The Enumerations Page 10
‘She said you should try it too, Mads. And she’ll ask Noah to do the same.’
‘That’s such a cool idea, Mom,’ Maddie says.
Sometimes, when her parents talk about her brother and where he is, it’s as if everything about him is difficult and complicated, but it wasn’t always.
Maddie remembers sitting in the garden with Noah, making mud pies, hers lumpy and misshapen, Noah’s set neatly in rows. She was only four years old, and that’s what Noah said to her, ‘Don’t worry, Maddie, you’re only little. When you’re as old as me, your pies will be much better.’
Maddie remembers the mud on her fingers, how it became darker and shinier as Noah added water. He knew just how much, as well. The mud couldn’t be too sloppy, nor could it be too dry. When it was just right, Noah dipped his hand in and scooped up a little, rolled it into a ball, then reached behind him for the twig lying ready. A quick flattening and the mud pie lay there, perfectly formed, the same size as the one next to it.
Maddie’s brother may not talk much, but he’s always there to listen. He’s kind and generous. And he was the best mud-pie maker in the world.
47.
Juliet’s mother smiles at her from the photo that used to sit on top of the piano. She’s young, carefree, her face a wide smile that says, Isn’t life wonderful? Or at least that’s what Juliet imagines her saying. Or maybe she’s saying, Let’s have a ball, party the night away. Get me another drink. And another drink and another and another.
It’s black and white, but she knows that when her mother was young her hair shone white-gold and her eyes were the same cloudy blue as her daughter’s. Her skin was fresh and her cheeks full. She’s laughing, her head thrown back on her long neck. There are no wrinkles, no bags under her eyes, no ashen unsteadiness, no fingernails rimmed with dirt because she hasn’t had the energy to get up and out of bed and into the shower.
The girl in the photo is a million miles from the woman who calls, ‘Jules, Jules, could you come here, sweetheart?’ The woman who says, ‘Juliet, darling, the shopping,’ and smiles weakly when Juliet says, ‘Sure, Mom,’ and reaches inside her mother’s bag for the keys. The girl in the photo is only a few years older than Juliet is now.
Juliet is fifteen. Too young to drive, too young to shop for a week’s worth of groceries, too young to sign for the delivery at the door when the local bottle store drops off a different kind of supplies. There’s no sign of her father in the photo on the top of the piano. Juliet wonders whether that laughing young woman even had a clue that she was about to become one part of a couple.
48.
The old man doesn’t always use his dragonstick. Some days he walks straight and tall and swings his long arms and draws breath into his lungs and puts his shoulders back. Those are the days when he talks about what life was like when he was young, how his father made him work hard for every penny he paid him, dammit. How there was no such thing as running to parents for help, asking, begging, crying like a baby, always needing a little more. Just this once, please, Father.
I warned him, didn’t I?
He waits until Mum nods her head, and then he goes on.
When I say last time, I mean last time. You’d better remember that, boy. Enough is ebloodynough, that’s what I said to him. I’m not pouring more good money after bad. And look at me now, wasting more of my hard-earned savings on his little buggers.
And now he’s pushing his chair away from the table, walking out of the room, leaving the dragonstick behind him.
Some days he’s bent, his hand gripping the dragonhead, knuckles white with effort. He snarls more, snaps more. Gabriel looks forward to those days, feeling a small spurt of happiness when he sees that even a man as hard and strong as this one is can feel pain.
Some days, Gabriel thinks, he simply likes the fear he sees in Gabriel’s eyes when the stick hisses close to his leg, likes to see him wince as it nicks the skin of his calf, catches him between his ankles. That’s the only time Gabriel ever hears him laughing.
And some nights, the old man tap-drags his way to their room. He cracks the stick across the headboard of Mum’s bed, or whacks it into her pillow and Mum startles out of bed to scrub a floor that’s already clean, to wipe down picture frames that have gathered dust that only his old-man eyes can see.
Gabriel has learnt to keep his eyes closed as the old man shouts, Out of bed, woman. He lies quiet in the dark, waiting for Mum to come back. He waits for her to lean over his bed and say, It’s all right, I’m all right. You go back to sleep now.
Some nights Gabriel hears the old man tap-dragging after Mum, hears his voice cracking out more orders, more instructions to Do it right, otherwise we’ll just have to go back to square one.
Some nights he leaves the dragonstick behind him, and Gabriel stares into the dragon’s eyes. They burn red in the night, but nothing can burn as fiercely as the hatred raging inside Gabriel as he listens to the sound of his mother trying so hard to do it all right.
49.
‘He’s so OCD, it drives me mad.’
Kate hears the words from across the room, and her buttocks clench. It’s hard enough coming to these evenings, doing the obligatory-smile-and-ask-polite-questions to people who seldom bother to ask you anything in return.
Monica Ryan is on her sixth Scotch and soon she’ll start slurring and Bart Ryan won’t stand anywhere near her the whole evening. Not until it’s time to gather her up and pour her into the car. In any case, he has other concerns.
Leonie Blake’s always ready with a snide comment about another woman’s hair, or dress, or weight, or makeup.
Trudi Meyers prefaces every comment with ‘But Andrew says’, as if only her husband’s thoughts and opinions carry any weight.
Delia Magnusson has to run every day, burning off calories before she can eat them, smoothing her hands over the black knit dress that rests on the jut of her hip bones.
It’s Delia who made the OCD comment. Her gaze flicks over to where Kate is standing, and the eyes of the women she is talking to follow. They’ve got Kate in their sights and their daggers are razor-sharp.
Delia is winding her way across the room now, her arms extended stick-like for a hug, her cheek turned for a mwah-mwah. ‘Kate. How are you?’
Kate’s face stretches in a smile. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘And you, Delia?’
‘Oh, you know me.’ Delia’s eyes are quick and picky, assessing the price of Kate’s dress, her shoes, the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
Yes I do, Kate wants to answer. I know you only too well. You’re here for the kill. Because Delia knows, all these smiling women know, that Noah beat up a kid at school, used his ‘superior strength’ to dislocate his elbow.
Delia’s eyes have stopped darting. They’ve settled on Kate’s face and she’s coming in for the kill.
And here it comes.
Delia glances over to where Trudi and Isolde and Leonie Blake are standing in a little cluster. ‘How is Noah, Kate?’
Kate smiles. ‘He’s fine, thank you, Delia.’
‘He is? Oh, that’s good. Only I heard, correct me if I’m wrong, but I heard he’s joined the residential programme at Greenhills.’ Delia’s got the knife in now and she’s twisting. The others edge closer, keen to catch every word. ‘You know, the one Monica and Bart’s daughter’s gone back into.’
Everyone knows about Juliet and that this stint in Greenhills is her third. Kate recalls standing silently on the outskirts of a group like this, watching Monica fumble through explanations, Juliet’s where-abouts, her expected date of discharge, whether the treatment had worked. How she had clumsily ducked the truth about what was wrong with her daughter, which only led to more speculation once her back was turned and the assembled women could stab at her safely.
‘Can anything be done to help her?’ Delia had asked then. Kate had caught Monica’s eye but looked away quickly. That’s the way the pack works. You might not be in the inner circle, sharpening tooth and cla
w with the rest of them, but you don’t want to be exiled to the frosty wastes either.
This time it’s Kate’s turn to be interrogated.
Monica looks sickened by the whole thing, and Kate feels a flash of gratitude. It would be so easy for Monica to look quietly satisfied, but she doesn’t. It seems she’s the only person who isn’t out to get Kate, to pull her down a peg or two, teach her that no one is inviolate, no one is safe from a sniping attack. Kate wants to reach out to her and say, Don’t worry. I’ll get through this, somehow.
Only now, Monica’s looking panicked. Her hand is flying to her mouth, and she’s spewing. There’s vomit all over Trudi’s Jimmy Choos but Delia has suffered the worst – it’s splattered across the front of her dress. The horde pulls back and away in disgust as Monica mumbles, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
The bottoms of Leonie Blake’s narrow-legged red trousers are dotted with small yellow specks and Kate finds herself wondering if there were egg mayo sandwiches on the buffet table. Surely nothing so pedestrian? Maybe devilled eggs. Chewed and regurgitated like yellow and white confetti.
‘Monica. Don’t worry.’ Kate has her by the elbow. ‘Let’s go clean you up.’
Bart storms up, his face furious.
Kate puts up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Don’t make this worse.’
She steers Monica to the restroom, to the pretty pastels and perfumed air. Delia’s gang is already clustered there, talking excitedly, giggling.
‘Sorry ladies,’ Kate says. ‘Give us a few moments.’
‘Well—’ says Leonie, but Kate freezes her out mid-sentence.
‘Do you need to use the loo, Leonie?’
‘No, but we—’
‘Seriously, Leonie?’
Kate stands silently, holding Monica’s arm, willing her to stay upright until the door swings shut behind them. Then she guides her to a chair. Monica slumps forward, her head bent towards her knees.
Kate grabs another chair and wedges it under the door handle. ‘That’ll do for a while,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’ Monica’s voice is thick, tired. ‘I shouldn’t have come, but Bart …’
There’s an indignant hum outside the door now.
Monica’s staring at herself in the mirror, slowly tucking her lacklustre hair behind her ears. ‘God,’ she says. ‘Look at me, Kate.’ She runs her tongue over her teeth and grimaces. Kate hands her a glass of water.
‘I used to get so jealous.’ Monica sways back in her chair.
‘Monica, listen. You have to stand up now. Can you do that?’
‘I … I’m not sure. I don’t want to go out there. Bart. He’s going to kill me.’
‘You have to. Now listen. We’re going to walk straight past everyone. You and me. Dominic will take us home.’
‘Oh God, Kate. I don’t know if I can.’
Kate takes one of the rose-embroidered hand towels and drenches it under the tap, wrings it out.
Monica gets to her feet. She stands for a moment then steps forward to join Kate at the sink.
The handle of the door jerks up and down and there’s an angry voice. ‘Monica. Monica, get yourself out here.’
Kate grips her hand. ‘Ignore him.’
Monica dabs at her face and then at her dress. Kate opens her evening bag and passes her a wet wipe, a comb and lipstick.
‘Thanks, Kate. You’re so organised.’
Another impatient rattle. This time it’s Leonie. ‘For God’s sake, Kate. Enough is enough.’
Kate slips her arm through Monica’s, feels her draw a deep breath. ‘Ready?’
‘Thanks, Kate,’ Monica says. ‘Really, thank you.’ She looks a little better now, even if the smell of vomit is still hanging over them.
Kate pushes the chair aside and opens the door.
Bart’s on the other side, steaming.
Kate smiles at him. ‘Have you seen Dominic, Bart? I’m going to ask him to take me and Monica home.’
‘Nonsense!’ Bart blusters. ‘Nonsense.’
‘Thank you, Kate.’ Monica turns to Bart. ‘Stay, Bart.’ Her eyes scan the small crowd and settle on a lithe young brunette, svelte in a black sheath dress. ‘I don’t want to spoil your evening.’
He splutters again, but her back is turned. ‘Shall we go, Kate?’
Dominic’s there now, his face concerned. ‘Kate? Monica?’
‘Hello, darling,’ Kate says. ‘Monica and I would like to leave.’
‘That’s fine.’ Dominic rises to the occasion easily, shepherding the women ahead of him.
‘Thank you,’ Monica says again.
‘Don’t worry about it, Mon.’ Kate speaks firmly and clearly. ‘After all, we Greenhills moms have to stick together.’
The small group parts ahead of them and Kate, Monica and Dominic walk out of the hotel, into the warmth of the summer evening.
50.
Day 7 / 12:42
It’s Sunday. On his timetable, it says that, apart from lunch and visiting hours, Saturdays and Sundays at Greenhills are ‘unstructured’. Noah can catch up on chores like cleaning his room or doing his laundry. He can do some of the schoolwork his teachers have sent him. He could do some gardening with Mr Bill or ‘socialise with other residents’.
Give that a miss for now. Remember what the Turner woman said? Small steps.
That’s right. So, for now, Noah will keep to the timetable he’s followed for the last 6 days. There’s no group, or exercises or handcrafts, but journal time is after lunch and that’s what he’ll do now, write about his family search, how it started and with it, the need to know, to balance both sides, create stepping stones that would lead him to who he is, why he is.
Ms Turner will know about the Family Tree; it’s come up in sessions with other therapists so it will be in his file. What she won’t know is how much time he’s spent on it, how far back his research has taken him. Or not, in the case of his father.
He can tell Ms Turner about that, he can even add it to a ‘5 Things’ list. But there are some things he can’t share. He’s not allowed the words.
His family know when it started, and how. They’ve seen the rules become more and more complicated, lived with the changes that had to be made. But they don’t understand why and Noah can never risk trying to explain.
They listened and tried their best to make things easier, to create a space where he was less agitated, less worried.
They watched as he started, stopped, and began again. They could see what was happening, but he was forbidden to share the details, to let them know how he felt.
1.That he had to listen to the commands filling his head, telling him how to count, what to balance, what order to do things in.
2.That he tried and tried to get everything right.
3.That each time he made the smallest mistake, he had to go back to the very beginning.
4.That his heart beat faster as he tried to slow down.
5.That his anxiety grew every second he wasn’t holding them all safe.
Even now, as he writes, Noah feels his breathing quicken. He pushes his heels hard into the carpet.
It was no one’s fault that he didn’t improve; they couldn’t do much, because of the rules. He tried, at first, but when he did the Dark descended, full of threat and fear and horror.
So far, Greenhills isn’t helping. Every time he makes space to think, to restore order, something changes. Usually it’s small, but it’s enough to throw everything out. A couple of minutes here, a couple there.
Noah knows what they’re doing, and why, but—
They don’t understand the dangers like you do.
That’s true. And he can’t explain any of it.
51.
26 July 2011 / 19:36
His mom’s fingers reached and Noah’s scrabbled back. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t see each other, but their hands were locked tight: 10 fingers grasping 10, telling them they were both still fine, both still hanging in there.
BossMan’s eyes darted orange. He stripped off his gloves and flexed his fingers. His hands were small, and barely lighter than the black of his jacket. He clicked a remote on Kate’s keyring and the gates opened.
GreyEyes sat in the passenger seat and the door on his side clunked shut. GapTooth packed screwdrivers and number plates into the duffle bag, picked it up, got into the back of the car.
As the engine purred into life, BossMan stared at them, trussed up on the driveway. He checked the rear-view mirror, placed a warning finger on his lips, and then they were gone, the gates sliding closed behind them.
All was dark and all was shadow as Noah and his mother waited to be rescued.
52.
There is a catch, lodged under her sternum, just below her heart. Kate feels it when she breathes in, when the air sighs out of her. At night, as she lies on her back, her hand moves to this strange ache, and she massages it gently. It’s just a stitch, she tells herself, an odd sort of stitch, but no matter what she does, it won’t go away. It’s there when she is walking, showering, driving; it stops her if she turns her head too quickly.
Kate considers going to the physio, to melt the pain out of her body, but this deep hurt is what connects her to Noah.
She stares out of the window to where Spit and Spot lie panting in the shade. Whenever they hear the gate, or the sound of tyres on gravel, they look up, ready to bound up to Maddie, expecting Noah to be there to pat them with his large hands and say, ‘Hey girl, hey boy.’ Do they feel the same ache, Kate wonders, as they look for Noah and cannot find him? Is it like hers, deep-seated, unmoving, as hard and rough as a rock in her chest.
53.
Dominic’s out in the garden again. He could at least have stayed at the table for a while. But when he saw her face, that expression, the one that says, Please Dom, can we talk, he got up and said he needed to see how his new azaleas were doing. He’s been nursing them along, keeping the mulch around their shallow roots moist, worried that they’ll dry out in the summer heat.