Now
They like to measure my improvements here, inch by inch, or is it millimetre by millimetre?
Since talking is not an option and they’ve all come to accept that, there’s a new campaign to make me respond in other ways.
Eyes are good, a nod is brilliant.
I haven’t managed one of those yet.
Greg says, threateningly it seems to me, that I will be going home soon.
‘It will help so much if you can communicate with your children in some way. Don’t you want that, Catherine?
’
Underlying message: shit, selfish mother, and this guy is meant to be a shrink.
Here is what they don’t understand.
Not talking is much harder than talking.
The effort required to never respond is immense; it sucks up all my energy, which is exactly what I want.
I know what they are thinking: wilful, stubborn, obstinate (though they couch it in different terms: traumatised, damaged, mute).
And in a way they are right.
I don’t talk because I want to stay with you and that matters to me more than anything.
I want to go back to where I left off, another beginning, the promise of a new start, flesh against flesh, your hand in mine.
Today Sam and Liv visit together, and though they have been told, constantly, that I understand every word they say, they seem to have forgotten.
I’d like to be left alone.
I’d like them to leave so that I can get back to thinking about you, but their conversation seeps through my dream world, grit upon snow.
‘I do think you’re amazing.
The way you’ve stuck by her.
’
‘Well, of course. She’s my wife.
’
Always with Sam now this edge of fury.
And when Liv says nothing, all this anger, months and months of it – Sam’s frustration at me not speaking, his devastation at the loss of his wife, his children’s mother – just seems to erupt out of him.
‘For fuck’s sake don’t pity me, Liv.
At least spare me that.
I know what you’re thinking.
Why does he bother to come when she’s in love with someone else?
It was you who set them up together again after all this time, wasn’t it?
Don’t you think you should bear some responsibility for that?
Trying to play fucking God.
And look where that got you.
’
Sam rages right out of the room, visitor’s chair squealing across lino, Liv collapsing, head bent right over her knees, crying, crying.
And not responding to Liv, my dearest, darling friend, not reaching forward to put a hand on her shoulder, not finding the words to say ‘It’s not your fault’ will be my toughest challenge yet.