“Please feel that you can speak freely, Natalie.”
I massage a thumb into the groove of a knuckle, recall what Dimple has said about client confidentiality. She assures me that what’s said in this room stays between us, and that if I say something that means that has to change, I’ll be the first to know. I did my research before I started therapy, the threat of talking my way into a prison cell very present in my mind. She doesn’t have to report past crimes, but if I say something that makes her think I might cause serious harm in the future, I’m screwed.
Dimple reclines in her chair, looks at me through the thick black rectangular frames of her glasses. It’s clear that no more words will come from me unless she draws them out, so she continues. “I notice we’ve slipped into the past tense again. Tell me, how are you feeling about James now?”
My head gives a small shake. I don’t know where to start. “He’s been great. I can’t imagine any other guy finding out about my past and…He just seems to want to protect me.” I shrug the simple truth out. “I’m grateful for him.”
Dimple’s head dips to the other side. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”
My nostrils flare, and for a moment, I think about shoving her backward in her silly chair. “But,” I concede, “that thing…that blinding white heat, it’s still there…. It came back the moment I found out about what James had done, and although I understand now, although I don’t want to hurt him, it’s still there. Just buried, with nowhere to go. It’s like I can feel that violence pricking behind my eyes at all times. Like if I don’t unleash it, it’s going to blind me. Destroy me, even.”
Dimple leans forward again, elbows on knees. “How long has it been since you’ve acted on one of your violent impulses?”
“Four years. Still nothing since George.”
“And has anything bad happened to you?”
“No. And before you say it, yes, I remember what I’ve learned in my sessions about this. I know why I sometimes feel this way and I know, I know it’s not real…. But in the moment, when the feeling comes, when the thing bares its teeth, all I know is how real it feels.”
Dimple nods. “I understand. Still, remember what we said ab—”
“I get all of that. I do, I promise. But the problem isn’t my conscious mind. Even now, when everything feels like a house of cards waiting to blow over, I have control of that. It’s the other thing that keeps me awake at night.”
“The thing you canceled our sessions to avoid talking about.”
A frisson of irritation runs up my spine, pulling it taut. “I’ve never had a problem talking about the blackouts.”
Dimple’s head tilts over once more, her eyes narrowing. Only slightly, but enough that her unbelief is stripped bare. “I seem to recall you leaving our session early the last time we tried to talk about them. What might I have misremembered about that?”
“It wasn’t the blackouts; it was the other thing you wanted to talk about.”
“Because it’s not quite possible to talk about one without the other, is it?”
Silence from me.
“Is it?” Dimple insists.
The air in the room is dry. Too dry. “Yes. No.”
Dimple nods. “So, let’s talk about your mother.”
16
Before
There was a slight tremor in her hands as she set down the teacups. She glanced over her shoulder. Once, then again. Her eyes were tracking up the staircase: rickety, wooden. It needed repairing. It had needed repairing for a long time, and by now its repairs needed repairs.
The cups and saucers clattered down to the table, chipped red for Claire and cracked blue for me. It was subtle, but even at five years old, I knew there was intention behind her choice. Claire was small, but already her vibrancy, her energy, matched that ladybird red. Me, on the other hand, I was still watery, still placid. With something very definitely wrong with me. At five years old, cracked.
It might seem insanity to suggest that a mother would try to send her five-year-old subliminal messages through crockery, but insanity was the boldest and most consistent thread in the tapestry of our mother’s parenting. I sometimes wonder if that’s where my intense observation of people comes from. Mother would bury vitally important messages under layers of obfuscation, and woe betide anyone who missed them. Insane behavior. A truly insane way to communicate, and yet…
Looking back, it’s clear my mother’s mental health was as complex as her communication style. But a Ghanaian mother seeking professional help for that? Chance would be a fine thing.
On this day, there were clear warning shots. They were fired in the soft kisses she planted on our temples after she set the cups down and in the tight squeeze she gave our shoulders after. Her short braids tickled our cheeks as she pulled us to her, the faint musk of years-old Elizabeth Arden covering us in a cloud of sweet and sad faded glory.
“You look so beautiful today, babies,” she said.
I was immediately suspicious, my little hands becoming little fists on either side of my cup of steaming hot chocolate. She must have seen it in my face, too, because she then said,
