Turning her car into the small road leading to her house, the rear mirror revealed the car lights that had remained in the distance, turn in the other direction. Slowing down, she decided not to indicate before turning into her own drive.
.
S
tephanie looked at her watch anticipating Sarah’s arrival. She was surprised she didn’t feel that tingle of excitement she had come to expect. She heard Jane’s voice through the door she deliberately left ajar.
‘Ms. Powell’s expecting you. Go straight in.’
Stephanie sat back at her desk perusing the notes she retrieved earlier from the filing cabinet. Raising her eyes she saw Sarah poking her head through the door uncertainly, looking at her.
‘Come in Sarah, come in dear. You know where to sit.’ She watched as Sarah moved across to the leather arm chair, sitting on the edge of the seat, clutching her handbag on her lap. ‘Put your bag on the floor. Sit back. Relax.’
Stephanie got up to close the door Sarah had nervously left open. As she walked back to her desk, she detoured around the back of the reclining chair and let her hand gently glide over Sarah’s head. Her hair was soft to the touch, and she caught a faint smell of clean washed hair mixed with another sweet odour; body lotion or perhaps a cheap perfume. Stephanie enjoyed the tingle running up her arm.
Sitting back at her desk, she had a chance to look Sarah over properly and noticed how well she appeared. In fact she looked better than she had at any of her other visits. It must be denial, she thought, the first few weeks could do this and then the shock of losing her mother would set in. Had she mentioned a father? She tried to surreptitiously look at her notes. She couldn’t remember Sarah ever mentioning one, she was sure. No, there was nothing in her notes. And Sarah’s state of mind could work to her benefit but for now she must concentrate on Sarah’s immediate needs; find out what was going on in her head. Bending forward slightly she gently asked,
‘How are you?’
Sitting quietly Sarah smiled back with bright and clear eyes. Stephanie was surprised. Previously Sarah sported black rings around her eyes and fidgeted in her seat; her hands going to her mouth and then back to her lap again. Stephanie looked at this new Sarah, listening to her now, unhurried speech
‘I’m fine, really well. I needed to talk to you though. I hope you don’t mind? I’m really sorry about not turning up for that last appointment. I’ll pay for it. Just my mother wouldn’t let me come. But now she’s gone, I can come whenever I want.’ She smiled again. ‘Whenever I want!’
‘It must’ve been such a shock for you. You didn’t mention she was ill?’
‘Oh she wasn’t ill. Well, not like that. She was ill, but in the head. If you know what I mean. Of course you do, you must see it all the time. No she died of, well she died in her sleep. It was an overdose of sleeping pills. She took far too many. Anyway she’s gone now and I don’t have to think about her ever again.’
Wow, Stephanie thought, she really was in denial. She cleared her throat,
‘You said you wanted to talk. What would you like to talk about?’
‘Well, first of all, where do I get my hair cut? Where do I buy some fashionable and decent clothes and shoes? Do you know any good workmen? I want to have the house painted. I found some in the Yellow Pages. But after all those TV programmes mother used to make me watch, I’m a little worried about who to call and who to trust. I need new carpets as well.’
Stephanie listened as she went on and on; instead of the non-stop diary of events, Sarah now had a non-stop list. Asking for advice and opinions. By the end of the session, Sarah had once again managed to talk the whole time without telling her anything. She realized Sarah was very skilled at avoiding issues of importance and she wrote on her notes to ensure at the next appointment they would cover some issues. This issue of her mother’s death really needed to be looked at. Her and Robert’s advantage would be totally lost if she was about to have a complete breakdown, which might happen if she didn’t face up to her loss. At the end of the session Sarah remained in her seat, and kept looking at her hands, then up at Stephanie, her head to one side. She looked slightly flushed and opened her mouth once or twice without saying anything further. Stephanie pointedly lifted her wrist, pulled the sleeve up slightly to look at her watch. Now she wanted to talk! Typical. It wasn’t denial, just procrastination. Stephanie sighed inwardly, then asked,
‘What did you really want to talk about?’
Sarah didn’t answer. But looked down at her hands again, as they twisted and turned on each other. She licked her lips and opened her mouth, eyes looked up under eyelashes.
‘Come on, Sarah. Everything you say in here is confidential. You know that. You can tell me anything you want.’ Stephanie looked at her watch again. Shit, she wouldn’t have time for a break, her next client would be waiting already. She looked up at Sarah, more her old self again.
‘Well, there is one thing … I really want to discuss.’
‘I hope it’s not going to take too long? I’m sorry but I have another client in a few minutes.’ Stephanie fiddled with her watch and looked at Sarah.
‘Umm, No I don’t think it will. It’s, umm, it’s,’ she paused then blurted out, ‘Robert.’ Looking up at Stephanie she asked, ‘Do you think he’ll still want to see me? Or ever want to see me again?’
Stephanie smiled, but inside she was seething. Why, that useless bastard, he hadn’t phoned her after all, she’d be having words with him. Her next client would have to wait. She leaned forward, patting Sarah’s hand.
‘I’m sure he’d love to see you again. He was here only last week, and I know he’s not seeing anyone else.’ The lie came easily.
‘Should I phone him? He did phone me a few times, but I couldn’t answer because of mother. Then after she died I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Well. If it was me, and I liked him, I’d phone. Especially, as you say, he phoned you a couple of times. It would only be polite to phone and explain why you couldn’t talk to him. He probably thinks you don’t like him, or you don’t want to see him again. But it’s up to you. You have to do what is right for you, of course.’ She paused, and then emphasized, ‘but I’d phone again.’
Sarah left smiling, agreeing to phone Robert that evening, or at least send him a text.
As soon as she heard Jane show her out, Stephanie picked up her mobile and dialled Robert’s number.
*****
Sarah clicked the phone off. He wanted to see her again; they were going to see each other again. He had been so pleased she had answered the phone this time. So worried he said, because she hadn’t called him back; he thought he had done something to upset her. Robert do something wrong! How could he possibly upset her? He was phoning once more just hoping she would answer, even if it was just to say no.
She could hardly think in her excitement. The papers she had been sorting scattered all over the floor as she danced around the room; she’d pick them up in a minute. She hugged her phone as she danced. She hadn’t even had to phone him. He had phoned her; Robert had phoned her and he was taking her out again. He must really like me, she sang out loud as she careered round the room, in and out of the chairs.
Finally, exhausted she sat back on the floor surveying the mess she had made. Never mind, she had all night to sort them again. He said he would pick her up and she had given him her address. He was coming to the house. She looked around. There was still so much to do, but she had explained to him she was decorating. He had been so sympathetic about her mother. Just how she imagined he would be. But she mustn’t let it distract her. She still had all the papers to go through and then she had to tidy up. Her mother had left everything in such a mess. She must put the thought of Robert aside until later when she could give him her full attention.
Earlier in the kitchen when she was chopping vegetables for her dinner, Sarah thought over her session with Stephanie; the way she avoided questions concerning her mother, managing to deflect anything she didn’t want to discus. Stephanie hadn’t pushed her, which caused a little disappointment. She would like to tell Stephanie what happened, how it all happened. Maybe she would eventually. Even though she hadn’t discussed it all, the session had filled her with a renewed courage and she finally felt ready to step into her mother’s bedroom. Filling the pot with water, she decided she would go now, while the vegetable stew was cooking. Yes, she would do it now, before she lost her nerve.
After standing for a few moments in the doorway of the bedroom, Sarah took a deep breath and reached for the light switch. It barely made a difference, Sarah had not yet replaced the 20 watt with a 60 watt bulb.
She stepped from the bright light of the new bulbs in the hallway into the darkness of her mother’s bedroom; creeping into the room not daring to open the curtains. She put her shaking hand to her mouth wanting to hold her nose against the dank tobacco smell lingering over everything.
She knew once the bedroom windows were open her mother would be set free. Liberated. She needed to retain her mother in the room. Keep her prisoner. Just as she had done to Sarah. For so many years. Why should she be free? By keeping the room locked up she prevented her mother from moving on, retaining her mother captive on earth. She shuddered. At night she sometimes heard her mother moving around the house. She wanted her mother to know what she, Sarah, intended to do with her life. She was going to make the most of it now she was free.
Standing at the door she looked around the room daring herself to go in. Everything in the room was old. Even by the light of the 20 watt bulb, she could see the carpet was threadbare; the wardrobes so old fashioned they were fashionable again, according to some of her new magazines. The mirror on the dressing table was tarnished around the edges and dust lay on each individual item placed on the dressing table; a dirty comb, some old hand cream, a frayed jewel box. Sarah wondered what was in it. She had never seen. She would look another day, today she had opened the door and ventured in for another reason.
Walking to the bulky wooden bed her mother had slept and died in, the dimness was not a problem. She knew from experience she could walk those steps blindfold. Without touching the bed she knelt beside it and pulled from under it three dusty boxes. She carried them one at a time downstairs, not wishing to stay in the mausoleum any longer than necessary. When they were all on the lounge floor she went once more to the bedroom, turned off the dim light, pulling the door firmly shut with both hands.
After checking on the stew, adding a little more water and giving it a stir, she took a duster from the cupboard and a knife from the drawer. Back in the lounge she cleaned off each box individually before opening one. She knelt, a knife in hand, her heart thumping in her ears. What would she find in these boxes? Would there be letters from her father? An address maybe? Something to tell her where he was?
The knife slid under the Sellotape and she pulled the lid open. Inside were hundreds of pieces of paper. Receipts. Receipts for everything dating back to when Sarah was a baby. She plunged her hands in to the paper, feeling around like a lucky dip, hopeful of finding something not so flimsy as a mere piece of paper. Disappointed, she discarded the first box and opened the second, feeling calmer but frustrated. But the second box revealed the same as the first. Turning to the last box, the disappointment had now killed any excited expectation at finding anything other than useless receipts. Opening the lid she could see immediately this box held a different content. But her heart sank in recognition.
It contained all the notebooks her mother had kept; notebooks Sarah didn’t want to see again. They were books her mother had kept always to hand, either in a pocket or a handbag, but always there. She felt her cheeks burn red at the memory of the shame of them when others had seen them. When she was very young she thought every mother had a little note book the same as her mother’s. Her teenage years at school informed her this was not so.
Each time her mother bought Sarah an ice cream or a chocolate or paid for what her mother considered a treat, she would take out one of these little books and she would meticulously write down the facts of that treat. She filled in the date, the treat and most importantly the price. She would then total the amount on each page, and at the end of each book she would total the full amount informing Sarah repeatedly she expected to be paid back as soon as she started work.
Sarah decided she would have a bonfire, and to one side started a pile of all the paper she was going to burn. She began to go through all the other papers in this box until she came across the receipt for the bike. The pink bike her father had bought for her. Why had her mother kept it? She stared at it in her fingers. Her father had held this piece of paper in his hands. She put it to her lips, closing her eyes for a moment and let herself think of him. She put it to her nose, imagining his smell.
Would he come to her? Would be find her? Why had he never tried to contact her? She must have stopped him. Maybe he wasn’t even in this country. He could be anywhere. She put the receipt to one side starting a small pile she was going to keep. There were receipts for toys, a pram, a cot, her bed; the one she still slept in. She would buy a new one when she finished decorating her bedroom. But she would finish downstairs first; Robert would only see downstairs, so up there didn’t matter. It was in that instance as she thought of him, her phone had rung.
Now, looking down at the mess she felt panic rise for just a second as she realized she had mixed the two piles together. Where was the receipt for the bike? She can’t have lost it. She needed it. Then she saw it, and grabbing it decided she did not really need the others. They all held too much of her. No, this was all she needed. Holding it carefully she got up and went to the bookshelf, choosing her favourite book, ‘Letter from Peking’, by Pearl S Buck, she tucked it inside, knowing it would be safe. Her mother had allowed her to read any book on the bookshelf, but that was all, unless they were set by the school. All the books in the house were old, the books that had been on the shelf when her father left. No others were allowed.