Читать книгу Dear Charlie - Natália Gomes - Страница 10

Chapter 5

‘6 Underground’ (Sneaker Pimps, Autumn 1996)

Peering over the top of my notepad, I saw Dr Albreck’s almond-shaped hazel eyes flitting from my shaking foot to the pen twirling in my fingers. Two swirling masses of greenish-browns burrowing into my thoughts, watching my every move, analysing each moment. Catching her eyes, my attention darted back down to the notebook.

A low humming seeped out of the monitor on her table, and from somewhere in the waiting room, I heard a phone ringing. A slight breeze flowed through the trees, making some of the branches bend and sway. Peeling my eyes away from the window, I checked back to see if Dr Albreck was still watching me. She was.

‘Ready?’

She’d decided on a new approach for today’s session since I had spent the previous appointment attempting to inquire about her personal life. Although perhaps invasive and rude at times, I thought the questions were reasonable, and warranted. How was I supposed to confess my deepest darkest thoughts to a woman who I knew nothing about? Perhaps she too harboured some dark notions that made her emotionally incapable of helping me with mine.

Unfortunately, she was less than forthcoming about her marital status, university grades and personal food preferences, which left me still unsure of her capabilities to assist me during the worst time of my life. That day she had ended the appointment early – without offering me a reimbursement of the minutes retracted – and changed the direction of the next session.

This afternoon I was to write down three emotions I had felt in the past week. Since I had arrived twelve minutes late for our therapy session because of the late night I had had the evening before, the first emotion on my list was remorse. After that, the page was blank.

‘Sam?’

‘I’m having a difficult time collecting my thoughts.’

‘Do you have anything written down?’

‘Yes, remorse.’

‘Excellent. Let’s start with that. Tell me why you think you felt remorse this week?’

‘Because I was twelve minutes late today and I really dislike people who aren’t punctual.’

She took a long deep breath, and then straightened back up. ‘Do you feel remorse for anything else? The events of the past year, perhaps?’

I felt my body retreat, my spine pushing into the back of the armchair until it became uncomfortable. A bitter taste in my mouth caused me to swallow, but I couldn’t get rid of it. Was she implying that I should feel remorse for my brother’s actions? I thought I was coming here to let go of feelings of guilt and blame, not to accept them. One emotion suddenly became clear to me – anger. But instead of writing it down or simply saying what I was thinking, I did exactly what I had been doing for the past few sessions. Afraid of the discussions being about me, my family, I turned it back on her. ‘Have you ever felt remorse? Maybe for something that you did in your past?’

‘Sam, like I told you last time, these sessions aren’t about me. They’re about you.’

‘Right, I remember,’ I said, my response sounding sharper than I’d intended.

She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in another way, her eyebrows pinching together. Taking another deep breath, she dropped her pen on her notepad as if surrendering. ‘Sam, do you think you’d be more comfortable talking with another counsellor? Maybe a male counsellor?’

‘Are you… firing me? Am I being fired from therapy? Can that even happen?’

‘Not fired, but transferred to a more suitable pairing. And it can happen if the client would feel more comfortable meeting with another psychologist. Of course, I want to keep seeing you but I worry that our sessions aren’t moving forward. I want you to feel that this is a safe space where you can talk about anything. I want these sessions to help you, and I don’t think they are.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you want?’

‘Again, it’s not about me, it’s about you.’

What did she want me to say? No? Did she want me to beg? So, I responded in the only way I knew how, ‘Um… OK?’

She paused, as if she wanted to say something more but instead picked up her pen to make her final notes. Head down, she continued talking to me without meeting my eyes. ‘OK. So I will make a recommendation to one of my colleagues who I feel would be a good communication partner for you and he will contact you to arrange therapy days and times.’ She finally looked up at me, her eggshell-coloured frames sliding down the bridge of her nose slightly. ‘Sam, do you have anything you’d like to say or ask me before we end our last session? And no, I don’t mean ask me a question about my personal life.’

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I considered the many questions that pushed against my head causing me pain, but couldn’t find the right one to ask. So, I said nothing and shook my head in silence.

‘Right. Well, good luck, Sam. I hope you find more success in your next therapy,’ she said, standing up. She smoothed down the front of her skirt and readjusted her glasses. Even though she tried to hide it with her thick glasses, too-tight bun that pinched at her scalp and beige clothing, she was pretty. And there was something about her that made me feel comfortable in her office. Had she not given up so easily, I may have actually opened up to her someday. But like all the adults in my life, she was too busy to wait. Asking her too many personal questions – strike one. Arriving late to a session – strike two. Failing to immediately spill my thoughts, fears and the crushing weight of grief to her – strike three. Three strikes and I was out.

Leaving the notepad on my seat, blank except for one word written on it: Remorse, I slumped out of her office feeling like I’d just failed an exam. I considered turning back to wave, but a strange feeling of the very emotion that I had written down washed over me and I didn’t want her to see. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to tell her to just be patient for a little while longer. I wanted to explain to her that this was how everyone in my family handled their emotions, by bottling them up until they explode like a shaken Coke bottle. But like my family, I was too stubborn to apologise, too scared to ask for help, and too selfish to care. So, I walked straight to the exit door and pushed it open, not turning back to see if it closed properly behind me.

The next morning, I awoke to the usual muffled voices of my parents from the kitchen. Although the conversation was brief and void of emotion, they didn’t seem to be fighting today. Perhaps we’d have a normal Sunday morning, like a normal family who dealt with normal problems, like whose turn it was to do the dishes or whether there were enough whites to do a light-coloured load of laundry.

‘Sam?’

‘Yeah, Dad?’

‘I’m going to need you to go to the library today. Just between 10am and 2pm.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re having an open house for prospective buyers today.’

‘You never told me that,’ my mum said, turning around to face him. My dad ignored her and continued making his coffee. ‘Dan? You never told me.’ Her voice was getting louder, more desperate.

‘What does it matter?’

‘I just didn’t think we were in a rush to sell?’

‘Of course we are. We can’t stay here. Do you know I got my headlights smashed out again?’

‘Why don’t you park in the garage then?’ I shrugged, sliding a cup towards my dad for him to fill with strong black coffee. He ignored me.

‘I’m not ready to sell, Dan,’ my mum blurted out suddenly.

So much for my normal Sunday morning. I braced myself for my dad’s response, moving my empty coffee mug out of the line of fire.

‘I’m not getting into this right now.’

‘You’re not listening. I’m not ready,’ she said again.

‘The sign’s been up for weeks! And now you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think we’d have any interest this soon. I thought because of the journalists still outside that it would take months, maybe even a year? I thought we had more time here.’

‘Well, we do have interest. Two people have already contacted the agent.’

‘So cancel!’

‘We’re having the open house today. I’m not cancelling. And that’s the end of it.’

‘And what about me?’ she cried.

‘For once, let’s not make this about you,’ he snapped, slamming down his coffee cup. Drops of black liquid seeped over the edge and trickled down the cup, forming a circle on the tile. After he went into the garage and Mum stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind her, I cleaned up the coffee with a dampened rag by the sink, worried that it would stain.

Quickly showering and throwing on some jeans, I packed a bag with textbooks and a notepad and jogged to the bus stop. But instead of taking bus 09 to Knightsbridge town centre for the library, I took bus 11 to Priory Road in Pembrook, where the town’s cemetery was located.

When I got off the bus, a dark gloomy cloud hung in the sky and seemed to follow me overhead. I hadn’t worn my raincoat, but whether it rained or not was the furthest thought from my mind. A path snaked around the cemetery and eventually led to the back section where a dozen new graves sat. Slowly making my way from one to the other, I read each headstone carefully, absorbing the names, the birthdates, the messages from their loved ones. Too many deaths. Too much loss. Mr Healey, Gregory, Mr Smith, Nick, David M., David R., Stephen, Laura, Michael, Cara, Geoff, Andrew, Robert, Joseph. There they all were, six feet underground, beneath the soles of my shoes as if they’d never existed at all. It was like their voices had never carried in the hallways, as if their laughter hadn’t filled the classrooms. But they had existed. I had seen them. I had heard them. And now they were reduced to merely bones and decaying flesh.

I hadn’t thought much about the afterlife before that morning in June. The theory of heaven and hell isn’t exactly a popular discussion topic for teenagers. When you’re sixteen years old, death isn’t a possibility. It’s a story that you read about in the news, a sadness that spreads through hospitals, a tragedy that frequently visits the elderly, but never the young. Death should never meet the young. But it did. Thanks to my brother, death made fourteen new friends that day. Maybe even fifteen, if you count Charlie. But I don’t think death came for him. I think something darker and more sinister took his soul. When I imagine those students looking down, like that dark cloud above, I know my brother isn’t with them. I don’t know where he is.

Walking over to section B of the cemetery, I glanced back at the new graves as they withered into rows of stone and fresh flowers. Section B was starkly different, its headstones made of remnant material and the flower bouquets reduced to a single stem. And there it was. It looked smaller, less worthy of the attention it had gathered. No amount of protest and headline could stop the development of Charlie’s stone. I didn’t know why people had got so angry. His body wasn’t even buried there. We had had him cremated, as he wished, with the intention of scattering his ashes at Harper’s Beach, where we had played as children. But the urn still sat on my mother’s bedside table, allowing her a place to think of my brother, away from my dad’s judging eyes and my face, which reminded her too much – and not enough – of Charlie’s. But my parents, or rather my mum, had decided on a granite bevel marker to represent a place of rest. As per my dad’s wishes, she had kept it simple: his name, date of birth and date of death. No message or prayer, just facts.

When I got to my brother’s stone, I dropped to my knees. Someone had poured soil on top and garnished it with headless thorny rose stems. Scooping the earth off, I polished the granite beneath with the sleeve of my jumper until a pale greyish blue shone through. Words sizzled in my mouth, rising to the surface, but when I opened my mouth, images of fourteen graves entered my mind. So I left the cemetery, having not done what I had gone there to do – forgive my brother.

I returned home earlier than I should have. Not even one o’clock. A silver Jeep Cherokee sat in the driveway. I quietly sneaked in and up the stairs, hearing my dad talk business to a guy who looked to be in his twenties. He looked a little young to be buying a house, especially for this neighbourhood. But when I reached the top, it quickly sunk in why he was there. Positioned in the doorway, almost too afraid to step any closer, was a young woman taking photos of my brother’s room.

‘You should leave before my dad catches you,’ I said, as she spun around, dropping the camera by her feet.

‘I… I was just…’ But she didn’t finish her sentence, unable to find a good reason to explain why she was doing what she was doing. She grabbed her camera, called down to her boyfriend and hurried to the Jeep. I met my dad at the front door just in time to see their car reach the end of the street, tyre streaks still visible on the concrete.

‘Dad, they were – ’

‘ – I know.’ He sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘I know, Sam.’ He sauntered back into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge and quietly closed the garage door behind him. A minute later, I heard him slam something hard against the door. He would later emerge that afternoon in need of a bandage to cover his bloody fist.