I know your secret, p.15
I Know Your Secret, page 15
‘I – I have no idea how it happened. The pills were in the bathroom cabinet where they’ve always been. He must have used his step to get them.’
‘I thought he couldn’t reach.’
‘So did I.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t leave them out?’
‘I’m positive. I always put them back.’
‘But you’ve been drinking. You could have forgotten.’
Could I have forgotten? Could I have left them out somewhere where Charlie had found them?
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You shouldn’t be drinking on those pills anyway.’
‘You always said one wouldn’t hurt.’
‘It’s a bit different when I’m not there, though, isn’t it? You’re the only one responsible for Charlie.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ I mumble. I think of Danielle then, how between them they’ve wrecked my life. He doesn’t know I know about her. I can’t tell him because if he realises I see her for therapy, I know he’ll say I can’t be her therapist anymore. I wonder if he knows about the baby she’s expecting, that it could be his.
Richard ignores the comment. ‘You’ve got to pull yourself together, Beth. This is the second major thing that’s happened with Charlie since I’ve left. First he tried to get out of the house when you weren’t looking. Now he might have taken your antidepressants. Your carelessness is putting him in danger.’
Charlie stirs in Richard’s arms and I feel a surge of guilt. Is Richard right? Am I a danger to my own child?
Thirty-Six
Danielle
Peter takes the chicken out of the oven and starts to dish it up. It’s just me and him this evening, and he’s made the effort to get home from work at a reasonable time. My mother’s gone to an open evening about adult education at the local college, and Peter’s cooked me a light meal of chicken and rice that I’m hoping I’ll be able to keep down.
‘You seem more relaxed without your mum around,’ he comments, as he hands me my plate.
‘I am.’ I love my mother, but it’s been so long since she’s been in my life that sometimes she feels like a stranger. I’m not ready to tell her I’m pregnant yet, but I’m worried that she will have guessed. I’m sure she hears me being sick every morning, and she can’t have failed to noticed the bags under my eyes and how I wander around the house half-asleep.
‘I wish someone had let me know how hard pregnancy would be,’ I say. It’s difficult to keep up the pace at work when I feel like I’m going to collapse from exhaustion any moment.
‘Yeah, I had no idea. Mandy in my office just seemed to breeze through it. She didn’t take a single day off.’
‘I don’t know how she did it.’ It’s only 8 p.m. Usually I’d still be in the office now, but I can’t take the pace anymore. Even this conversation seems exhausting. I’d rather be in bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ Peter says. ‘That was insensitive. I can see how tired you are.’
I stare at the grilled chicken, pushing it round the plate. I’ve lost my appetite.
‘I wanted to speak to you,’ Peter says, ‘about the baby.’
I freeze. He takes my hand and I prepare for the worst. Him breaking up with me. Saying I’ll have to bring the baby up on my own.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘For questioning whether the baby is mine. Even if I thought that, there was no reason to be so nasty to you.’
‘Oh,’ I say, relief coursing through me. ‘Thank you.’
‘I can see how difficult things have been for you. You know I worry about your anger. But I’m glad we’re having therapy, trying to address it. I think we can do this. I think we can have this baby together. Be good parents to it.’
My heart sings. I’ve wanted to hear this more than anything else in the world.
‘It’s so important the baby has a father,’ I say. ‘I was close to mine, growing up.’
‘Were you? You don’t talk about him much.’
Tears sting my eyes. I remember him holding my hand when I was a little girl, remember him pushing me on the swing, cuddling me when I cried.
‘It’s been hard,’ I reply, my voice thick with tears. ‘In foster care, I had to keep it together just to survive. So I tried not to think about him, tried to forget.’
‘I didn’t think you got on with your parents.’
I sigh. ‘Not when I was a teenager. Things got complicated then. They fought all the time. Once my mother smashed everything in the kitchen. Every plate. Every glass.’
‘Why?’ His eyes widen in shock.
‘I’m not sure. I think it was because of something my father had done. He’d had an affair, but I didn’t know that at the time.’ I remember sitting in bed upstairs, trying to read a book and ignore the sound of the kitchen being destroyed. When I’d gone downstairs to check Mum was alright, I’d seen the river of sparkling glass in the kitchen, seen my mother’s bare feet bleeding from where she’d cut herself. Her blind rage as she took another glass from the cupboard and smashed it against the wall. I ran back up the stairs as fast as I could.
‘That’s crazy.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I think she needed to release her anger. By the next morning she had swept it all up and was pretending to be cheerful again.’
‘Wow,’ Peter says. He frowns and strokes my hair. ‘No wonder you sometimes get angry yourself,’ he says. ‘It can’t have been easy growing up in an environment like that.’
‘It wasn’t.’
He frowns. ‘Do you think she’ll be safe around the baby?’
‘Of course she’ll be. That was just a one-off.’ Even as I say the words, they sound wrong, as if I’m not sure I believe them myself.
Later, I lie in bed trying to sleep, wondering about my mother in the room two doors down from me. I place my hand on my stomach, thinking of the baby. I feel an unexpected shiver of fear. Who is my mother really? The loving woman who brought me up and attended every school assembly? The woman who went into a violent rage and smashed everything up? Or someone else entirely? Prison must have changed her, but I don’t know how. Do I want her to be so close to our baby?
Thirty-Seven
Beth
The morning after the trip to the hospital Charlie is back to his usual self. When I wake him up he smiles brightly, and my worry yesterday seems like it was from another life, a figment of my imagination. The doctors had told me to keep an eye on him, in case he’d taken the pills, and I’d checked on him every half-hour through the night, unable to sleep myself.
I get him up and dressed and then, on autopilot, open the bathroom cabinet and reach for my antidepressants. I stare into the cupboard in disbelief. They’re still there. I open the bottle and knock one back. There’s a few days’ supply left.
Where had Charlie got the other bottle from? It must have been an old one, an empty one. And then realisation hits. Sometimes we do craft projects, making robots out of cardboard boxes and whatever recycling we’ve got. He must have taken an old pill bottle from there. I almost laugh with relief.
* * *
Later, I light the candle to cleanse the air in my counselling room in preparation for my therapy session with Danielle. I’ve managed to avoid telling Richard that I know her. I don’t want him to realise there’s a connection between us and stop me seeing her.
Everything has changed now. I want to use the session to get under her skin. I don’t want to help her or guide her. I want to punish her for what she did to me. I can’t let her get away with taking Richard from me.
Tension fills the room as Danielle and Peter sit down. In the last session he was so convinced the baby wasn’t his. I thought he might leave Danielle, that I might never see him again. But here he is, sitting nervously on the sofa, tapping his fingers against the armrest.
‘How are you feeling, Danielle?’ I ask as she sinks onto the sofa. She’s not showing yet, but she looks pale, with shadows under her eyes.
‘Tired. I just don’t seem to have the energy I used to have. Really I’d just love to lie down and go to sleep.’
I smile warmly at her. ‘I remember feeling like that. Your body is just preparing you for having the baby. This is the easy part. You’ll know what exhaustion really feels like once it’s born and it’s screaming all night.’
‘I’ve been telling her to get more rest, but she’s still working too many hours.’ I hear a note of concern in Peter’s voice, and wonder if he’s changed his mind about the baby.
‘Have you had the chance to talk about what we discussed last week?’ I look at Peter, who stares at me blankly. ‘Last week you expressed concerns that the baby might not be yours,’ I confirm.
Peter flushes. ‘I should never have said that. I know it’s mine.’ He reaches for Danielle’s hand and entwines his fingers with hers. Jealousy burns inside me. He still loves her, despite everything.
‘How do you know?’ I want to find out more, to figure out what’s changed since last week, but my words sound too challenging, not gentle, not how I normally sound in these sessions.
‘Because of the dates. The midwife said we must have conceived seven weeks ago. We were back together then.’ He looks at Danielle, a smile stretching over his face.
Seven weeks ago. I count back in my head. That was just before I got the photos of Danielle with Richard. I try to keep a relaxed posture, but I can’t stop my jaw from clenching. I clasp my hands together and dig my nails into my palm as hard as I can. The pain distracts me and I manage to keep quiet, to stop myself laying into Danielle.
If either of them looked up at me they’d see that something wasn’t right. But they’re not looking at me. They’re too busy staring into each other’s eyes.
‘We’re both excited now, about the baby,’ Danielle says. ‘Although we haven’t had much time to talk about it.’
‘It’s been difficult to find a moment. Her mother’s come to stay with us.’
‘Your mother?’ I try to hide my surprise. Danielle had said both her parents were dead. A car accident.
‘Yeah.’ Danielle meets my eyes for a second, as she realises her lie has been exposed. ‘I used to tell people she was dead. But we were estranged.’
‘You told me she was dead too,’ I say gently. ‘You could have trusted me. I would have understood.’ It’s a big thing to lie about. I’m convinced she’s lying to Peter about the baby too. I feel a shiver of unease run through me. I’m usually so good at reading body language, identifying when people are lying. But I hadn’t picked up that she wasn’t telling the truth about her mother. What else has she been lying about? Suddenly it seems too much of a coincidence that she’s chosen me as a counsellor.
‘I wasn’t ready to tell you. Not then,’ Danielle says quietly. ‘But I am now. My mother and I are trying to rebuild our relationship.’
‘How’s that going?’ I say. ‘It can’t be easy.’
‘OK, so far. I mean… it’s difficult, with her living with me after so many years. And being pregnant makes me reflect on my own childhood, how much I missed out on, growing up in care.’
‘OK.’
‘I don’t want the baby to go through what I went through. I want it to have a happy family.’
‘Danielle had a difficult childhood. Her mother… had a temper,’ Peter says.
‘A temper?’
‘Yeah,’ Danielle says. ‘But she’s changed now. And she was never that bad.’
‘But I think that’s the cause of so many of your problems,’ Peter says. ‘You’ve got so much repressed emotion that it escapes in fits of anger.’
I look at him, surprised at his insight.
Danielle looks at the floor. ‘I don’t want to be so angry,’ she says. ‘But sometimes my emotions get the better of me.’
‘You know mental health issues run in families?’ I say gently. ‘If your mother struggled, then it’s likely you will too. Even if you haven’t suffered before, having a baby changes everything. You’ve already mentioned that it’s making you think of your own childhood. Sometimes people find they’re dredging up all their baggage from the past and realise they just can’t deal with it. You won’t be sleeping, and you’ll be hormonal. All your emotions will be elevated. In these situations of extreme stress, sometimes people with difficult backgrounds like yours just can’t cope.’ I watch her face, to see if I’ve managed to get under her skin, to worry her.
‘Really?’ Danielle looks at me with fear in her eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, trying not to smile. I can see in her eyes that she still trusts me, that she’s looking to me to help her. ‘You can talk through any concerns here. You’re safe here.’
Thirty-Eight
Danielle
I’m finishing dinner with my mother, trying to keep down the rich lamb stew she’s cooked, when Peter comes into the house, the door slamming behind him. My stomach clenches with nerves. Today we’re going to tell Mum about the baby. I think back to what she said about me not being ready to have children yet. I hope she doesn’t react badly.
‘Hi,’ Peter calls out.
‘In here. Have you eaten? Mum’s made lamb stew.’
‘I’ve already eaten, I’m afraid. But it smells lovely.’
‘It tasted good too,’ I say, although I’ve only managed a few bites.
‘Is everything alright?’ my mother asks, looking at how much is left on my plate.
Peter sits down opposite us, raising his eyebrows at me. I nod.
‘Actually, we’ve got something to tell you,’ I say. My leg shakes under the table.
My mother’s eyes flick back and forth between us. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s fine. It’s good news. I’m… I’m pregnant.’
I watch her face go through the emotions, from shock to worry to elation.
‘Wow,’ she says finally. ‘Congratulations.’ She gets up from her chair and we embrace. Relief floods through me. I’m so glad she’s happy for me.
‘My daughter. Having a baby. I’m going to be a grandmother.’ I smile at that, but I feel tears forming at the backs of my eyes. I wish my father was here too, that he’d had the opportunity to become a grandfather.
‘Yes,’ Peter says. ‘It’s quite a shock, but we’re delighted.’
‘I bet you are.’ She turns to me. ‘Is that why you’ve been getting sick so often? I thought you were ill.’
I smile. ‘Nope, just pregnant.’
‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’
‘No. It’s still early days. Too early to find out.’ I smile. Whatever gender the baby is, my love for it already feels overwhelming.
‘You’ll have to look after yourself, make sure you’re eating right.’
‘At the moment I eat whatever I can keep down,’ I reply with a wry smile.
‘That will pass. I was horribly sick with you at the beginning, but it got better.’
‘We need to minimise stress for her too,’ Peter says.
‘Yes, of course,’ she says, turning to me. ‘You should work less hard. You put in too many hours at the office.’
‘I keep telling her that.’
‘This is so exciting.’ My mother grins as she digests the news. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘I don’t think so, not yet.’ I put my hand on my stomach, feeling protective of the life growing inside me. A whole load of complicated emotions swirl around my head. I’d like my mother to be the kind of grandmother I’ve seen some of my friends’ mothers become. Grandmothers who help out with the babies, who want to spend as much time as possible with their grandchildren. But I’m not sure I can trust her.
‘I suppose you’ll need more help once the baby’s born. I can be your live-in babysitter.’ She smiles.
Peter looks at me. I feel slightly sick at the thought of her staying long-term. And I’d given him the impression that my mother would be going back to Sweden when her stay ended.
‘We might need to make a few changes once the baby’s born,’ he says.
‘Yes, of course. Baby-proof the house, that kind of thing. I really can’t wait to be a grandmother.’ She claps her hands together suddenly. ‘This is the kind of news we need to celebrate. We should have champagne, toast the baby.’
‘Good idea, Mum.’ The house is starting to feel oppressive. ‘Shall I pop to the shops and get some?’
* * *
I feel better as soon as I’m out of the door and in the fresh air. My body seems to be constantly overheating at the moment, and the chill of the winter air soothes me. I walk slowly out of the cul-de-sac, enjoying the relief that my mother’s happy about the baby.
The road is dark, the street lamps spaced far apart. As I ease by a car parked on the pavement, right next to the hedge, I get the sense that someone is behind me. I turn round to look, but only see someone on the other side of the road. It’s dark, and in their winter coat they are little more than a shadow against the brick wall. They bow their head, stopping to root around in their bag. I hear the sound of keys jingling. They must be coming home from work.
I keep walking, wondering why the hairs on the back of my neck are still standing on end, as if my body senses that something is wrong. I wonder if this is a symptom of pregnancy, a kind of mother’s instinct. A hyper-awareness and hyper-vigilance – my body preparing me to protect my baby.
I’ve felt this a lot lately. Leaving work at night, I’ve noticed every person walking down the street, risk-assessing them and trying to work out if they are a danger to me. Usually I’d walk to the tube oblivious to everything around me, but now I feel a stab of fear whenever I’m alone. I thought I was being watched, but it’s not that; it’s paranoia. I think about what Beth said about mental health problems running in families. I hope this isn’t the start of something more. I hope this feeling I have, this fear, will begin to fade as my pregnancy progresses and I get used to the idea of having a child.
