Chapter 28
Now
28.
Creamy candles crowd the Georgian mantelpiece, and whale song plays through speakers set high on the claret walls. In the fireplace is a big earthenware vase full of budding branches. They must be top-of-the-line in faux flora, because I don’t know how I can tell they aren’t real. But I know.
Rain, my massage therapist, scoops something from a pot and warms it in her hands. “This is a body butter we make on-site, with calendula, aloe vera, and rosehip oil.”
“Lovely,” I say. But my leg jerks when she touches my calf.
“You’re very tense,” she murmurs.
“I’m working on that.” I keep my voice sweet, but scowl through the face hole in the massage table. After I burst into Dr. Beaufort’s room earlier and interrupted her break, she insisted I get a relaxation treatment. “It takes time to build the trust you need to be completely honest,” she said.
True. Had I been completely honest in the first session, she would have prescribed antipsychotics without a second’s hesitation. I have to build up to it, to make my case. But it’s taking too long. I can’t wait until tomorrow. I wonder if I can tell the front desk that it’s an emergency, demand her number.
“Try taking deep breaths,” says Rain as her bony digits poke my flesh.
“OK,” I say, but I can only take in little sips of air. This room was designed to be womb-like, but instead of feeling safe, I feel horribly vulnerable, face down and clad only in towels. I don’t even know where my shoes are.
“Try to put your shoes out of your mind,” says Rain, and I realize I’ve spoken aloud.
“I just need to know where they are.”
“Breathe,” she murmurs. Pain stabs my calf, and my leg jerks again. Rain steps back. I think I kicked her by accident.
“Is this supposed to hurt?” I ask.
“I’m barely touching you,” she says.
“This isn’t working.” I clutch my towels around me and burst out of the room, then rush along the corridor to Dr. Beaufort’s office. I pound on the door. No answer, and it’s locked. A blast of cold air comes from the lobby, raising goose bumps on my arms and legs, and I fling myself towards it. Dr. Beaufort is heading out the front door, bag over her shoulder, clad in a sensible winter coat, a wearable duvet that makes no concession to style.
“Charlotte. Oh dear.” She takes in the towel I’m holding around my naked body, but I’m past caring about such things. She looks around for help. Rain pants up and drapes a fluffy robe over my shoulders.
“You told me to relax,” I babble, clutching Dr. Beaufort’s sleeve. “But I can’t relax when I’m so worried about Stella. Would you expect someone to relax when their baby is trapped under a car? But I still tried. Ask Rain.” I turn around, and Rain is edging away, but she doesn’t contradict me. “Now you have to make the effort to hear me out,” I tell Dr. Beaufort.
“I need to send a message first.” She unlocks her room for me, and I sink onto the sofa. I’m sure she’s texting her partner to tell them she’ll be late. I feel a pang as I imagine what she’s writing: Don’t forget Eddie’s got karate tonight. Save me some spag bol! And then smiley face, spaghetti with hovering fork, heart, heart, heart. Does she know how lucky she is to have a normal family life?
Finally, she trudges in, closes the door, and sits down.
“You’re right,” I say. “I need to tell you the whole story. But how do I know if I can trust you?”
She settles into her chair. Her face is kind, truthful. “I want to tell you about something that happened to me. My mother came back once, after she died.”
“Metaphorically,” I say. I brace myself for some theory that we all have to exorcise the spirits of our mothers as we grow into our true selves.
Dr. Beaufort shakes her head. “I saw her, at the foot of my bed. She was as real as you or me.”
I’m astounded. Maybe supernatural experiences are more common than I realized, but no one ever talks about them, for the same reason I’m having trouble telling Dr. Beaufort about mine. “In fact,” she continues, “I know several people who have had vivid encounters with the dead. I don’t leap to the conclusion that they have a mental illness.”
I gape at her. Maybe it is possible, after all, to tell her and have her believe me. She smiles at me, and I feel myself relax a little. I bet that when her children have nightmares, she brings warm milk with honey and tells them the tale of how they were born until they fall back asleep.
“What if the spirit who returns isn’t your mother?” I ask, just to be sure. “What if it’s someone who you thought was more of a peripheral figure in your life?”
“I’m here to listen, not to judge,” she says, and I launch into the hardest part of the story.