Chapter 22 #2
After my walk with Mihi and Shep, I sit myself down at the desk in the bedroom to modify my bullet journal.
Instead of confessing the truth to Nate—that I need my pens to continue filling the spreads and charts—I decide to use the high-quality fine liners I found in a drawer.
I’ll journal in greyscale rather than my usual pastels and jewel tones.
Normally, I do monthly spreads with an accompanying theme; this time, I won’t wait until the month is out to start a new chapter.
The break will mark the end of my life with Nick in Dunedin, and the beginning of my life here.
I’m sure that, once he notices, Nate will take issue.
But I think of Mihi as I perfect my designs on scrap paper.
I need to set lines down and get behind them.
I get started, filling in the last few days with patterns rather than colours.
Spirals for orange. Hearts for turquoise.
Hashes for purple. Squiggles for blue. Tiny dots for green.
And wee stars for yellow. I’m using the edge of a business card to trace a new pain tracker when I hear Shep’s distant barks from outside.
I snap the journal closed, put the pens away in their box, and take the lot with me.
I’m just making my way up the curved corridor when I walk right into Nate.
“Whoa, love,” he says, his hands coming down on my shoulders. He peers into my eyes. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say, looking past him, eager to greet Eileen. It’s been just the two of us in the house, and I want to see how the space feels with someone else in it. “Where’s the doctor?”
“I told her to wait in the lounge.” He steps close, backing me into a small alcove beneath a high window, one of a few that line the curving hallways for air circulation. “How was your walk with Mihi?”
“Fine.” I try to push past him.
“What’s that in your hand, Grace?”
I show him the journal and pens, then gesture forward. “I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“You’ve been journalling this morning?”
I finally meet his eyes. They’re blank. Dark. Keeping our negotiation last night in mind, I close my lips, refusing to answer. He’s already trying to infringe on my brand new lines, as Mihi might put it. It’s my journal and it’s private.
Leaning around Nate, I project my voice down the corridor. “Hi Eileen! I’ll just be a second.” A reply drifts back, a gentle inquiry, and I raise my brows at Nate. “I guess I better go.”
His jaw works for a moment then he tilts his head, takes my hand, and pulls me behind him.
I try to work myself free but he’s moving fast up the hallway.
We’re in the lounge a couple of seconds later.
Nate releases me before I can pull away, covering any awkwardness by ushering me towards the couch, where Eileen is waiting.
She stands up, her hand outstretched, and it takes me a moment to gather the presence of mind to offer my own for a handshake.
Glancing at Nate, I try to tell him silently that I do not appreciate his practically dragging me in here.
But he’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s giving Eileen an almost boyish grin.
“Here’s Grace, in the flesh and ready for your help.”
My frustration heightens as Nate settles himself into an armchair by the window, clearly intending to observe my appointment. I focus on Eileen. She’s shorter than I would have expected, her silver hair tied back in a messy bun. Her handshake is both firm and reassuring.
“Well, it’s good to meet you properly, Grace,” she says. Her eyes are even more discerning in person than through a computer screen. I get the sense that she collects truths the way I collect sea glass.
“Likewise,” I say, settling myself on the couch. There are a few medical items on the coffee table, which I don’t look at too closely. Bloodwork is nothing new, but I’m certainly not looking forward to it.
Eileen perches a notebook on her lap and smiles from the other side of the couch.
“Now, we left off at an interesting juncture, especially regarding your medical history, Grace. After you consented yesterday, I accessed your files from Dunedin. They made for,” she sucks a delicate breath through her teeth, “interesting reading, shall we say.”
“Oh?” I feel my face flush.
She’s being careful, yet I still feel mounting dread.
I glance at Nate, who has one ankle perched casually on the opposite knee, his chin resting on a closed fist. He’s watching Eileen with a serene expression, but I can sense the tension that lies beneath.
He said he had enough proof to lead to Mother’s arrest. He might be about to acquire more.
“Yes,” Eileen continues, “I compared your account from our appointment with the timeline in your medical notes.”
“Um, sorry,” I lower my voice until it’s soft enough that Nate won’t hear. “I think we’d better be on our own for this part, please.”
Eileen is too professional to show her surprise. She simply closes her notebook, recrosses her legs at the ankle, and turns to Nate.
“Mr Hadley, thank you for letting me set up here in your beautiful living room. I’m sure you’ll understand that I need the space for the remainder of Grace’s appointment, unless there’s somewhere more private she and I should go?
” She glances at me. “I assume you’re staying in the guest bedroom; would that be a better spot? ”
I almost stop breathing. This thoroughly professional, lovely woman has no idea what she’s walked into—that I am, in fact, sharing a bed with my brother-in-law.
Former, I remind myself, which only adds to my confusion.
Before I can stutter an explanation, Nate stands up and smiles down at the pair of us, an edge of darkness in his eyes. I hold his gaze for a moment, realising that I’ve got more power now than I have in days. In years, maybe.
After a quick nod to me, he addresses Eileen. “I’ll be in my office, if you need anything.”
I let out a breath after he’s gone, then jump when Eileen speaks, her voice soft. “Are you more comfortable now, Grace?”
“Sure,” I say, trying for an ease I don’t feel.
“Hmm,” she murmurs, and I hear her pen scratching. “I wonder if it might be best to get the bloodwork out of the way before we go over my findings.”
“Why?” I ask, though I’m already rolling up my sleeve so she can access the inner crook of my elbow.
“Well, I like my sessions, especially those in person, to feel as gentle and natural as possible. If we’re both waiting for the moment I have to poke you with a needle, we won’t be able to relax.”
I laugh and examine Eileen anew. She doesn’t look anything like a doctor, I realise; there’s no white coat, no stethoscope around her neck, and no brusque, harried air about her person.
I could very well be sitting down with a favourite aunt or an old family friend, and I suddenly want our appointment to be just like that.
I scoot a bit closer, offering my arm.
“Let’s get the yucky part out of the way.”
“Hear, hear,” she answers, pulling a few things out of her case—alcohol swab, butterfly needle, and glass tubes. “How are you with needles, Grace?”
I shrug and Eileen smiles knowingly. She makes quick work of the blood draw, putting away the samples and medical paraphernalia immediately.
“There,” she says, taking off her nitrile gloves. “Now we can just talk this through.”
My spine goes rigid as we come back to the point.
To the phantom of my mother, hovering within the pages of the file on Eileen’s lap.
I find myself wishing that Nate were here after all, between that file and me.
I could go get him, but I think of how he half-dragged me down the corridor. I stay where I am.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh,” I force a smile, “yes, sorry. Just woolgathering.”
“I’m sure you’ve had more than enough to process these last few days.”
I twist my fingers in my lap. “You said you compared my story with the medical files. I’m a little afraid to ask what you found.”
“Before we get to that, I want to let you know that I’m here across capacities, Grace.
If you need additional support, I have colleagues who will be more than willing to fit you in at short notice.
In fact, it’s my preference that we make an appointment with a holistic trauma therapist at the end of this session. ”
I let out a breath, trying to keep myself steady. “I don’t know. I’ve had so many appointments my whole life, and—and you’re here and that’s great but, I don’t know how much time I want to spend dealing with all this.”
“Not a problem,” she answers, “but the therapists I work with would meet you where you’re at.
If you don’t want to discuss details, they won’t push you.
If you’d prefer an approach through artistic expression,” she nods at my bullet journal, “or even through meditation, they could do that instead. Getting psychological help doesn’t have to be about sitting inside your trauma, reliving your worst events. ”
I nod, considering carefully. “Art might be good, at some point.”
She scratches in her notebook. “Excellent. Now, I'd like to share my findings with you, if you’re feeling ready, Grace?”
I nod.
And Eileen tells me—
Everything.