Ollie shook his head. ‘It has too many hideous associations,’ he said. ‘Lexie and I are very different people. But I understand her.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘She feels stuff, Mum. Deeply. And I mean, really deeply – far more than you and I do. Dad hurt her – he hurt both of us, but Lexie buried it. And I think she internalised the feeling she got from Dad – that what she did was never good enough.’
‘God, Ollie…’ I didn’t know what to say.
‘I know you tried to compensate for him. We both know. We always knew you were there for us, Mum. It was never in question.’ Ollie hesitated. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that Dad was toxic. You remember the way he used to treat me – treat both of us. And mostly Lexie didn’t show it, but he really got to her.’
I’d pushed it to the back of my mind, too, the way Ryan used to behave towards you both. But now it’s back in all its raw, unadulterated hideousness.
Ollie went on. ‘Lexie seems tough – but it’s only on the outside. Underneath, I think a part of her is broken. There’s a limit to how much any of us can carry – and to how long we can go on. When you think about everything she sees and does, I worry that maybe she’s reached that.’
His words struck a chord. This couldn’t go on; I had to talk to you. ‘And you, Ollie?’ I studied my son’s face. ‘You bore the brunt of so much. Are you OK? Really?’
‘I am.’ He looked hesitant. ‘When I first went to uni, I saw a counsellor a few times. She really helped.’
After we moved away from Ryan, I’d suggested to both of you that you saw a therapist. Ollie went a couple of times, while you steadfastly refused, not wanting to give your father any more headspace than he’d already taken up. I didn’t push it. In a way, I understood that.
I went back to bed, though I slept little that night. My worst fears had been realised. In physically moving us away from Ryan, I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the damage that had already been done. The invisible, insidious programming that living with Ryan had engrained in you. The trauma and emotional abandonment he caused you to feel; his anger, criticism, judgement.
The following day, you didn’t come downstairs until early afternoon. You were wearing pyjamas and slippers, and your face was pale, your hair lank. Your pale blue eyes dull, guarded.
‘Tea, Lex?’ I asked.
‘I’ll make it.’ You padded over to the kettle. ‘Where’s Ollie?’
‘He’s around somewhere.’ I paused. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’ There was a warning tone in your voice. ‘I had a few drinks. We all did. It was New Year’s Eve.’
I waited for you to finish making your tea. ‘Come and sit down for a minute.’
You froze. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. It’s like I said.’ You paused. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. But I’m OK. Really I am.’
I’d always taken you at your word. But as I noted the way you clutched your mug, how slight your limbs were under the pyjamas that dwarfed you, how on edge you seemed, suddenly I wasn’t at all sure you were OK. ‘I’m not upset, I’m worried about you, Lex.’
Coming over, you sat there, motionless. ‘Don’t, Mum. OK?’ Your voice was tight.
‘What would you do in my shoes?’ I looked at you helplessly. ‘I see you struggling,’ I said gently. ‘You put all you have into everything you do. I’m worried you leave nothing for you.’
‘What else am I supposed to do?’ For a moment, you didn’t speak. ‘So much is wrong, Mum. Those of us who can see that have to do what we can, to compensate for everyone who doesn’t. And because somehow, we have to try to make them see.’ You turned to look at me, angst in your eyes. ‘It isn’t surprising it gets to me.’
‘It isn’t surprising. But one person can’t change the world,’ I said softly. ‘I look at you, and I see someone who carries too much of a weight,’ I say. ‘It might help you to try to talk about it.’
‘To whom?’ Your voice was suddenly hard. ‘What’s the point in talking to someone who’ll never understand?’
‘You can always talk to me.’ I was shaken by the strength of your response. ‘But I was thinking more about someone who can help you find a way to process what you do each day.’ I paused. ‘And also what’s happened in your life.’
‘You’re talking about Dad, aren’t you?’ you muttered.
‘Partly.’ Guilt was washing over me again. The same old line playing on repeat in my head. All of this was my fault.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ you said. ‘You’re blaming yourself. You shouldn’t, Mum. You think you should have left Dad sooner. But even if you had, would it have been any less traumatic?’ you asked. ‘If we’d been younger? The chances are you’d have had to hand us over to spend afternoons or weekends with him. Can you imagine how that would have played out?’
‘It would have been awful.’ But I would have fought to stop it happening, to have sole custody of you. I looked at you. ‘You’ve often talked about the way we’re all programmed. But you know it isn’t just society that does that. It’s parents, too.’
‘Yeah.’ You shrugged.
‘It’s easier to look at other people and understand them, but harder to look at ourselves. That’s why I think therapy might help you,’ I persisted. ‘At least with how Dad was.’ And with how it took so long for me to do anything about it, because I had to take part of the blame, too.
But it was as though I hadn’t spoken as you got up. ‘I’m going to have a shower. I need to be back at the shelter to feed the animals.’
