Chapter 27
XXVII
DAISY
A week later, Daisy found herself in a position they’d warned her of, but nothing could’ve prepared her for. Callan didn’t recognise her; he barely recognised his own mother.
She’d seen the film, the one where the woman is in a car accident, and the man makes her fall in love with him again and again. For some, that may seem like a romantic concept, but the reality was far different.
There are very few moments in life which truly alter your brain chemistry—and for Daisy, the first was seeing Callan stare at her with confusion and fear, his eyes void of even a flicker of recognition.
The second came when she laid her hands over his, anticipating the familiar warmth of his touch, but instead finding only the cold tremble of a stranger.
Without a voice to communicate, they all had to endure Callan’s startled eyes and guttural noises as he panicked, trying to piece together the fragments of his life but unable to. Then the weeks rolled into months, and despite longing for progress, none was made.
“I think it’s best Callan moves in with me,” his mother suggested. “You two can both visit, and you never know, come Christmas, you’ll be a family again.”
Daisy agreed, not because she believed his recollection would return or he would miraculously fall back in love with her. There simply wasn’t another option, and the hospital was keen to finalise his release home.
By now, their daughter was crawling, and Russell had asked if she’d like to return to work.
Callan’s mother was supportive of the idea, believing that a bit of normality wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
They could’ve survived on Callan’s army pay, but as she put it, “they wouldn’t thrive.
” Part of Daisy believed, however, that his mother—despite her ill feelings towards her—didn’t want her to burn her bridges in case she decided to leave Callan, even going so far as to admit she wouldn’t blame her if she did.
She fixated on the idea, questioning what Callan would do if the roles were reversed.
She loved him, and whether it had been a rushed decision to marry him or not, she’d made a vow to love him through life’s inevitable storms and times of impenetrable darkness.
If she left him, her words meant nothing.
If she left him, their love meant nothing.
Like everyone in life, Daisy had made some questionable choices, ones in wayward daydreams and unanchored thoughts she would prefer to take back, but she wasn’t about to let her choice in Callan become one of them.
When Christmas was six weeks away and festive wreaths had begun to pop up on every door, Daisy decided to see a therapist. The woman had been recommended by another army wife, Bonnie, whose husband had returned with severe post-traumatic stress disorder and, as she put it, “she saved their marriage and her sanity.”
Was Daisy misguided to believe a stranger could fix her, or just desperate? Either way, on the eve of her birthday, she found herself in the waiting room of the therapist’s office, staring at a bizarre Jenny Saville portrait print of a troubled-looking woman.
“Do you think the woman is happy or sad?” the therapist asked, breaking her thoughts.
Daisy turned to see a woman standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in her right hand. She took in her features, noting how, despite being in her early sixties, the woman wore flared jeans and a tight, low-cut blouse.
“It’s hard to say,” Daisy replied. “Maybe a mixture of both.”
“If you had to lean towards one, what would it be?”
Daisy turned her attention back to the painting briefly. “Sadness, maybe.”
“Interesting.”
“Is that not the correct answer?”
“There’s no such thing as a correct answer. Has nobody ever told you? When it comes to the arts, everything is open to interpretation.” The woman walked past her and pointed to her office. “Come through. I’ll just get rid of this.”
Daisy entered and took a seat, and a minute later, the woman reappeared.
“Now, we discussed briefly on the phone about your husband, Calvin—”
“Callan,” Daisy corrected.
“Apologies, Callan. He was injured while deployed, correct?”
The woman sat down in her chair and leaned back.
“That’s correct.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said, almost to herself. “At least I know I’m talking to the right person.” She paused and leaned forward to pick up a leather-bound writing pad. “We will get to him in our next session, but first, I want to know about you.”
Daisy stared at her blankly, which made the woman laugh.
“You’re paying me good money, and I can’t help you, Daisy, if I don’t know who you are. Sure, I could give you some generic direction and a listening ear, but to truly help you and for you to get your money's worth, I need you to let me in. So, tell me, who are you?”
Daisy had been asked this question at least a dozen times in her life—in job interviews and awkward first dates.
However, something told her the therapist wasn’t requesting a running itinerary of her job history or the grade she got on her GCSEs.
She wanted the real intel, the receipts, and unspoken truths buried deep.
Daisy hesitated, then admitted, “I’ve always struggled with relationships.
If I’m honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been truly loved.
Not in the way people write about in songs or in the way I see in films. I was the ugly duckling, or at least, I’ve always felt that way.
Even as a teenager, I was the girl men noticed only when they needed something—when they wanted someone who wouldn’t say no.
I guess they knew I was vulnerable. Needy. Easy to manipulate.”
The therapist said nothing, just watched her, pen poised but unmoving.
“My mother had me late in life,” Daisy continued.
“She was great when I was young, but already tired by the time I was old enough to really need her. I don’t mean she didn’t love me—she did, in her way.
But she became distant, like she’d already lived her life, and I was an afterthought.
She passed a few years ago; it’s just me now. ”
She glanced at the therapist, then, half-expecting pity. Instead, she nodded, encouraging her to continue.
Daisy shifted in her seat. “I have no idea who my father is, and I don’t intend to find him either.
I have my suspicions; I think he was married, and I suspect my mother was the other woman.
” A small, humourless laugh escaped her.
“She never said as much, but there were gaps in her story, you know? Things that didn’t add up, and over the years, I’ve heard whispers.
I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. ”
“Because it matters,” the therapist said, writing something. “Because it’s a part of you.”
“Is it, though? I don’t know who I am outside of this. I’m a wife and a mother, and that’s as far as it goes. I don’t know who I am outside that.”
She tapped her pen against the writing pad, considering Daisy’s words. “Then, I think that’s where we start.”