Читать книгу The Drowning Girl - Margaret Leroy - Страница 17

CHAPTER 11

The Arbours was once a private house. It’s a solid, whitewashed building, imposing amid its cedar trees and lawns.

The receptionist has nail extensions—navy blue, with stick-on gems. We sit in the waiting room, which smells of damp and beeswax. Thank-you cards from children have been pinned up on the walls, and there’s a heap of ancient children’s books. I read Frog and Toad to Sylvie, self-conscious about my mothering, wondering if we’re already being analysed, if the receptionist with the long jewelled nails is marking my parenting out of ten.

Dr Strickland comes to greet us. He’s a scented, immaculate man, white-haired, with a neat goatee beard. He shakes my hand; his skin is cool and smooth, like fabric.

‘I ask everyone who comes here to spend some time in the playroom,’ he tells us. ‘It helps me to understand you. I’ll be watching you through a one-way screen, but you’ll soon forget I’m there. So just enjoy yourselves.’

The playroom is all in primary colours, with lots of inviting toys—a cooker, bricks and Lego, a heap of dressing-up. Sylvie goes straight to the cooker and makes me a Play-Doh meal, which she cooks in the red plastic saucepans. I watch her as she plays—her decorous gestures, her silky colourless hair. She’s so poised, so self-possessed today. It’s the only time I’ve ever wished that she would be really difficult.

We’re joined by a woman with parrot earrings and a wide white smile. She says she is Katy the play therapist, and she will play with Sylvie, while I talk to Dr Strickland. She directs me to his office, which looks out over the lawns. It’s a blowy day, wind wrenches at the branches of the cedars, but his room is hushed and silent. He gestures me to a chair. To the side of us there’s one-way glass looking into the playroom.

‘Right, Ms Reynolds.’ He picks up a fat silver pen, pulls a notepad towards him. His cologne is too sweet for a man. ‘So when did you first begin to believe that Sylvie has problems?’ he says.

I don’t like the way he says ‘believe’. But I talk about her tantrums and her waking in the night, and he writes it all down with the fat silver pen.

‘And she has a phobia of water,’ I tell him. ‘Especially water touching her face.’

‘Yes, Mrs Pace-Barden told me. Was there any traumatic event that might have triggered her fear?’

‘No, there was nothing,’ I say. ‘I’ve thought about that a lot.’

‘So when did you first begin to notice the problem?’ he says.

‘She always hated bath time right from a tiny baby,’ I tell him. ‘We manage. I put in two inches of water, and she just does a quick in and out with absolutely no splashing. When I wash her hair I use one of those face shield things from Mothercare…’

‘You need to help her play with water in a relaxed situation,’ he says. ‘Help her learn to feel safe with water.’

‘Yes. I’ve tried that,’ I tell him.

I think of all the things I’ve tried to make her less afraid—playing at hair salons with her Barbies, buying a special watering can for watering the flowers. I think of her shuttered face when I’ve suggested these things. No, Grace. I don’t want to.

He frowns at the notes in front of him.

‘Now, the other things—the screaming and the waking in the night. Do they go back a long way too?’

‘Yes. But they seem to be getting worse. It’s almost every night now.’

‘Is there anything else that concerns you?’

‘Mrs Pace-Barden was worried because she always draws the same picture,’ I tell him.

‘What’s in this picture?’ he asks me.

‘It’s just a house,’ I tell him.

I think he will ask, like Mrs Pace-Barden—Did something happen to her there? But instead he smiles a brief ironic smile.

‘I have the greatest respect for Mrs Pace-Barden,’ he tells me, ‘but if we took on every child who repeatedly draws a house, the NHS would be in an even more perilous state than it is… Now, let’s go back a bit,’ he says.

He asks about Sylvie’s birth, how well she fed, her developmental milestones. This all seems quite straightforward.

Then he leans a little towards me.

‘Now, I think you’re in the unfortunate position of being a single parent?’ he says.

I nod. It’s the part of the consultation I’ve been dreading.

‘So what about her father? Does she see him?’ he says.

‘No,’ I say. Afraid he will think that this is an explanation for everything.

‘When relationships break down, it’s natural to feel a certain amount of anger.’ He has a sibilant, unctuous voice. ‘Absolutely natural. And I’m wondering if you felt that?’

I tell him yes: I’ve planned what I will say.

‘I’d have liked him to be there for her—to be a father to her.’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘That’s absolutely normal. And Sylvie herself, of course, will yearn for a father figure, and for those things you can’t provide, that only a father can give…’

I hate him putting it like that. I don’t say anything.

‘Now, when you look at Sylvie,’ he says, ‘do you perhaps sometimes see her father in her?’

I shake my head.

‘I can see they’re alike, of course, but Sylvie’s very much herself,’ I say.

‘All right. Thank you, Ms Reynolds.’

He moves his notepad between his palms, aligning it precisely with the edge of his desk.

‘Now, I’ll take you through the possible diagnoses,’ he says.

I feel a quick warm surge of hope. I tell myself that he is the expert, this scented, immaculate man, and that now he is going to help us—to diagnose Sylvie and heal her.

‘As you know, I’ve been watching Sylvie play, and it’s really been very instructive. Given the history, one possible diagnosis would be Autistic Spectrum Disorder. And Sylvie does have some rigidity of behaviour and thought. But, against that, she has good eye contact and good communicative intent, which autistic children never have, and her fantasy play is excellent. Autistic children don’t play like Sylvie, they can’t create these rich symbolic worlds. Post-traumatic stress disorder would also be a possibility—but there’s no evidence in what you told me of any traumatic event. Though obviously something may have happened that you’re not aware of. Sometimes we don’t know our children quite as well as we think we do.’

‘I’m sure nothing happened,’ I say.

He ignores this.

‘Now, I’ve also been looking for signs of ADHD—but Sylvie’s attentional skills are really very good. She has absolutely no difficulty concentrating. Rather the reverse, in fact. I’d say her ability to focus is perhaps a little exceptional.’

Perhaps I should be pleased he sees these good qualities in her. But I feel my heart sink. I glance into the playroom, where she’s showing Katy her new pink boots and smiling. She’s being a perfect little girl—in that way she sometimes has, that seems too perfect, as though she’s acting the part. I’m willing her to get upset, so that he will see.

‘So my diagnosis would be a phobic disorder, possibly caused by a constitutional vulnerability in Sylvie, and triggered by some unknown environmental event. And though she quite clearly doesn’t fulfil the diagnostic criteria for Autistic Spectrum Disorder, she does have a mild impairment of social and interpersonal functioning. Perhaps made worse by the fact that there are certain issues around your parenting of her.’

I wonder what he is going to say about me. I feel a dull, heavy ache in my chest.

He leans towards me, his fingertips pressed together in mock prayer.

‘There was something that concerned me, when I saw the two of you play.’ His voice is intimate, confiding. ‘I noticed that she doesn’t call you Mum or Mummy. And I wondered why you’d objected to that?’

‘It was Sylvie’s decision,’ I tell him.

A picture slides into my mind. Sylvie is two, and we’re in the garden by the mulberry tree. I kneel in front of her, cradling her face in my hands. Sweetheart, I want you to call me Mum. That’s what children do, that’s what Lennie calls her mother… She turns away from me, her silk hair shading her face. No, Grace.

‘She’s never called me Mum,’ I say.

Doubt flickers over his face. I know he doesn’t believe this.

‘You see, what concerns me here is your rather weak boundary-setting. That there isn’t a clear enough boundary between yourself and your child. That’s so important for successful parenting. Sylvie needs to know you’re the adult, that you’re the one in charge. It’s not so healthy for children to feel their parent is their best friend.’

‘I don’t think she sees me like that,’ I say.

But I know he isn’t listening: I know he’s sure he has found the key to decoding our relationship.

‘Over-involvement can be a danger for single mothers,’ he says. ‘Perhaps especially with a daughter, and when you have only one child. Sometimes the mother will see the child almost as part of herself, and that’s terribly unhealthy for the child. You need to maintain that boundary. It’s crucial for Sylvie’s mental health. I’d really like to see her calling you Mum.’

I don’t say anything.

His glance flicks down to his wristwatch. I know the consultation is coming to an end. Despair drags at me. If he can’t help me, who will?

‘Now, unless there’s anything else you need to ask…’ he says.

In the playroom, Sylvie is trying on dressing-up hats and laughing. I feel a stupid anger with her, for behaving so perfectly. I’m willing her to scream, to do something unnerving or strange; but she pulls on a hat with a feather and grins at her reflection in the mirror. Two minutes and it’ll be over, and my chance to get help will be gone.

I clear my throat, but I’m not looking at him.

‘I read something in a newspaper—about children with problems like Sylvie’s…’ My mouth feels thick and dry. I hadn’t planned to say this, but I don’t know what else I can do. ‘It said that some psychiatrists will do regression to try and help the child—you know, hypnotise them… Take them back…’ My voice fades.

His face tenses, sharpens a little. I feel it’s the first time I’ve really got his attention. I don’t know if this is a good thing.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he says, ‘but I think you must be referring to the past-life lobby.’

‘Well. Kind of.’

My voice is thin and high.

He screws up his mouth, as though he has a bitter taste.

‘I’m afraid it’s true, there are such people,’ he says. ‘Sadly even the medical profession does have its lunatic fringe.’

‘I thought I’d just mention it…’

I look out into the gardens, at the lawns, at the great swaying cedars. I would like to be out there, to feel the cool air on my skin.

‘Ms Reynolds.’ He picks up his silver pen, leans forward; he’s brisker suddenly, more formal, an edge of concern in his voice. ‘Do you have a particular interest in these kinds of things, would you say?’

‘Not really. It was just that the little boy in the article sounded so like Sylvie…’

He coughs slightly.

‘What I’m trying to get at, Ms Reynolds—could you tell me, have you ever experienced anything that would incline you to believe in the paranormal?’ His words are measured, careful.

I don’t see why he’s asking this.

‘What kind of thing?’ I ask him.

‘Sometimes people can hear things—voices in their heads that sound like other people. Is that something you’ve ever experienced?’

Shit.

‘No. Nothing like that,’ I tell him.

‘Any hallucinations at all? Seeing things that aren’t there?’

‘No. Never.’

‘And in your family? Mother, father, grandparents—any problems with mental illness or anything like that?’

‘No. My mother wasn’t a very happy person—but no, nothing like that.’

‘And her father’s family? What about them?’

‘I don’t really know,’ I tell him. ‘It wasn’t that kind of relationship. To be honest, I don’t know anything about them…’

My voice fades. I feel a brief hot shame.

He nods, as though this is what he expected.

‘I also have to ask you this—for Sylvie’s sake, you understand. Are you—or have you ever been—a user of illicit substances? Cannabis? Amphetamines?’

I shake my head. Though I did once eat some hash brownies at a party at Lavinia’s—she grows cannabis plants in her window boxes; we had a riotous evening but afterwards I was sick.

‘Right, then.’ He permits himself a little quiet sigh. ‘Look, I really don’t think we need to invoke the paranormal to understand your daughter. The truth is, sometimes it’s easier to embrace some extravagant theory, than to examine our own behaviour,’ he says.

‘I just thought I’d mention it,’ I tell him. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.

He leans back in his chair again.

‘So there you have it, Ms Reynolds. Sylvie has a phobic disorder and some slight impairment of social functioning, probably exacerbated by rather weak boundary-setting. I can see, of course, that you find her behaviours difficult. But I really don’t feel she falls within our remit.’

I swallow hard.

‘So you can’t help us,’ I say.

He frowns. Perhaps I put it too baldly.

‘I didn’t say that exactly, Ms Reynolds. But sometimes the best way in isn’t via the presenting problem. Sometimes we need to intervene in a different part of the family system. And I do feel that there are issues here about boundaries and over-involvement, and also some unresolved anger about Sylvie’s father and how he treated you. And what I think we should do here is to focus on you, rather than Sylvie. To assist you with boundary-setting, and to help you handle Sylvie’s behaviours,’ he says.

There’s a weight like lead in my stomach.

‘I have an excellent colleague, Dr Jenny Martin,’ he says, ‘who I’m sure would be able to help. She’s really very approachable. If you’re happy with that, then I’ll fax her my notes, and you can ring for an appointment.’

He gives me Dr Martin’s number, and takes me through to find Sylvie. She says goodbye to Katy and slips her hand in mine. She looks up at me with a little pleased smile, perhaps expecting praise for her immaculate behaviour.

We walk slowly out through the grounds of the clinic. The boughs of the cedars creak as they move with a strange high sound like a human voice.

‘It was nice there,’ says Sylvie. ‘I liked the cooker, Grace. The cooker was nice, wasn’t it?’

I feel despair. All that effort—the time off, the planning what to say, Sylvie’s boots I could barely afford—and all for nothing.

‘I knew you’d like the cooker. It’s just the same as the one in Lennie’s bedroom,’ I say.

‘She isn’t Lennie,’ says Sylvie.

I don’t say anything.