The Half Sister Read online

  The temptation is too great. By leaning forwards and swivelling the notebook round, Edmund is able to read her accounts of the therapy sessions. At first it’s hard to make sense of the transcript, but then he works out that most of it is a literal description of what the patient does: anything Sofia says is in italics and her comments are underlined. He scans quickly, conscious that at any time he might be caught cheating.

  Session 7

  M repeated what has become a familiar pattern, going straight to the sink and filling it with water. He took the soap dispenser and squirted some into the water, swishing it around until it made bubbles. He sang as he played. He scooped the bubbles into his hand and brought them over to show me.

  You’ve made something beautiful this morning. Interesting, as well.

  This account is recognisable. Edmund heard Mikey singing a carol that day when he came to collect him; the window was open. At the end of that session, Mikey cried for fifteen minutes and refused to leave. He had to be physically manhandled out of the room. Edmund knows that already; it’s what Sofia made of it that interests him.

  This session held extreme contrasts. It seemed that for the first time M admitted the possibility of fun and beauty in his playfulness with the bubbles, also able to accept something of the transitory nature of good things. His singing felt like a performance, rather than a communication, but perhaps he was also showing me he could communicate and would, when he was ready.

  It is not clear to me what prompted the extreme emotional response and collapse into tears. As he cried, I was made to punitively experience helplessness, an inability to understand real sadness, powerlessness. I also had the strong sense of things that were not able to be spoken in words, only in tears.

  I was not surprised that M found it painful to leave. He exposed more of himself in today’s session – both highs and lows – and must have felt very vulnerable.

  These are difficult words for Edmund, to see in black and white the boy’s pain, which he knows he feels but which is rarely expressed to him directly. In fact his increasingly normal behaviour at home, for want of a better word, sometimes worries Edmund. He doesn’t know where all the difficult thoughts go. He does now.

  The door swings open. Sofia looks flustered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Hastily getting to his feet to disguise his snooping, Edmund turns the book around.

  ‘There’s a bit of a problem, I need to stay and help. I may be another ten minutes or so before someone can relieve me. Would you mind waiting?’

  Of course. As soon as she has closed the door behind her, Edmund picks up the notebook.

  Session 8

  M arrived at therapy on time and came straight into the room. He sat down on the armchair opposite, swinging his legs and smiling.

  You seem happy to be here.

  Yes.

  (This is the first time M has said yes in these sessions. He has spoken in the two previous sessions, but only to say no.)

  Yes?

  Yes yes yes yes yes.

  He laughed, quite spontaneously. He got up from the armchair and opened the box.

  What shall we do? (speaking to himself?)

  I don’t know if you’re speaking to me or not. Are you talking to me?

  He did not respond.

  This one.

  He got one of the plastic figures from the tin.

  This one will do, you can be her.

  He got another plastic figure from the tin.

  The sense in the room was that there were two other people in the room, but I was not one of them.

  M found some tissue paper and Sellotape.

  You.

  He picked up one of the figures, apparently indiscriminately, wrapped it up in tissue paper and wound the tape around the small parcel before lying it on the edge of the table.

  That looks like a present for someone.

  M turned round as if surprised that I was there. He returned to his play. He repeated the same procedure, saying ‘you next’, picking a model, this time a man, and wrapping him up. He struggled to break the tape and turned again to look at me and said, ‘Scissors please.’ I took the scissors out of the high cupboard and gave them to him.

  It feels nice for me to be able to help you.

  He put his finger in between the blades and made a cutting motion, looked at me and stopped. Then he put a piece of his hair between the blades and cut off a small amount and held the hair out to me.

  That’s your hair, whether you’ve cut it off or not.

  He threw his hair in the bin under the sink and held his hands under the tap for a long time. He came towards me, took some of my hair in his hand and made as if to cut it. I stayed still. He was leaning over the chair, very close and I experienced a strong urge to protest.

  No, don’t do that . . . I won’t, don’t worry.

  He sat back down at his box with the model figures.

  Thank you. I didn’t like the feeling that you were going to cut my hair without my permission. I’m happy you didn’t.

  No response. During the following ten minutes, he wrapped up all except one of the figures and laid them in a row on the edge of the table. He said, ‘Now what?’ I repeated the question, I was ignored. He took the blanket from the doll’s cot, but then said sorry and returned to the cot with a cushion to cover up the doll.

  That’s kind, to think the doll might be cold and you can help her.

  M did not even appear to hear me any longer. He laid the blanket out on the floor, next to the toy box. He took the first figure selected and made that figure push all the wrapped-up models off the box and onto the blanket, one by one. He then folded up the corners of the blanket and rolled it up so that all the models were inside and then he put the entire package in the toy box and closed the lid. The remaining figure was made to dance on top of the box.

  You have put all the people except one in the blanket in the box. What will happen now?

  I’ve got circus animals at home.

  That’s the first time you’ve mentioned home in one of our sessions.

  Haven’t I? (surprised) They’ve got their own box. It’s nearly time, isn’t it?

  When I agreed, he put the remaining model figure in his pocket. I reminded him of the rule that everything stays in the therapy room and will be there for him at the next session. He hesitated then handed the remaining model figure to me.

  You look like you trust me to keep this safe.

  He nodded.

  I’ll put the figure back in the tin for safekeeping.

  He shrugged. He waited at the door and left quietly at the end of the session.

  This was a very painful session for me. M took the decision to speak, but I experienced great difficulty in replying as if he could still not be understood or responded to. I felt I could not meet his needs. On top of that, the difficulty I felt in commenting on his game or joining his play was debilitating. There was a strong experience of more than one M in the room and of being excluded by both of them. There were also poignant moments such as covering the doll, which seemed quite spontaneous and confirmed what people report, that M has a very kind and loving nature. Having said that, the threat of a potentially violent child was strongly experienced when he approached my hair with the scissors.

  I struggle to bring meaning to his play with the models. Each one was wrapped carefully, deliberately, the predominant sense of the action was of silencing, burying. The omnipotence of M identifying himself with the last model standing was typical of many of his gestures, but mitigated by the need to hand himself over to someone else to keep safe. There were two occasions in this session where M asked for help for the first time and he mentioned home. It would be interesting to note whether this is mirroring increasing trust of his uncle and an increasing faith in the stability of his home placement.

  As it is now half way through the planned therapy sessions, I plan to meet with Edmund soon to review progress.

  Edmund does not struggle to inte
rpret Mikey’s play. The triumphant figure is not Mikey, but Diana. Diana, who successfully drove everyone away from Wynhope and ended up dancing over the buried bodies of both her sister and her nephew. It’s Diana who locks people away in boxes. It’s Diana Mikey wants to hand over and make sure she can never hurt him again. It’s Diana who must have felt omnipotent to him. With one eye on the clock, Edmund skips over the session where Mikey took his plastic bag and wasn’t allowed in and moves on to the most recent notes.

  Session 11

  As I anticipated, M brought the plastic bag to this session. In the waiting room I told him that I had been thinking hard about the bag and about how important it seemed to him and had decided to let him bring it in to therapy.

  M came in immediately. He stood inside the room looking around, then put the bag under the cushion on the chair where he often sits so that it could not be seen. He then sat on top of that cushion.

  Well, you’ve brought the bag in and you’ve hidden it, but not very well. I can find it pretty easily. But it’s your bag and you’re in charge of what happens to it.

  The start of the session repeated the game, filling the sink. Then he wandered around the room fiddling with various toys, the house, the model figures and then the catch on the window. He did not settle. At the table, he scribbled illegibly on endless pieces of paper, screwing each one up before standing on top of his chair and throwing it into the air, watching it fall to the floor, beginning on the next. He ignored all my interpretations, comments or offers of help. He looked repeatedly at the chair with the bag hidden under the cushion.

  We are half way through the session now. The bag was very important at the beginning and I notice you keep checking it’s still there. Do you want to open it?

  No.

  This feels like a game. Do you want me to guess what’s in the bag?

  No.

  M tidied up the models, cleaned the table, put all the pens back in the case, all the paper in the bin and emptied the sink until the room looked the same as when he arrived.

  You’ve made everything clean and tidy just like it was at the beginning of the session, almost as if you haven’t been here, as if nothing’s happened. All that’s left that’s different is the bag under the cushion.

  M retrieved the yellow plastic bag, pulled out a black A4 ring binder and put it on the floor besides the door.

  It’s a file. I can see it’s got paper in it. And now you’ve put it by the door so neither of us can go in or out without touching it. Someone’s going to have to do something with it.

  M sat on the chair, holding the cushion to his chest, rocking slightly, making occasional moaning sounds. This lasted four minutes.

  No, no.

  Maybe it’s enough for you to know that you’ve brought it here, I know it exists, and we’ve shared that. I won’t read it unless you hand it to me and ask me to. It feels like a private thing. This is your choice.

  M took himself into the house, with the cushion, closed the door. I was aware that he was not asleep, every now and again he peeped out through the cloth.

  I can see you’re checking that I haven’t touched your file. That you can trust me. Well, I haven’t touched it or read it. And I won’t, I promise, unless you give it to me.

  M remained in the house like this until the end of the session. Once I had counted down the time, he came out, picked up the file and put it back in the yellow plastic bag. He then vomited violently and the session ended.

  After he left, I was aware I felt furious with Michael, for the mess on the carpet, the lingering smell of sick, for having allowed him to bring the bag into therapy and then having tortured me with it and then having regurgitated my decision. Torture was a word which came into my mind often. That and repeated questions: why didn’t he give it to me to read, why didn’t I take it, why bring it in if I wasn’t allowed to see it? I wondered why I hadn’t just offered to read it, but that felt ungenerous. I concluded I was becoming something of a torturer myself, obsessed with getting Michael to tell the truth. It is more important that Michael is able to express himself, not rely on short cuts or gimmicks like the file, particularly as he was not able to ask me to read it. The onus was being passed to the therapist, when it should lie with the patient. I felt I had made the right decisions, but was left with the unsettling concern that by not reading the file I had thrown something vital away. When I looked again at my notes, it was interesting to note that while I was waiting in silence I had drawn several pictures of keys.

  I was right (see above). M has refused to attend any more therapy sessions. To be reviewed re plans for future therapy. Meeting with EH to be arranged asap.

  There are earlier sessions recorded, obviously, but Edmund does not turn back. He closes the book, holds it tight to his chest and paces. There’s really nowhere to go. The room is little more than a converted cupboard in this old house, with four white walls and one small window looking out at a high fence. The books on the shelves might have answers – Psychotherapy, Silence and Shame, Put Me Back Together Again: Psychotherapy and Severely Deprived Adolescents – but there again so might the pictures drawn by children and displayed on the walls. There is an elephant with a balloon (by Ellie), a waterfall surrounded by flowers and parrots, (no name), a boy and a snowman on top of a mountain (by Michael, another Michael presumably). The pain from the therapy record is physically felt in Edmund’s chest. The file must be a secret diary kept during his terrible imprisonment and the pages a record of torture and pain and isolation. He thinks he has been building such a bond, but Mikey is not able to share this with him; it has to live taped to the bottom of a cardboard box, only the circus animals trusted with its safekeeping.

  ‘What should we do about this file of Mikey’s?’ Edmund asks when Sofia finally returns, apologising profusely that they’ve run out of time and will need to reschedule. ‘He’s hidden it away again. Shall I ask to see it?’ Despite the terrible repercussions there may be if its contents are revealed, enough is enough. It is time for the truth to be known.

  ‘You can ask Michael if you feel that’s the right thing to do, of course,’ Sofia replies. ‘But don’t be disappointed if he says no. And don’t, whatever you do, take things into your own hands and break his trust by trying to read it when he’s at school. That way always ends badly as mothers of teenagers know only too well.’

  ‘I think I have some idea what this might all be about,’ Edmund begins. ‘It’s not an easy thing to talk about, but . . .’

  ‘Then let’s give it the time and space it deserves when we meet again.’

  The therapy notes are slid back into the filing cabinet. Another appointment is made. The moment has passed and Edmund knows before it is out of sight that it is too late to catch up with it.

  Sofia shows him to the door. ‘What I think is that Michael will come back to therapy and bring his secrets to us when he is ready. We’re getting there, Edmund, we really are.’

  Driving home cautiously along flooded roads, the spray making it impossible to see where he is going, Edmund reaches the conclusion that Sofia is wrong: Mikey will never be free to share anything with anyone while the omnipotent figure is still dancing on top of the tower. Edmund is making his mind up.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Grace wants a quiet word while Mikey is at school. She suggests they sit on the bench outside the back door, you don’t often get a chance at this time of year, do you? The sun has burned through the mist and Monty lies stretched at their feet in the unusual warmth. The garden is getting ready for the forthcoming anniversary of the earthquake, plump buds in its buttonhole and primroses in its hair; as poppies are to Armistice Day, so the magnolia and the cherries and the weightless scent of heaven from the Silver Chimes narcissi have acquired a new, ill-fitting solemnity.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s almost a year,’ says Grace. ‘In some ways it feels like yesterday, in other ways, like a different century. It changed so much. Especially here.’

  To
Edmund, the daffodils which Grace has picked and left on the bench between them look as if they have been laid at a shrine. ‘The garden’s still as beautiful as ever, now that spring’s coming,’ he says.

  ‘Makes you glad to be alive, doesn’t it?’

  Edmund tells her he has been wondering if Diana might be able to visit occasionally, how that might cheer her up, although he was never sure when he was a boarder whether it was better to have the occasional weekend leave or not. He is dipping his toe in the water.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ says Grace. ‘I don’t think so at all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s . . . I can’t think of the word . . . tantalising, that’s what it would be. You know, to just have glimpses of the one thing you want more than anything and not be able to have it. That would be torture in my book.’ She gets up. ‘Give me a moment, it does those flowers no good left like that.’

  He can hear her clattering in the kitchen. Does Grace know what Tantalus did to deserve his punishment? Murdered his son, fed him up to the gods for dinner?

  ‘But that’s not really the point, is it?’ she says from the back door. ‘If she can’t come back properly, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame you for not having her at Wynhope, not at all. I mean it’s impossible, isn’t it, with her disabilities, not to mention you having your hands full with Mikey. It’s more than anyone can take on. And when it comes to Mikey . . .’

  ‘When it comes to Mikey, what?’

  Disappearing back into the house, Grace throws the comment over her shoulder. ‘You know what I mean, Edmund.’

  At the lily pond, the bronze boy gleams. Drops of moisture are evaporating from his skin like sweat, his body no longer rigid and encased in metal but as fluid as the element from which he rises. Playing with the water, Edmund watches the fish take cover in the shadows. Maybe Grace is right; to be able to dip your hand in this paradise, but never swim, that would be the worst punishment, if it is punishment he’s after. Inside, he finds Grace in the morning room, mopping up a bit of water spilled from the flowers.