off the tap, my eye instinctively checking
the bathroom door to make sure that it was locked properly before I reached out
for a towel, wrapping it round me as I emerged from the shower. I wasn’t totally
used to sharing a bathroom with strangers yet. It made me feel uncomfortable
and self-conscious - as if they could see me.

Back in my bedroom I checked the time. I’d
been in the shower far too long. Dad would be waiting for me. But hurrying was
made difficult by the tablet, which had really started to take effect now. It
certainly was stronger than my usual dose. What had started out as a pleasant,
calming effect had now intensified so that my head seemed stuffed with cotton
wool, and all my movements felt sluggish and clumsy.

Slumping down in front of the mirror, I tried
to brush my hair quickly, but my arm felt heavy, weighted down, so that the
task seemed to take forever. Then, trying to concentrate really hard, I drew on
a wobbly line of gold eyeliner and then started on my lashes. But I was all
fingers and thumbs, and inevitably, managed to get the mascara brush too close
to my eye. Tutting, I leaned in, poking at a black filament, which insisted on
swimming about under the rim of my eyelid.

And that’s when I noticed it: a dark mass
above my head.

It was a print, on the wall behind me. Not
the usual hotel-style bland landscape in a frame, but an actual poster of some
old band. I turned to look behind me, my eye still watering, wondering how I’d
missed it all this time.

But there was nothing there - just a plain,
boring, beige wall.

Still rubbing my eye, I turned back to the
mirror. No, there was nothing there in the reflection either.

Yet I had definitely seen it - and not just
a dark shape caused by a clot of mascara either. I had quite clearly made out the
lead singer, all dishevelled sun-bleached hair and a guitar. But why would I
imagine such a thing?

Especially after my tablet.

My heart sank.

It hadn’t worked. The tablet hadn’t worked.
It hadn’t stopped the visions at all.

All it
had
done was to make me horribly lethargic and slow.

I checked the time on my phone again. Dad
had been waiting for ages now - I had to get going.

Making a concerted effort, I pulled myself
up, shoving my feet into my shoes and stumbling for the door. But as I passed
the bare wall, something caught my eye, making me stop. There were marks, there,
exactly where I had imagined the poster to be. Tiny holes, painted over, but
still visible. Four tiny holes, positioned into a rectangular shape. Like those
left by drawing pins.

There
had
been a poster there once.

I stared stupidly at them, trying to remember
if I’d noticed them before. I didn’t think so - but I must have done, maybe
subconsciously, my mind squirrelling away the information, using it to weave
another creation - the latest instalment of a brain on the edge.

But why? What was the point? How was a band
poster supposed to help me accept what had happened to Mum?

<><><>

When I finally got downstairs, the place
was full. I looked over at the bar, but Luke didn’t seem to be around.

I spotted Dad at the table near the
fireplace and joined him, trying hard to act normal, though my movements still
seemed slow and laboured. However, Dad seemed preoccupied with his thoughts and
didn’t notice anything different about me at all.

No wonder - I’d been so long that he was on
his third beer by this time. And then he ordered another with our scampi.

This wasn’t good. When Dad drank too much
he tended to get a bit soppy. That in itself was okay; but it inevitably led
him to other things.

To dwelling on the past.

To Mum.

It happened during dessert: a delicious
take on sticky toffee pudding. Sweet, thick and claggy, it consisted of a rich
sponge smothered in sticky, heather-honey sauce, and swimming in custard. Comfort
food at its best.

But then Dad started - his usual speech.

“Melissa,” he sighed, smiling as he watched
me lick the sweet sauce from the back of my spoon. “My little honeybee.” He
reached out to stroke the side of my face. “I remember why we chose that name,”
he continued, “your mum and I. Because from the very moment you were born you
were the
sweetest
baby in the world.”

My mind plunged back in time. I was sitting
at the kitchen island, supposedly doing my homework, while Mum and Dad were
getting supper ready. Dad had just made the same soppy speech about why they
had chosen my name. He wasn’t drunk or anything; he didn’t get drunk then. He
was just happy. “Our little queen bee,” he said, arm round Mum’s shoulder,
proud that together they had created their sweet baby. Even more precious
apparently because for years they’d tried to have a baby but failed, until
they’d resorted to doctors who’d helped the process along with IVF.

Mum looked pointedly towards my
schoolbooks. “But it’s quite obvious,” she said, “that you don’t have the
unswerving dedication of a
worker
bee.”

Then Dad had laughed, teasing her for being
so ‘grown up’ and ‘boringly responsible’, tickling her until she squealed.

“I miss her, Mel.” We were back in the Fox
and Hound, Dad pushing his pudding round with his spoon, unable to eat. “I miss
your mum.”

“Of course you do,” I sighed, sagging under
the weight of his grief.

We fell silent, Dad just sitting there,
letting his spoon rest against the side of his bowl. He’d gone off into a world
of his own. Of
their
own. For of
course he was with Mum. Lost in fond memories.

I looked around me listlessly. No, Luke
still wasn’t about.

For a while I watched the fire, the golden
flames crackling and flickering in the grate. I was warm and sleepy, my head
still fuzzy, my stomach full. Yawning, I let my gaze wander up to the painting
above the fireplace: the hunting scene. Funny how people used to like that sort
of thing. The artist obviously had: he’d painted all the riders in spotless red
coats, the bugle bright and shining, and all the animals glossy and healthy. And
everything was busy and exciting. As if chasing after a defenceless fox was a
brave and noble sport.

I looked over at the stuffed foxes in their
glass cases on the wall. They looked a bit old and bedraggled. Moth-eaten. And
their beady glass eyes stared, cold and hard. So, I wondered, was I meant to
see them as helpless victims - or as pests who needed culling? It was hard to
say.

By now my ears had idly tuned in to a
conversation at the table behind me. A group were discussing a monthly meeting,
which they would be going to on Sunday evening. A spiritualist meeting. I
glanced round at them, two middle-aged couples in anoraks, wondering what a
spiritualist meeting was exactly. I figured it was something religious and had
an image of them standing in a circle, clapping and singing hymns. But I was
wrong. As they said more, it became obvious that they didn’t want to talk to
God
at all, but to their ‘dearly
departed’. The dead. And they discussed this in a very matter-of-fact way as if
it were a perfectly normal thing to do.

I glanced back at Dad, hoping he hadn’t
overheard. Talk of dead loved ones was the last thing he needed right now. But
one look at his face told me he had heard it all.

“So - we’re off to the caves tomorrow,
right?” I said desperately. Even to my ears it came out too loud, too falsely
eager.

But Dad didn’t even hear me.

“Dad.” I squeezed gently on his hand but he
didn’t respond. “Dad!”

“I miss her, Mel,” he repeated. He must
have felt the pressure of my hand on his, because he looked down and started
playing with the gold ring on my middle finger. Mum’s wedding band. “I’m going
to go to that meeting on Sunday,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m going to that meeting.”

“But why?” I couldn’t understand it. Dad
didn’t do things like that.

 
“To talk to your Mum,” he said simply.

 
“But you’ve never believed in all that
rubbish!” I lowered my voice a decibel or two as people round us started to
stare. “In ghosts and stuff.”

“But she wasn’t dead then,” he said.

“But she
is
dead now, Dad,” I whispered, trying to be as gentle but firm as
possible. “Dead and buried. Gone.”

But he didn’t speak.

“Dad?” Once more I tried to hold his hand,
but it was limp again. Lifeless.

“Dad!”

Suddenly he came to, looking round as if he
didn’t know where he was, like someone waking from a deep sleep.

“But you’ve got
me
,” I said. “
I
’m still
here.”

“And looking more like her every day,” he
said softly, smiling at me, the small, absent-minded smile of a father
reassuring his daughter that everything was fine. But of course it wasn’t.

Pushing his pudding bowl to one side, he looked
round for the waitress, wanting another drink.

Immediately I started whining and
complaining: “No, Dad. Please. Let’s just go.”

He looked at me then, and finally noticed
how tired I was.

“Okay then, sweetheart,” he sighed, pushing
his chair back. “Maybe both of us could use an early night.”

He stood up, unsteadily, accidentally
nudging the table, knocking over the saltcellar, which crashed onto a plate, sending
cutlery flying. I was mortified, feeling everyone’s eyes upon us. Judging us. A
father drinking like that in front of his own daughter.

I wanted to shout at them. Scream at them
to mind their own business. His wife was dead for God’s sake! Give him a break!

And that’s when I spotted Luke for the
first time that night. He was helping to clear some tables as the place was so
busy, but had looked up at the noise, taking a step towards us as if to help. But
Dad was okay by now, managing to walk across the room without any further
incident.

Luke looked at me, his brow furrowed with
concern. “You all right?” he mouthed.

I nodded, giving him an embarrassed
half-smile. I mean, I wasn’t angry with
him
;
he wasn’t like the others, whispering behind our backs, enjoying their feeling
of moral superiority. No, with Luke it felt different. Not like judgement, but
like support.

And I felt a warmth inside, just knowing
that someone cared.

The sharp bend.

The black ice.

The car swerving, crashing through the
fence and down the riverbank, overturning and slamming into the water.

“Help me!” My mother’s cry. Her prayer,
begging for release. It echoes on and on.

But her seatbelt is jammed, trapping her,
pinning her down in the rising water.

And so I watch as she drowns.

I stab at the button to open my window, and
then unbuckle myself, pushing off, trying to heave myself out.

But there is a dark shape above me. A
presence. Looming. Blocking my path.

Then suddenly the shadows dissipate, and
there he is: Luke, reaching out his hand to me.