Chapter Eleven
Going Christmas shopping was like willingly throwing herself into a blast furnace: her core temperature growing hotter while an everincreasing pressure seemed to be crushing her limbs. Not feelings she wanted to share with Lenore.
On the drive south, they chatted about all things Yarrabee—small-town life, how the practice was going, the ins and outs of house purchasing—all the while skirting around the information Hannah had shared about her meltdown in Owen’s first session.
It had been a blessing when Lenore dozed off.
Today was supposed to be fun—finding the perfect gift for Nancy and exploring the village an hour south that had become famous for its quaint shops and gourmet delights.
Any talk of trauma, present or past, was not on the agenda.
Hannah followed the car’s navigation system into the car park and Lenore woke with a start when the engine stopped. ‘Oh, we’re here.’
‘Sure are. What would you like to do first, explore or grab a coffee?’
‘It’ll be a tea for me. But I know it’s coffee o’clock for you. Let’s do that.’
Taking her old friend’s arm, Hannah led her to the nearest cafe.
This town too was festooned with Christmas decorations, wreaths made from native flowers hanging on shop doors and giant kangaroo cut-outs in Santa hats bouncing across the rooflines.
Being a Saturday, shoppers were out in force, jostling along the pavement, bags in each hand, diving through one doorway and then the next in a frenzy of retail therapy.
Crossing the foot traffic and bustling Lenore through the jampacked cafe’s door was no mean feat but they managed to find a table for two in a corner.
‘I hope this isn’t going to be too much for you.’ Hannah peered at Lenore’s pale face over the top of the menu. ‘We can head back any time if it gets too tiring.’
‘Don’t you worry. Crowds don’t bother me, nor does Christmas.’ Lenore underscored the not-so-cryptic comment with a carefully raised eyebrow. ‘You on the other hand—’
‘I’m fine. What would you like to drink? The usual?’
‘I might let my hair down and lash out on an Earl Grey. And a piece of that carrot cake I saw on the counter on the way in. At least my appetite is back now that blasted chemo is done with.’
Hannah hovered her phone camera over the QR code in the centre of the table, not quite ignoring the queasy feeling in her stomach. The reminder there’d be no more treatment was more bitter than sweet. ‘Done.’
‘So …’ Lenore tucked her menu back into the cutlery holder.
She had that look on her face, eyes narrowed, nose slightly wrinkled, fixing her victim with that laser stare, the one that signalled she was about to stage an inquisition.
The one she used when launching into a consultation.
‘What exactly did you have planned for Christmas before Nancy and I gate-crashed your party?’
Avoiding Lenore’s questions was like line-dancing in stilettos: a scenario to steer clear of at all costs. ‘Nothing much. Just the usual.’
‘The usual being disappearing into the wilderness completely on your own.’
‘With my phone and a flare, and making sure someone knows where I’m going.’ One comment into the conversation and she was already on the defensive.
‘That’s what you were going to do?’
‘Possibly. I hadn’t set anything in concrete.’
‘You can’t find someone else who likes traipsing around the bush I suppose, a friend who might like to accompany you on your jaunts? At a more suitable time of the year?’
‘You know me, I like doing my own thing.’
‘I do know you, which is exactly why I’m asking.
’ Lenore shook her head, as if she’d come across a particularly vexing clue while doing a cryptic crossword.
‘I worry about you being on your own so much. It’s not healthy.
And even less fun. That old saying “work to live, not live to work” has some merit.
You spend far too much time working and not enough enjoying yourself. ’
‘You’re one to talk.’ In her prime, Lenore had been the classic workaholic. ‘How many PhDs did you do, on top of your client hours and your teaching?’
‘Yes, and I was a fool. Spent far too much time slaving away at my desk and burning the midnight oil.’
‘But your work was important, you helped so many people, clients and your students. You don’t regret any of that, surely?’
Lenore looked wistfully out the window. ‘I do, in a way. It was very satisfying, the study and the clinical hours, and I’m glad I was of use to others.
Helpful. But now …’ She drew in a long breath, her shoulders rising then falling again as she exhaled.
‘Now I wish I’d focused more on life outside of work.
Perhaps found love sooner. Dealt with my demons a little earlier. ’
Demons? As close as they were, Lenore had never shared a lot about her early life, the years before they’d met.
Apart from a couple of vague references to an alcoholic father, she’d said next to nothing.
And prying into people’s personal lives was not in Hannah’s playbook, not unless it was in the office.
She’d learned from experience that in the game of getting-to-know-you, for every question you served, there would be one lobbed straight back.
Their drinks arrived, and Lenore sliced the carrot cake in half, sliding one piece across the table on a napkin.
‘You’ll have to help me out here, it’s enormous.
’ She cut into the cake, licked the icing from her lips and placed the fork on her plate.
‘I may have mentioned to you that my father was a drunk. But what I failed to share was that he was also abusive. To my mother, and to me.’
The few sips of latte Hannah had taken curdled in her stomach. Hand trembling, she settled her cup on the table. If her friend wanted to share this story now, she had a good reason.
‘It was physical abuse, and emotional too, not sexual. No one survives beatings like the ones he gave and comes away unscarred. But, like you, when I finished school, I left home and put it all behind me. My mother had passed away by then. Died when she was forty-five, from cancer of the oesophagus. Undoubtedly stress induced. My father sank into the depths of despair—despite the way he treated her, he claimed he still loved her. All the fire went out of him and he virtually drank himself to death. So, at eighteen, I was on my own. I wanted to know what made people tick. Why they acted the way they did, how they could profess to feel one emotion but behave in a way that was completely opposed to it, which is why I went into psychology.’
‘And why your specialty was working with domestic violence cases.’ It all made sense. Previously, Lenore had only ever said she wanted to help women be the best versions of themselves.
‘We all have crosses to bear. And those crosses are often a heavy load. Too heavy.’ She waved her fork in the air.
‘People like us are experts at compartmentalising. We can lock those damned things in a cupboard and move on like they never happened, but even if we swallow the key and walk away, at some point the weight of that burden is going to smash that door right off its hinges.’ Lenore moved a morsel of cake around on her plate, a cat toying with a mouse.
Her eyes were downcast but the angle of her head indicated she was waiting for a reaction.
‘Not necessarily.’ Giving as concise an answer as possible was the only way to get through the conversation. Eat the cake. Finish the coffee. Go shopping. Even that would be better than this.
‘Oh, Hannah, come on. I’ve seen enough denied trauma in my time to recognise it when it’s right in front of my face.
That’s possibly what made me good at my job—the capacity to empathise.
You have it too. You’ve done a stellar job keeping your heartache under wraps, but sooner or later a case comes along that forces you to deal with your own residual grief. Maybe that case for you is young Owen.’
‘We talked about this. I have it under control.’ The sweetness of the icing suddenly turned rancid on her tongue.
She toyed with the corner of the napkin.
‘Okay, there was a hiccup to begin with but I’ve learned from that.
You said yourself the session went well this week, and we’ve worked out a strategy for next time. Honestly, Lenore, it’s fine.’
‘I agree. It is fine. You’ll complete all the sessions with him and I’m sure he’ll be much better for them, and for your expertise.
What I’m saying is you will not be. You’ll go on burying yourself in your work, disappearing into the woods like a hibernating bear rather than facing the truth.
You need to drag that cross from the cupboard and smash it to smithereens.
Get to it before it crushes you. Before you wake up one day and realise you’re a lonely old woman with nothing to show for her life but a backlist of grateful patients. ’
‘Isn’t that something to be proud of?’
‘Yes. But not at the expense of your own happiness.’
‘I’m perfectly happy.’ She crossed her arms. Uncrossed them again and let them fall into her lap, fingers twitching.
‘When is the last time you went on a date?’
‘A date?’
‘Yes, you know, those hours you spend with a person you’re attracted to. Who is attracted to you.’
‘I dated a few times this year.’
‘A few times?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
Oh God, did they really have to go there?
Presumably so. ‘Town vet. Who happened to be madly in love with someone else but couldn’t admit it to himself.
I played cupid and took myself out of the equation.
It wouldn’t have worked anyway; there wasn’t really any chemistry.
Not like you and Nancy.’ A brilliant tactic, move the discussion in a new direction.
A soft light shone in Lenore’s eyes at the mention of her wife. ‘I waited far too long to find that spark. It doesn’t come along often and when it does, you need to fan the flame and let it burn.’
‘Sounds painful.’ Another genius move: deflect with humour.
‘It can be. But having a life partner is so much better than being lonely.’
‘I’m not lonely.’ And partners weren’t always for life.
Pursed lips and raised eyebrows; Nancy could not be fooled.
‘Okay, so there are times when I might be a little, but …’ There wasn’t really any way to finish the sentence without covering the same ground they’d already trodden. And there was no point getting antsy. Lenore was only trying to help. ‘I appreciate your concern. Really I do, but I’m doing okay.’
‘My point exactly. You’re doing okay. You’re treading water. That’s not enough. Take it from someone who wasted too much time when it came to matters of the heart. Maybe you should try online dating.’
‘Ah, I don’t think so. Do you know how many crazy people are out there?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ Her snort was contagious and they broke into peals of laughter, a great tension diffuser. ‘Although I’m not sure that’s suitable phrasing coming from a psychologist.’
‘As a matter of fact …’ She’d barely given Lenore anything. Maybe offering her a tidbit of something personal would steer her away from heavier matters. ‘I was asked out on a date only yesterday.’
‘It wasn’t that gorgeous creature I saw close your gate and climb into his ute, by any chance? Tall, bearded and looking like he’d just lost his best friend?’
‘You saw him?’
‘Nancy and I were pulling into the drive as he left. I meant to ask you about him but then Nance started rabbiting on about the whales we saw and I became distracted.’ She leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, an earnest look on her face. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Nothing to tell. He’s a farrier. And a Christmas tree farmer. And at least six years younger than me.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s Owen Morgan’s half-brother.’
‘And?’
‘What do you mean? Personal involvement with the relative of a client is unethical.’
‘You could always request he be transferred to another psychologist. Cite a conflict of interest. It’s not like he came to you of his own volition. And I’m sure he doesn’t care who signs off on his papers.’
‘A minute ago you were telling me I should use his case as an opportunity to re-examine my own trauma. Now you want me to offload him so I can screw his brother?’
Lenore’s lips curled into a wicked grin. ‘I never mentioned screwing, but if that’s what’s on your mind …’
Based on the steam pumping through Hannah’s system, there was a good chance her head currently resembled an over-ripe tomato.
‘Oh, don’t go getting all flustered. I know you’re a professional through and through, but sometimes life isn’t black and white. If you like this fellow, maybe you should find a way around the problem. Before you spontaneously combust!’
‘And on that note, I think it’s time to go shopping.’
‘I suppose so, but don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook.’ ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
Out of their chairs and back into the mayhem, the heat of the day and the chaos of the street went some way to diluting the awkwardness of the cafe conversation, but as they entered one shop and then another, Lenore oohing and ahhing over a hand-thrown pottery bowl or a vintage brooch, snatches of it lingered.
Work to live, not live to work … You need to drag that cross from the cupboard and smash it to pieces … It doesn’t come along often …
An ache that was surely deeper than the ocean swelled in her gut, rising with the dreaded inevitability of a tsunami. And with it the knowledge that everything Lenore had said was true. The only lie uttered had been her own: I’m not lonely .
The only person she was fooling was herself.