When I Was Invisible (44 page)

‘My mum's freaking out,' she states. ‘Everyone else is calling it a cry for help.'

‘Was it?'
I open my mouth to ask. In the nick of time I hold my tongue – she needs to admit it to me so she can admit it to herself. Me asking won't make her question herself; it will make her give me the answer she thinks I want to hear. If I wait, she might tell me the truth.

I sometimes wonder, after all I know about life now, all that I have prayed about, if it would have been a cry for help if I had taken my mother's sleeping tablets all those years ago. Or would it have been what I truly wanted? I remember very clearly, as though it is something I experienced merely seconds ago, the agony that was the inside of my head. Every thought scraped a fresh line of unmitigated pain across my mind. If I reached up, I would have been able to feel the pulsating pain as it throbbed all rational thoughts out of my head. When I was where Gail is, I know that I was chasing the silence and relief from the agony within. Taking the tablets might not have been a cry for help at all.

‘It wasn't a cry for help,' Gail says. ‘Who would help me? Who would even listen to me, let alone help me? I was so tired. I wanted to sleep for, like, a thousand forevers and wake up to find all the stuff making me tired had gone away. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, I understand. I really do.'

‘Aren't you going to tell me off? Tell me I was being selfish and that it's a mortal sin and all that other nun stuff?'

‘I'm not a nun any more. And even if I was … I couldn't tell you off for something I almost did myself.'

‘You almost killed yourself? Why?'

I sit down on the bed and stare down at the blue waffle blanket she has on her bed, the large strip of folded-over white sheet. It reminds me of the veil I used to wear. ‘My life was rubbish. I shouldn't say that because I truly believe all life is valuable and precious, but at the time, it felt like my life was rubbish. I had stuff going on at home, my parents barely noticed me, my best friend hadn't spoken to me in eighteen months and then she ran away. I felt so alone.'

‘Why didn't you do it?' she asks.

‘You wouldn't believe me if I told you. But the fundamental reason is that I didn't want to die. I wanted to live, and just wanted everything that was awful about my life to go away. It didn't really, but I managed to focus my attention on the new goal I had, which was becoming a nun.'

Gail raises her eyes (ironically) to the heavens and drifts away from me like a cloud blown away by a sudden gust of wind. She thinks I'm trying to convert her, to bring her into the fold that I have left, instead of simply relaying to her a part of my story.

‘You need to tell someone what he's doing to you,' I tell her. ‘Even if you don't think it's that bad because it hasn't gone beyond brushing up against you, you need to tell. He has no right to touch you, to say stuff to you, to show you inappropriate pictures. None of it. He has no right to make you feel like this. It doesn't matter who he is, he has no right to do this.'

Her face twists in pain and terror. ‘What if she doesn't believe me?' Gail says inside a sob. I am being turned inside out, violently eviscerated by the memory of feeling like this. Poor Gail. I remember what it was like. To have the smell of another person all over you mingled in with the scent of your own fear, to be constantly on edge waiting for it to happen, to be terrified that you will be blamed. I hate that another person is going through this. I hate that Gail is going through this. At moments like this, I remember the other reason for leaving. It was there, and I did not want to face it, did not want to examine it in any detail because I would be behaving like Judas again – I would be betraying another love. At moments like this, I question why fragile, lost souls like Gail have to go through what I did, what Nika did, what thousands and millions do. Free will is the answer, of course. Humans have free will, and we often seem to use that freedom to harm others.

It
almost
broke Nika that her parents didn't believe her, what
did
break her, though, was me lying to the police officer and ensuring that he didn't believe her, either. She was relying on me, she had been my rock in so many ways for so many years, and when I was called upon to stand up for her, I behaved like two of Jesus's most beloved apostles on the night before the crucifixion: I became Judas first of all and betrayed her; then I became like Peter and turned away when asked to confirm the truth of what she was saying. I betrayed her; I lied about her. I did it because of free will. My free choice to behave in that way directly harmed another. I had my reasons, but as time has gone on, I know those reasons weren't good enough. Nika's already-nightmarish life became a living hell because of my free will. I know, because Mr Daneaux told me.

‘I can't promise she'll believe you,' I tell Gail. I take her hand. ‘I
will
promise that I will be with you for as long as you need me to be. I will support you, I will speak for you and with you. And I will help you keep on telling until someone believes you.'

‘Really?' she asks, sniffling back the tears.

‘Yes, absolutely, yes. And if you're not ready to tell, I will still support you. But Gail, I think you should tell. If it's the choice between your life and believing that staying silent will protect your mum, your life and safety come first every time.
Every time.
'

The curtain is whipped back suddenly and we're confronted by two perplexed and quite angry-looking people: Gail's mother, who up close really is the older version of her daughter, and her stepfather from the choir, who holds himself like a man who is used to being in charge.

‘Who are you?' Cecile Frost demands. ‘What are you doing with my daughter with the curtain closed?'

I stand up and release Gail's hand. Gail's mother's eyes dart to where my hands were, then she rapidly, critically, checks me over again. She thinks that danger comes from the outside, from perverts who hang around street corners, trying to snatch children off the street. She doesn't realise that perverts can also live in your home, sleep in your bed, make love to your body, stand beside you in hospitals. ‘
I said
, who are you?'

‘My name is Veronica Harper, I was a supply teacher at your daughter's school. You got my number from Gail's school and called me? It's me you've been leaving messages for the last couple of days, saying Gail wanted to see me?'

‘Oh, right, you're the nun, yes?'

‘I'm not a nun any more,'
I almost say but don't. There are some points that need to be laboured upon but not this one and not at this time. ‘That's right.'

‘Why did she want me to call you? I mean, who are you to my daughter?'

The man beside Gail's mother is switching his gaze between Gail and me. He's trying to work out what Gail has told me and if he needs to start damage limitation by painting her character as bad, as troublemaking and untrustworthy, while simultaneously implying someone has been planting false memories into her mind. Do to Gail what Mr Daneaux did to Nika.

‘Because of my former vocation, I think Gail felt able to confide in me some personal things that she might not want to share at the moment.' I leave it to Cecile to infer from what I have said that I am bound by the absolute rule of the confidentiality of the confessional.

‘What personal things?' Cecile's attention flies towards her daughter. She moves to Gail, takes her hand and lowers herself to her level. ‘Are you pregnant?' she asks her daughter. ‘Is that what this is all about? Because I don't care about that, I couldn't stand to lose you over that.'

‘I'm not pregnant,' Gail whispers.

‘Oh, Gaily, what is it then? Because I'm running out of clues here, and you haven't said a word to anyone in nearly three days about why you did it. I mean, have you told this woman why? Because I need to know, too. Whatever it is, I'll still love you; nothing will change how much I love you. You and your brothers, you are the most important things in my life. You can tell me anything,
anything
, I thought you knew that.
Anything, any time.
'

‘Come on, Cecile, give the girl some space. She'll tell you in her own time,' Gail's stepfather says. Panic. What his wife is saying is not what he wants to hear, it is not what he wants Gail to hear. To carry on getting away with what he has been doing, he needs Gail to believe that her mother is like my mother, like my father, like Nika's mother, like Nika's father – unengaged, disinterested, more likely to believe the adult than the child. He needs to show Gail that no one will believe her, no one cares that much about her, that she is isolated and alone.

‘Mr Frost, I think we should leave Gail and her mother alone for a while. It can't be easy for Gail, talking with an audience. How about we step into the corridor for a little while so they can have a chance to speak?'
And I can decide if I'm willing to be arrested for assaulting you or not.

‘No, no, I'll stay. Cecile and Gail both need me to be here.'

‘It's all right, babe, you go,' Cecile replies. ‘I think this woman's right, we've been crowding her. I need to talk to her one on one to find out what's going on. That's what's important right now. You can support me afterwards like you always do.'

He glowers at me, glares menacingly at Gail, tries to tell her to keep her mouth shut. Gail is staring at me and can't see the looks he's giving her. I smile at her, nod my head slightly. This could be her only chance to do this for a while. I was telling the truth – I will be there with her every step of the way if she wants me to be. All she has to do is speak. But I can't do that part for her. And if she isn't ready, she isn't ready and I'll wait until she is.

In the corridor, Gail's stepfather paces up and down, a caged man trying to get out and back into the arena where he can control what lions of truth are set free. ‘That Gail, she's a little minx sometimes,' he says to me. ‘I could throttle her for what she's putting her mother through.' He shakes his head, paces a little more, back and forth, back and forth, in front of me. ‘All she does is cause her mother worry. Out all the time, drinking, smoking, taking drugs, probably. I'm sure she's always running around with boys.' He stops to gauge how well his character-smearing is going, if I'm buying it. All those things are shocking to anyone, but particularly to a nun. He probably thinks I'm bound to turn against her now, to not believe a word that comes out of her slutty little mouth.

In response, I say nothing.

‘I-I-I-I mean, I know I should be more understanding of her situation, growing up without a father figure, but I believe young people need discipline. They need firm boundaries, someone who is going to keep them on a good moral path. Don't you think?'

He begins to pace a bit harder, faster, more frantically when I say nothing at all again. ‘I think it's good that she's got someone like you, a woman of God, to guide her back to a purposeful path. I'm an active member of my local church, too. A lot of people have turned away from the Church in recent years but I think it's an important part of family life. Gail is not that keen on attending with us, but we think it's important. Maybe you can help advise her on the importance of having God in her life. It will help her to cut down on the lying, the drinking and running around. I think it'll really help her to have you around.' He stops, frowns at me approvingly.

I'm not sure why he thinks I am on his side or why I would be bothered by his approval or lack thereof, but he conveys it to me with his nod and expression. I stand very still and watch him. He is valiantly battling with my silence, the uncertainty of not knowing if his wooing exercise is working or not.

Will Gail be able to do it?
I wonder as the man who has created a hell on Earth for a fourteen-year-old girl, paces back and forth in front of me.

It is plain what he is doing: with each word, he is prodding at me to try to find a weak spot, something that will move me from where I am – an unknown quantity in this dynamic – to firmly on his side. He desperately needs me to shout down Gail's mother and Gail when the truth starts to leak out.

‘Not much of a talker, are you?' he says to me.

I shake my head.

His face creases into an understanding smile. He is calming down, reassessing this new piece of information and thinking of a new way to access my support. Next tactic: charm. If someone doesn't talk much, they are more likely to respond to someone calmer, quieter, more self-effacing; I'm more likely to be a support if I like him, see elements of myself in him. He stops the pacing, and leans against the wall opposite, mirroring my pose – legs slightly extended, hands resting between the middle of my lower back and the wall.

Right on cue: ‘Sorry about before,' he says, quietly. ‘All that stuff isn't like me at all. I'm so worried about Gail, and, of course, what all this is doing to her mother. It makes me a little crazy. Sorry.'

I listen to him talk and wonder what will come after the charm, what tactic he'll try next. Unfortunately, I'll never know: Gail's mother is a blur as she shoots past me towards her husband. He only has time to stand a little way away from the wall before she punches him so hard I'm sure I hear her hand or his jaw or both, crack. I'm so taken aback I can't respond. He staggers back against the wall, cowering while he clutches his jaw, confusion and shock on his face. He's shocked because he thought he'd groomed Gail enough not to tell, had groomed her mother enough not to react, had perfected his image enough for no one to believe he is capable of it. Gail's mother moves in on him again, grabbing his shoulders and bringing her knee up between his legs. This time I do react: I grab her away from him, hold her back while he keels over, a tree felled by one swift chop where it counts.