Too Close For Comfort (34 page)

‘I know, Max. I can see you’re very sad she’s not here. It
is
very sad.’

His lip began to quiver, his face crumbling. Then he suddenly stood, the movement sudden, almost violent. ‘Mummy. Not you! You’re just a stinky lady who smells like a poo.’

For a paranoid moment I wondered if my fetid pores were leaking alcohol, but looking at him, I could see that the insult wasn’t about me. Quite the opposite: it was about who I
wasn’t. Who wasn’t ever going to come back and plant a Marilyn kiss on his warm bedtime skin ever again. I took a pause to consider my next move. I stood up too. I pulled at the fabric
of the white shirt I’d hastily thrown on, gave it a theatrical sniff as I smiled at him. I’d told him it was his session: I was going to let him lead the way and see where he took us.
Hopefully not head first down a toilet.

‘Hmm, I don’t
think
I smell like a poo.’

Max was emphatic. ‘You do. You do smell like one.’

Anyone who’d walked in on our session right at that second would have been perfectly entitled to believe that therapy was the most pointless pile of magic beans known to man. I kept going,
feeling my way.

‘So why do you think I smell like a poo?’

‘Because . . .’ He was red in the face now, almost bursting out of his body with emotion. ‘Because you’re naughty. You ask too many things. When you’re naughty you
don’t get treats.’

‘And when do you get treats?’

‘When you’re good, stupid.’

‘And what’s being good? When are you good?’

It was the quick fire round. Max’s eyes gleamed with determination behind his glasses.

‘When you do exactly what your mummy tells you.’ Now she was gone – his compass, his everything – he had no way to navigate the world. And here I was, giving him a whole
new bunch of rules which came with a hefty price tag: that unbearable absence. ‘When you zip up.’ Again, that motion, his fingers slashing an imaginary zip across his face. What was
locked up behind there?

‘And what about when you’re not good? Then what happens?’

His legs buckled. He sat back down on the beanbag, energy draining away.

His answer, when it came, had the bleak finality of a prisoner walking the corridors towards the electric chair. ‘Then you get in bad trouble.’

‘OK,’ I said, dropping to the floor, and kneeling on the scratchy carpet a foot or so away from him. ‘Max, what happens when you get in bad trouble?’

‘I never did,’ he said, voice small, head low. ‘Not before. I was quiet as a grey mouse.’

Something was pulsing in the energy between us, something I couldn’t yet identify. I went with the one piece I was sure of.

‘Max,’ I said, pausing until his eyes rolled upwards towards me. ‘I want you to know that what happened to your mummy has got nothing to do with you. It’s a very, very
sad thing. You couldn’t have done anything to stop it. Sometimes very unfair things happen in life which make us sad and angry, and we have to have lots of people to love us and talk to us.
And lots of people do love you. Shall we make a list?’

Max nodded. ‘Daddy,’ he said. ‘And Jessica?’

‘She’s your sister?’ I asked.

‘Half-sister,’ he said firmly. ‘My mummy is not her mummy.’

Had she taught him to be emphatic about that?

‘Who else?’

‘Jack. He’s my half-brother. And Lisa. She’s their mummy, not my stepmother.’ This family tree was like his own complex mathematical equation. ‘And Mr Grieve. When
he came to see me and Mummy she said I could call him Peter.’

The hairs on my arms started to bristle.

‘So did he come and visit?’

He nodded. ‘The other children didn’t know. They wouldn’t have played with me.’

‘So it was a secret? Did you keep it zipped up?’ I asked, aping his zipping motion.

‘Yes. He came to see me when I was in the hospital too.’ He emitted a manic laugh, the cry of an insincere hyena. ‘Not really!’

Hospital again. I thought of that grim image from last night, Lysette defiantly snorting up her line, fronds of ivy lacing the picture-perfect building behind her. Had Sarah overdosed in
Kimberley’s show home? Was that what her garbled confession was straining towards? But surely if she’d been hospitalised it would have come out by now?

‘You talked about hospital last time too, didn’t you?’

His eyes slid away, back to Hungry Hippos. He idly flicked at the blue lever.

‘When I was four we lived in Texas. I had a horse.’

It was patently Woody-related nonsense. I glanced up at the clock, angry with myself: time had run away with me, and I really wanted a moment to close this properly. Luckily there was no sign as
yet of Joshua’s pinched face peering through the classroom window.

‘You’re good at telling the time, aren’t you?’ I said, pointing at the classroom clock, with its thick black hands. Max nodded.

‘Once I said Peter, not Mr Grieve, but only the mummy who was helping with my reading heard me.’

Perhaps Sarah wasn’t the only cataclysmic loss he’d experienced. Joshua had simply told him that Mr Grieve wouldn’t be there next term, keen to protect him from any more
horrors, but if his teacher meant more to him than anyone knew, he might be stuck trying to make sense of another trauma – a secret one this time. I looked down at his bent head, his wisps of
hair. I wanted so much to help him, but there was no time to excavate what it was he was saying. And if I left it half cooked, it would make my own disappearance even more brutal.

‘Max, do you remember I told you that I don’t live here? That we were only going to see each other two times?’ He nodded solemnly. ‘So we have to say a forever goodbye
today.’

‘OK,’ he said, eyes drifting out of the window.

‘I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you. Thank you for talking to me. There are other people who do what I do – people you can play with and talk about your mummy who
aren’t your family – if you liked it.’

‘OK,’ he said again, the word snapping out as hard and abrupt as the jaws of the plastic hippos. I hoped I hadn’t already done more harm than good, started something I
couldn’t finish. At least I could tell Joshua that he’d responded, that he seemed to have extracted some comfort and there would be merit in finding someone who could be an ongoing
presence for him. I looked to the door: still no sign of his dad.

‘Shall we find your stuff?’ I said. He’d brought in a backpack, Woody popping out of the top along with a matching Woody water bottle, loved into scuffed oblivion. He went to
find it, then crossed to the bookshelf. He pulled out
The Gruffalo
, slipping it into the bag.

‘Max?’ I said. ‘That’s not yours, is it? Do you remember what we said about not taking things away? If you leave it here, you’ll be able to see it when you come
back to school.’

He turned towards me, expression mutinous.

‘It is mine.’

When children do this, it’s not naughtiness – it’s about wanting to take away a piece of the work into a chaotic outside world. But keeping the boundaries, saying no, is part
of what keeps them feeling safe. I smiled at him, let him know I wasn’t angry.

‘Do you have your own, special copy of
The Gruffalo
at home you can read?’

‘I want this one.’

The one we’d read from together.

‘I understand that, Max, but you can’t take it home. It’s for all the children to enjoy. You, as well. And I bet you have your own copy that you get to decide if people can
read.’

He clutched his backpack to his torso like I was about to rugby tackle him, his face lit up by his fury.

‘It’s my book,’ he yelled. ‘I’m taking it. You can’t stop me.’

I kept my voice deliberately calm. ‘Max, I know you want it . . .’

‘Fuck and poo,’ he shouted, just as the door swung open. There was Lisa, a look of horror on her face, rooted to the spot – it was probably my own embarrassment looking for a
target, but I couldn’t help thinking her exaggerated expression had a whiff of bad am-dram about it. ‘Wee and fart!’ added Max for good measure, too consumed by rage to even
notice her. Unlike me, Lisa was immaculate, even if her tailored navy trousers lacked London chic. Her severe bob barely moved as her head swivelled between us. I hated how apologetic the smile I
flung at her was. How much of last night’s shameful display had reached her gold-studded ears?

‘Max, Lisa’s here to get you now. Let’s put the book back on the shelf, and say goodbye to each other.’

Max stilled, his body rigid. He turned to look at her, little warmth in his face.

‘Max!’ said Lisa, her face full of righteous purpose. ‘Don’t be such a rude little boy. You know better than that.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said, trying to communicate with my eyes that she didn’t need to shame him. ‘We’ve been blowing off some steam today – we said it was OK to
swear inside the session. I’ll give Dad a call and tell him all about it.’

I smiled at Max again, and he robotically headed for the bookshelf, putting
The Gruffalo
back where he’d found it. He seemed to pack away all his rage with it,
his face blank. I knelt down to his level, made sure I communicated I wasn’t angry in my goodbye, but my words barely seemed to register. Where had he gone? I knew in that moment how hard it
would be to stop worrying about him.

I was right too. And every shred of that worry would turn out to be justified.

Once Max and Lisa had left, I sank back into the rocky embrace of the beanbag, and took a deep pull from my bottle of water. Therapy clients don’t work like break-ups:
there’s no formula for length of relationship versus length of time you feel their loss. I looked over to my handbag, discreetly stowed under a squat table. Now I could retrieve it, I
didn’t much want to. At least for now I could imagine that Patrick had left a message full of forgiveness and understanding. Called me ‘darling’ with that particular gentle lilt
that growing up on the mean streets of Holloway with Irish parents had injected into his speech. I crossed to it slowly, bargaining with each tread. I stared disbelievingly at the blank screen,
willing it to be different, tears rolling down my cheeks unbidden. I wanted to blame Jim – try him for ruining my life for a second time – but I knew that I was my own worst enemy.

There was no warning knock. As the creaky door swung wide, I wiped frantically at my eyes, regretting my decision to try and make my hungover self pass for human with an excess of eye
make-up.

Lisa’s face was all curiosity. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?’

‘No, no,’ I said. I’d stopped my tears, but I knew there was nothing to be done about my giveaway panda eyes. ‘I’m fine. Where’s Max?’

She stood in the doorway, ramrod straight, her car key swinging from her middle finger.

‘Oh, he’s all strapped in just outside, eyes glued to his iPad. I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of thoughts about modern children and screen time!’ I gave her a smile
that definitely didn’t reach my smudgy eyes: I could really do without this. ‘I should get back, but – I couldn’t help but be concerned . . .’

She paused significantly. Modern children weren’t the problem here: it was modern parents. She wasn’t Max’s mum – not even his stepmum, as he’d made very clear
– but she was in a kind of loco parentis role. How much should I share? I stood up, took a deep breath.

‘Max is having a lot of feelings right now . . . being able to discharge his justified rage is really important. And discharging on me is a pretty safe place to do it. It’s possible
he also had some feelings about the fact I was leaving him too.’

Lisa gave a dry titter. ‘With respect, he barely knows you.’

‘It’s not about me, it’s about what I represent. I don’t want to blind you with science,’ I so did, ‘but it’s something we call transference. He’s
gone through a major loss. Other losses, however small, will echo off that. I’m a woman, not so different in age from his mum, which might make it more acute.’

Lisa’s gaze was cold and steady.

‘Which brings me to my – well, our – other worry. Could this really have been a good idea? If anything, he’s seemed more distressed since he’s had these
appointments, even the impromptu one in Lysette’s garden. Lots of tears, lots of disobedience and back chat. Joshua . . .’ She paused, her face shifting, less mask-like now. ‘You
must understand, he’s experiencing the most excruciating pressure. It will get better – I know him well enough to know he’ll come out the other side – but right now, dealing
with this rage is almost more than he can cope with.’

I was struggling to keep the exasperation out of my face. Why do people expect children to soak up trauma like obedient little sponges? When we’d met at The Crumpet, Joshua had been
taciturn and distant, but he had seemed to have a handle on all of this.

‘I do appreciate that’s hard, but in my experience it’s much better in the long run if children
do
act up. Buried trauma is deeply destructive, not
just for them, but for the whole family. I can talk in more depth to Joshua if he’d find that helpful.’

I thought the patent truth of it might pacify her, but I saw her dark brown eyes flash, her chin rise imperceptibly.

‘Well, thank you, Mia,’ she said, imperious. She gripped hold of her key more tightly, the metal tip pointing towards me. It was as if I was a serf, requiring swift dismissal.
‘And I’m sorry to ambush you at what’s obviously a very difficult time for you too.’ She let her gaze linger on my smudgy, ravaged face and I unconsciously raised a hand to
wipe at it. ‘We’ll be on our way. And of course, this is goodbye – I’m sure after all of this you’ll be itching to get back to the big city!’

It was the thing I wanted most, and the thing I wanted least, all at the same time. They’re the most disturbing moments of all: those snatches of time where none of the threads inside of
you knit into a whole.

*

The sun had lost that sporadic intensity it had in early summer, replaced with that deceptive incarnation which heralds the arrival of autumn. It still looked like summer, but
there was an underlying coldness that pinched you with its sly, chilly fingers when you least expected it.