Chapter Forty-Eight #2
“It’s not exactly by choice that I’m having to get you to do it.”
“Is it not? Only you know how you ended up in front of the car that night. The pattern of behaviour beforehand would suggest it was self-inflicted.”
“I might not be able to remember that night, or the year before it, but I can tell you for a fact that I wouldn’t have walked in front of a car. If I wanted to die, I wouldn’t risk ending up in my current position, or worse, would I? Ending my life would be to take the pain away, not elevate it.”
“You say that. But, if my memory serves me correctly, there are plenty of times you’ve attempted to take your own life and unfortunately been unsuccessful.”
Her words reverberate in my brain like an echo. Did I hear her correctly?
“Unfortunately?”
“Life would be easier for all of us if you had been successful. Arms up, let’s get you dressed.”
I couldn’t lift my arms up if I tried, so it’s just another way for her to make me feel inferior, lesser than. It shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it does. Every. Single. Time.
“Can we do it downstairs, please? I don’t want to sweat my makeup off from getting down the steps.”
“It can’t make you look worse than you do. Come on, arms up.”
I know better than to argue with her, so I do as she asks and lift my good arm. She scoffs at my attempt to raise my other one and then manhandles it into the jumper, seemingly oblivious to the levels of pain she’s causing me.
As she dresses me, I pull myself up so I can ready myself to scoot down the stairs.
She steps over me, making a noise like she’s fed up with me being in her way, and makes her way down the stairs ahead of me.
By the time I reach the bottom, beads of sweat are littering my forehead, and I’m wishing I stood up for myself more and waited until I’d gotten to the bottom.
She puts her hand out to help me stand and then goes to turn me around.
“Now, it’s time to admire your reflection.”
“No, Mum—”
“Oh, don’t be so silly, Quinn. How else are you supposed to know if you look impressive enough to catch a man?”
“I don’t know, you could compliment me yourself?”
“Why would I do that?” She looks at me incredulously.
Why, indeed?
Despite my protests, she spins me around, and I notice a new mirror on the wall.
Bigger than the usual floor-length ones around our house.
It is quite literally a wall-to-ceiling mirror, and it almost looks like it makes me bigger.
You know, like in the House of Mirrors at the funfair, where you have the mirrors that make your body look flawless, and then the ones that make you look short and stumpy?
Yeah, this one does the latter. I look red-faced.
My hair is frizzy despite her having done it, like she purposely forgot the heat protectant and hair oil, and my reflection almost takes up the entire width of the frame.
Why does this man want to go on a date with me again?
“Now,” she says, “what do you see?”
“A fat mess?” I ask.
“Other than that.” I almost laugh.
“Why don’t you tell me what you see, Mum?” I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself, but he can only make me feel better on our date, surely?
“I see a girl who needs to lose weight, but her face could be pretty once she has. I see chunky legs and your leggings show off bits, but he could be a man that likes that. You should be careful of that camel toe. Make sure you don’t wear tight trousers, and jeans are a no-no if you want to impress a man, and never wear a high-waisted thong; the fatty lips will spill out of the sides, and that’s unattractive.
You have a backside, which is something, I suppose.
Your hair looks lovely because I styled it.
Your makeup skills leave a lot to be desired, but at least there is room for improvement.
Hopefully his standards are lower, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.
” She pats me on the shoulder and walks off towards the kitchen to cook her favourite adult child’s dinner.
I scoff to myself. The only way is up from here, right?
I stop with my recollection for a second, feeling the need to check in. Not just on Bones, but to remind myself that that is no longer my reality. That I’m safe.
“Are you okay, Little Magpie?”
“Yes. I think so. Are you?”
“I’m fucking furious, to be honest. But that’s my issue to deal with, not yours.” The beeping of the vitals monitor, as always, brings me back down to earth a little.
“I don’t think I want to tell the next bit like it’s a story. I want to tell you like it’s just us in a room talking about our past history as a new couple.”
“We’re a new couple, are we?” He smiles.
I roll my eyes back at him. “Don’t play with me, Bones, you know exactly what I mean.”
“I do.”
“I don’t need a relationship status to know you care for me. Which is something that surprises me. But what I do need is to give you the respect to tell you this face to face and not while I’m receiving a ketamine infusion.”
“Okay. I’ll stop it. No problem.” He does as I ask, leaning down to kiss me on my forehead, which seems to have become his trademark. “What was that for?” I ask.
“Just reminding you I’m still here. Take a break until you’re ready. I’ll go and make us some lunch and get us some drinks.”
I smile to myself as he exits the room, and I adjust my position so I’m grounded by the weight of Ted on my lap.
About an hour later, after some food and a drink, and a chapter break from my book—I’m really missing my Kindle at the moment—it’s time.
“I’m ready,” I say.
He puts his own book down and nods for me to continue.
“I have been separated since the ripe old age of 25, and my divorce came through earlier this year.
The relief when I opened that document after all of the back-and-forth gaslighting, the guilt trips, and me questioning my sanity, or what little there is of it because he was determined to alter my recollection of events, was life-altering.
As time has passed, I’ve been remembering things about him and my mother.
Times they would spend together. Time they would spend on the phone.
Low-key flirting, if I’m honest. Even when I was married, I had to stay living in the family home.
She wanted me gone, sure, but she wanted him to stay. Even Eric began to feel threatened.
But now, I’m sure he and my mother were spiking my medication.
It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain the random, sudden losses of memory and time.
They got worse after we got married, and most times I would wake up sore between the legs with bite marks or bruises across my body, unaware of anything that could have caused said injuries.
” His jaw tenses as he tries to refrain from reacting to what I’m saying.
“But,” I continue, “with my history, no one would believe me anyway. What was I supposed to do? Go to the police station and tell them my husband was drugging me; having sex with me without consent? My mum has spent years telling me it was my duty to provide my body to my husband. That it didn’t matter if I wanted it or not; it was his right, and to open my legs when told.
And it’s only recently I learnt that that was an actual law until 1991.
That’s right. Up until then, should your husband choose to have sex with you at a time where you didn’t want it, it was legal.
” I fiddle with the blanket and take a drink from my glass.
“‘You’re a slut, Quinny,’ the voices would say.
And when your own mother is echoing what they’re saying, you believe it.
” Bones moves closer to me. He doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t want to interrupt my flow. But he sits on the floor in front of me so I can gain comfort from his presence and touch him if I need to.
“It isn’t like I would categorise myself as mentally unstable—I mean, who would?
But I’ve spent my whole life trying to off myself, so some would say I fit the definition perfectly.
Unfortunately, I haven’t done myself any favours, because now, for the rest of the time I’m alive, anything that happens to me will be reduced to my mental state and become either my fault or something I’ve imagined. ”