The Dare, page 7
I start to wee, holding the end of the stick in the flow, then I balance it on top of the roll of toilet paper on the floor and rest my head in my hands, close my eyes and start to count. Sixty seconds. A hundred and twenty. A hundred and eighty.
I open my eyes and, even before I’ve picked it up, the two pink lines are clearly visible. The numbness in my legs has now spread to the rest of my body. It’s affected my mind, too. I can’t seem to think straight – there’s just this eerie blankness. I carry the piece of plastic out into the hallway, holding it as if it’s a delicate piece of glass or china, something that must be handled with the greatest of care. I take it into the kitchen and switch the main light on, the one I think is too bright, too clinical, but which right now is exactly what I need.
I rest the stick on the counter and stare at it for far too long. One of the lines is fainter than the other, but it’s definitely there and, according to the instructions, that’s a positive result.
A positive result. I take a few deep breaths. Maybe the way I’ve been feeling lately isn’t about Alice at all. Maybe it’s all been hormonal. In fact, now I come to think of it, that’s a far more likely explanation than the universe having it in for me.
I pick the stick up and take it over to the little sofa by the window, try to focus on what this means. It’s unplanned and scary and life-changing, but I can’t deny this faint pulse of excitement that’s getting stronger by the second. And maybe it’s better this way. We could have waited years before deciding whether to try for a baby and then not been able to get pregnant. Or we could have worried ourselves sick about all the risks and ended up talking ourselves out of it altogether.
My scalp tingles again, just like it did when I was in the study. Except this time Alice isn’t behind me, reading about her death, she’s right beside me, watching me stare at the pink lines. My future. The one we used to talk about. The one Alice will never have.
17
Then: After
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
‘Tell me about the nightmare, Lizzie. The one you keep having.’
Angela Harris’s voice is low and soothing, but something about her worries me. I have the sense that she already knows what happens when I fall asleep, that she, too, can see the pictures in my head and that, somehow or other, she will make me speak about them. And then she won’t believe that it’s a dream. She’ll think it’s what really happened. And maybe it is. Maybe it really is what happened.
It’s been less than two weeks since Alice died, and I don’t want to talk to a counsellor, but Mum and Dad said I have to. They said it’s part of the ‘healing process’. I’ve already spoken to a police psychologist. I’ve had enough of all these questions.
‘Can you describe how the nightmare starts?’
She won’t give up. I know that much.
‘We’ve just gone through the kissing gate and we’re heading for the gap in the hedge.’
She gives an encouraging nod. I can’t explain to her how strange the dream is. Because on the actual walk it used to take us ages to find the right gap. Even though we’d done it loads of times, that first part was always the trickiest, because the field was so huge and the hedge so long. It always looked different to how we remembered it the time before, depending on the length of time between each walk, the weather on the day, and what work the farmer had been doing in the field.
‘What else can you remember?’
My chest flutters. Is she still talking about the dream? How do I know that all that stuff she said about confidentiality and me being able to say anything at all is true? How do I know she’s not feeding everything I say straight back to the police? This could be some kind of trick, getting me to talk about my nightmare and then cleverly introducing new questions about the actual day. Because nobody seems to believe I can’t remember anything. Even Mum and Dad keep asking me questions, and they know I can’t remember what happens before a big seizure.
‘The scarecrow is much nearer,’ I say.
She raises her left eyebrow. ‘Much nearer than …?’
‘Much nearer than it should be.’ I reach for a tissue and pretend to blow my nose. ‘Nearer than it is in real life,’ I add, to make her realize that we’re still talking about the nightmare here and nothing else.
‘Dreams are funny like that, aren’t they?’ she says. ‘Familiar but strange at the same time.’
‘Yes.’
‘How does the scarecrow make you feel, Lizzie?’
‘Frightened. It looks like …’
My eyes skate away from Angela Harris’s face and land on the painting behind her. The one of the snow-capped mountains.
‘Alice always said it looked like a dead man on a stick.’
My eyes are now glued to the painting. I don’t like speaking of Alice in the past tense. At least in the dream, she’s still alive.
‘In the dream, it really is a dead man. But Alice doesn’t believe me.’
If I tell her the truth, that the scarecrow of my dreams looks like Alice’s corpse with all the smashed bits of her body stitched back together, she’ll think I’m some kind of psycho.
‘Then what happens?’
‘Then suddenly we’re at the crossing and I’m waking up and I see …’ I shut my eyes, then open them again. ‘Then I wake up and I’m screaming and Mum and Dad come in.’
Angela Harris’s eyes flick to the clock on the wall. She shifts position in her chair and closes her notepad with a decisive little snap, which I’m hoping is a signal that the session is about to end.
When I’m back in the car with Mum and we’re driving home, I think about how the nightmare really ends, with the two of us fighting. Except it’s me who’s doing all the pushing and hitting. And then the train is bearing down on us and it’s too late to get out of the way. But I never feel the impact. I always wake up in time.
18
Now
It’s Monday morning and the bus is rammed. I rub a little viewing circle in the steamed-up window. All the gorgeous spring weather we’ve been having has disappeared overnight and left in its place nothing but steady rainfall and a sky the colour of wet slate.
The left knee of the woman sitting next to me presses painfully up against my leg. Packed in amongst all these bodies, I feel hemmed in. Trapped.
It’s a good job I’ve registered at a different GP practice. I’d hate to bump into Ross today and see his concerned eyebrows shoot up. I’m not ready to tell him yet, not till I’ve processed the news myself. And now I know who else works there …
I think of Ross in close proximity to Catherine Dawson and my throat constricts. Seeing her in my home was like something long buried breaking up through layers of soil. A disturbing image flashes into my mind: skeletal fingers pushing clods of earth aside like bulb shoots reaching for the light. I screw my eyes tight shut and try to think of something else.
Half an hour later and Dr Ahmed, a softly spoken woman who’s probably in her early forties, comes into the waiting room and calls for me, hesitating slightly over my surname but making a passable attempt. I’ve been called a lot worse than Lizzie Molly-Noo. Luckily, I’ll be a Murray when we get married. Lizzie Murray. That’s much simpler. I even get to keep the same initials.
I follow her into her room and sit down. For some reason I can’t tell her I think I’m pregnant, so I explain that I’m considering starting a family and ask her what advice she can give me regarding my epilepsy.
‘Your AED dosage seems to be working well for you if you’re two years seizure free,’ she says, ‘and this medication isn’t associated with birth defects, so there really shouldn’t be too many problems. I’d like to do an EEG and an MRI scan first, though. Are you happy for me to do a referral?’
‘Yes.’
She taps away at her keyboard.
‘Your current medication is clearly working well for you. Although pregnancy itself causes a good deal of stress on the body: nausea, tiredness, et cetera. You’d need to monitor your health quite closely to avoid any triggers.’
I try to swallow, but my mouth’s too dry. Eventually, I manage to ask a question.
‘Would my AEDs affect the baby’s development?’
‘Not these particular ones, although there’s always a slight risk.’
I nod. I know she has to tell me all this and, of course, I expected it.
‘You don’t have to rush to make any decisions. Why don’t you go home and discuss it with your partner, then come back and see me when you’re ready?’
‘What would happen if I was already pregnant?’ I ask her, and immediately feel like an irresponsible teenager.
Dr Ahmed’s dark, almond-shaped eyes flicker. She rests her hands in her lap and asks if that’s a possibility.
My voice, when it comes, is barely audible. ‘Yes.’
‘How late are you?’
I look somewhere beyond her right shoulder. ‘About a week, I think.’
‘Have you done a test yet?’
Now I really do feel like a fool. ‘Yes, but the second line was quite faint.’
Dr Ahmed smiles. ‘Shop-bought kits are very accurate these days. It’s rare to get a false positive. I’ll arrange for you to see the community midwife in the first instance.’
She turns to her screen and starts tapping away at the keyboard. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Most women with epilepsy go on to have perfectly normal pregnancies and healthy babies.’
That’s right. I am a woman with epilepsy. Not an epileptic.
On the bus home, my bag stuffed with leaflets and with Dr Ahmed’s reassuring words still echoing in my ears, fear and excitement surge through me in equal measures. The timing stinks. All my plans about going to university will have to be put on hold, at least for a year or so, and God knows what Ross and my parents will say.
But the decision has been taken out of our hands now. And Dr Ahmed says they’ll monitor me really closely, that I’ll be well taken care of.
I watch the same streets go by through the fogged windows, but now everything looks different, more vivid and meaningful. As if I’m seeing it with brand-new eyes.
19
Ross stares at me in astonishment.
‘What do you mean, you’re pregnant? Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I did one of those predictor tests.’
His forehead creases into a frown. ‘But … but how could this happen?’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘And you a GP,’ I say, my voice light and teasing, my heart hammering in my chest. You’d think it would be easy having this conversation with the man you love, but it isn’t. For some ludicrous reason, I feel like I’ve tricked him into something he doesn’t want, even though he was the one who didn’t wear a condom, who promised me he’d be careful.
He runs his hands through his hair. ‘Fucking hell.’
My stomach plummets. Coming home on the bus today, I was scared, but happy. I’d convinced myself that this was a good thing. A good thing for both of us. But Ross doesn’t want this baby. That much is clear.
Finally, he notices the expression on my face. ‘Oh, darling, I didn’t mean …’
He comes round to my side of the bed and perches on the edge, takes my hands in his. ‘I was just thinking about what it all means, in terms of your meds and everything.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve already discussed that with Dr Ahmed.’
He looks surprised. Hurt. ‘You’ve been to the doctor’s already?’
‘Yes, I wanted to be sure before telling you.’
Only now I realize that that was a mistake. I should have told him straightaway. After all, we’re in this together. At least, I thought we were.
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Of course I’m pleased. Oh, Lizzie, sweetheart, I’m sorry. It’s just that … I was so sure I’d pulled out in time.’ He laughs then. A short, incredulous laugh that gives me hope. ‘I just didn’t expect this to happen so soon.’
‘You’re not the only one who’s surprised. It’s come as a bit of a shock to me, too.’
He gathers me up in his arms and squeezes me tight. He kisses the top of my head and that horrible dead feeling in my chest, the crushing disappointment of the last few minutes, disappears.
‘Bloody hell, Lizzie,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘When’s it due?’
‘Dr Ahmed said the tenth of December.’
‘A baby,’ he says at last, his voice high with emotion. ‘We’re going to have a baby.’
I laugh through my tears. ‘I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’
The first thing I see when I open the front door the next morning is a large bouquet of flowers and a pair of black-trousered legs sticking out from underneath. The bouquet moves to one side to reveal the chubby, pink-cheeked face of the delivery man.
‘Someone’s a lucky lady,’ he says. ‘Lizzie Molly-Nex? Is that you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘How lovely. Thank you.’
I close the door and take the bouquet into the kitchen, beaming like an idiot. I’ve been wondering if he might do this.
I peel the little white envelope off the front of the cellophane and rip it open, staring at the words, confused.
To Lizzie,
So sorry I gave you a shock at your party. Thank you so much for letting me stay. Please forgive me. For everything.
Love, Catherine xx
I read the card again, still reeling with disappointment that they’re not from Ross. Damn Catherine Dawson and her new personality. How dare she send flowers and thank-you notes! How dare she ask for forgiveness! Isn’t it enough that I have to cope with the knowledge that she’s working with my fiancé? Isn’t it enough that she ruined our housewarming party?
Ross finds the flowers stuffed into the kitchen bin when he comes home from work. I never got round to putting them outside in the black wheelie bin, like I’d planned.
Later, when we’re sitting side by side on the sofa, the TV blathering away, he broaches the subject, as I knew he would.
‘You’re probably going to bite my head off for saying this, but …’ He gives me a worried glance. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a tad unreasonable?’
I don’t say anything.
‘I mean, it was twelve years ago. Can’t you just forgive her and move on?’
‘No. And I don’t want her sending me any sodding flowers.’
Ross sighs. ‘All this negativity isn’t good for you, especially now you’re pregnant. And I have to work with her, remember?’
My fingers clench into the palms of my hands. ‘I can’t bring myself to be friendly with her.’
‘You don’t have to be friendly with her. You just have to be civil. There’s a difference.’
He puts his arms round me and pulls me towards him.
‘Have you any idea what it was like for me back then?’ I say. ‘To have to listen to all those whispers behind my back? Whispers I’m certain she started.’
Ross sighs again. ‘Kids can be cruel at that age,’ he says. ‘Vicious little bastards, some of them.’ He puts his hand on my tummy. ‘Ours will be perfect, of course.’
I cover my face with my hands. ‘If it weren’t for me starting that stupid argument—’
Shit. Shit! My words expand in the room, filling every available space. I can’t believe I said that out loud. Nobody but me knows about the argument. Nobody.
‘Hey,’ he says, grasping my shoulders and looking deep into my eyes. ‘You don’t really blame yourself for Alice’s death, do you? You mustn’t do that, Lizzie. It wasn’t your fault.’
I swallow hard. He doesn’t seem to have picked up on the argument thing, thank God.
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘But if I hadn’t had a seizure, I could have stopped her crossing the line. I could have saved her life.’
He squeezes me tight. ‘Have you considered speaking to someone?’
‘You mean a therapist?’
He nods.
‘I told you, I saw a therapist after Alice died. I can’t keep raking over the past, Ross. It’s too much.’
‘I don’t mean about the past. I mean about the present. Talk to someone about how Catherine coming back makes you feel.’ He looks at me from under his eyebrows. ‘Maybe a counsellor could help you work through your emotions,’ he says. ‘What if you need to confront your feelings about her if you’re ever going to move forwards?’
‘You’re sounding like a counsellor yourself.’
‘Well, I am a GP.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Will you think about it?’
‘Okay.’
But I won’t. I can’t. Because it isn’t just about Catherine Dawson. It’s about me. And the thing in my head that won’t go away. The thing I can’t allow myself to think about.
I lean against Ross’s chest and breathe in his clean, male scent. I don’t want these pictures, but still they come, spooling out like a scary film I’m compelled to watch. It isn’t true. It can’t be. Everything I told the police and my parents and Angela Harris is true. I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember.
20
Then: After
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
It’s my second session with Angela Harris. Today, she is wearing brown velvet trousers and a green blouse. Her hair is tied back into a loose ponytail and she is writing something in her notebook with a scratchy pen – something about me.
I don’t like that. Don’t like the fact that she gets to write things down – things I’ve said, or things she thinks of when I tell her something – and I don’t get to see them. I don’t like the fact that she can keep secrets from me, but that I’m expected to tell her all of mine. It doesn’t seem fair.
Alice had a secret she wasn’t telling me, too.
Angela Harris uncrosses her legs, then re-crosses them on the other side. She’s wearing the sort of shoes I used to wear when I was about seven. Flat with a T-bar and a little pattern over the toes made with holes. ‘What else has been happening since we last spoke?’ she says.
