Rock Me Gently (24 page)

‘So many memories just keep returning. Night after night, I can’t turn my anguish from the exact moment Frances died. I can’t seem to stop it.’

‘Why not?’

I lifted my streaming face. ‘I don’t know! I’m sorry, I must talk about this and get through it! It’s like a dark cloud hanging over me!’

‘Why is it hanging over you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I shook my head, confused. ‘I just need to talk - I need to be free of it all.’

‘Free of what? What did you do?’

I began to cry again. ‘I let Frances die!’

‘How? What happened?’ Miriam asked.

But it was coming from some part of me that was separate and unknown. It was useless; I could no longer fight it. I slapped my hand on the table.

‘I don’t know, but I did! Frances, Frances, I’m so sorry!’

Head cradled on my arms again, I rocked back and forth. Couldn’t think. As a great wave of hot, fierce rage swept through me, I didn’t understand why I was so angry.

How did it happen, the moment Frances let go of my hand?
Did she think it was all over? What was going through her
mind? Did she think she was about to die and go to hell, as the
nuns had said she would? Why did she let go? Maybe she
wanted to die?

I stared at Miriam as if the answer to my question might change everything.

No! Frances’s eyes had screamed to me in horror as she fell
backwards into the sea. Slowly, ever so slowly
-
but it can’t have
been that slow, could it?
It
can’t have been that slow?

‘Judith,’ Miriam said. ‘Stop it! It’s not happening now.’

I widened my eyes. I felt like I was dragging myself back from a long distance and blinked at her several times.

‘I just don’t know how to live with this burden. It’s all so unfair.’

‘That’s right, it isn’t fair. Your mind is boiling over with anger and remorse and black pain because Frances let go of your hand. And it hurts to be angry with her, doesn’t it?’ murmured Miriam. ‘Everyone has grudges, everyone has anger. You tried to keep everything inside, but you can’t; it always finds a way out. It’s good to turn your anger outward at last. It’s a powerful emotion that pushes you to discover the truth. But what is it that’s really bothering you?’

I felt drained and sick. My head still pounded. ‘I’ve never spoken to anyone about all this before. I’ve had nobody to tell. No one to trust.’

‘Well, you have now, ‘said Miriam. ‘I’m your friend. You can tell me.’

‘Miriam, it’s not that easy.’

The early morning sun glinted on her reddish hair as she sat back in her chair.

‘Let’s go through it all step by step. You had hold of Frances’s hand on one side and held on to the human chain on the other, so you were being pulled in both directions. Is that right?’

I nodded and sat up. The kitchen was cluttered and homely. Home. Soothing sounds - the clink of cups, the creak of a chair; comfortable smells - coffee, baking bread; the red lampshade with its scorched spot, the dusty books. I stared at Miriam through sore eyes.

‘And Frances was older and bigger than you?’ Miriam said.

‘Older, yes, but I wouldn’t describe her as sturdy,’ I whispered.

Miriam smiled sadly. ‘But don’t you see? It wasn’t your fault.’

My voice shifted, cut through thousands of pages in hundreds of books. ‘But it was! It was! The nuns told me it was.’

Miriam’s eyes were a sharp, stinging blue. She had the calm of someone who had spent a great deal of time pondering problems like mine. What would it be like to feel that way, how did you get there? She was quiet for a long time, but I could tell by the way she nodded to herself and held her hands together that she was thinking.

Finally she said, ‘How long are you going to punish yourself for surviving?’

My throat went dry. ‘What?’

‘That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Judith, you were only a child. The nuns were responsible for you and the other children. It was not your fault that those two girls drowned; to have put the blame on you was hypocrisy. The nuns must have been wounded and they passed their wounds to you. What do you think you could have done to help Frances any more than you did?’

‘Pulled her out, or - not let go -’ Tears flooded my eyes again. I wiped them quickly away with my hand. ‘I don’t know! Something!’ It was always this way. My mind shut down. I could not get past this burden, so immense and overpowering that it was useless to look for a source.

I slumped my damp cheek on my hand, and mumbled, ‘You don’t understand. Her dying was all so pointless. She was a special child. It should have been me, not her. Or what was the point of it?’

‘The point of it,’ Miriam said, ‘is that it happened. I’m sorry. I do feel sorry for your unfortunate friend, but you were the nuns’ scapegoat. And you cannot spend the rest of your days as a tragic scapegoat.’

I jerked up. ‘No! That’s not it! I wish it were that simple. There’s more,’ I said, reaching across the table, as if to get her attention.

Careless, the nuns told me afterwards, but they didn’t come into
the water to help with the rescue. They thought praying was
sufficient. When Frances let go of my hand and fell back into the
water, a man jumped into the sea fully dressed to rescue her. I
watched in a daze. Where had he come from?

I still held on to the human chain. They pulled me over the
rocks and dragged me through the water to safety. When I
reached the beach, I collapsed, lying face downwards on the
sand. I coughed, wheezed and moaned quietly with relief. Someone
began pummelling me with a towel and asking me if I was all
right, but I was still in another world. I listened without thinking
that I might be able to answer, preoccupied with the wonder of
finding myself alive. Giddiness overcame me as I sat up and I
covered my eyes for a moment. As I withdrew my hand I noticed
several rescuers plunging, linked together, from the shore,
dragging more girls to land and while all this was happening,
the two nuns knelt on the sand and prayed.

‘Sweet Jesus, save them!’ they shrilled.

I squinted my eyes to look for Frances. The man had managed
to lift her out of the violent sea. He carried her across the rocks
slung over his shoulder. Her hair dangled like dripping seaweed
down his back. Water poured out of her mouth. The man
handed her over to a waiting crowd on the shore. They reached
out hands to her, lifting her in a gentle gesture that from a
distance looked almost like love.

The scene was unreal, pictures painted on a flat screen. If you
kicked it, it would tear open, showing only a black emptiness
behind. The eerie pale-green light played over everything.
It
crept over the group of waiting children, the nuns kneeling in
prayer. It crept over the man trying to tug Prances back to life as
she lay on the wet sand.

Someone ran up the beach shouting, shrill, like a train whistle
before departure. Janet had been spotted in the water somewhere
between the rocks. Some of us ran down to the sea again,
and stood in the water up to our knees, ignoring the surge and
suck round our legs. janet!’ we screamed. janet!’

We called her name till our throats were parched and our eyes
wind-dried and stinging. The sea took on a green fluorescent
glow beneath the dark dome of the sky as we stood straining our
ears over the thump of the waves. A voice
-
I think it was mine said,
janet’s gone, she really has gone.’

We scanned the shoreline, finding the place where she was last
seen. The wind whipped the black water over the area into a
great explosion of spray. It was true; she had vanished. We
staggered back to the beach, dazed and numb. Several of the
smaller girls remained scattered along the water’s edge, casting
anxious glances at the praying nuns. When they began to sob,
crying in a terrible, pitiful, hopeless way, some of the senior girls
ran down to them and hustled them back up the beach.

The sand was now dark with spectators milling to and fro.
The crowd surrounding Prances huddled together, their voices
inaudible. I pushed my way through them. Was she alive?
Somewhere was the memory of my dying father, and I dreaded
what I might see. Someone in the group of strangers tried to
grasp my arm to hold me back, but I shook them off.

I stood and watched for a slight rise and fall of Prances’s chest
- but there was nothing. I reached down and took her cold hand.
‘Prances, Prances, it’s me, Judith.’ I could not tell if she was
hearing me. Her face was immobile, almost purple. I squeezed
her hand, willing her to breathe.

The man who had saved her drew a hand across her face. ‘You
have to go now,’ he said to me. ‘We’ll take care of your friend.’

I started to leave, but Frances held on to my fingers for a
heartbeat, so light and brief that it might have been a reflex.
I
squeezed back, careful not to hurt her.

‘I’m
sorry,’
I
said.

Tears of grief this time. I twisted my handkerchief round my fingers, my thoughts spinning around and around.

‘Judith, listen to me. Life is not fair always, or sane, or good or anything. It just
is,’
said Miriam. ‘I’m no analyst, but it is clear to me that Frances was a pretty, gifted child who was able to cope with the terrible circumstances of her institutional life, but you were thrown in at the deep end and found it much harder. She was your role model and during your time at the convent, it seems you tried to copy her in order to survive.

‘For a time it worked. After all, you were probably a very good actress. Then along came the drowning incident, and the impossible happened. You, as the inadequate child, survived. Your friend, the one you had patterned your whole life after, wasn’t so lucky. You couldn’t make sense of it. In your eyes it seemed so unfair. Am I right?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ I said dismally. ‘All I know is that her voice was as near to music as any voice I’ve ever heard.’

Miriam touched my arm. ‘Listen, it makes sense that you’ve tried to become someone else. For everyone. For the nuns, for your mother, your friends, and, most of all, for yourself. Only, that’s been a terrible burden, do you see? But how could you rid yourself of it? Well, you couldn’t. That’s been your dilemma: a problem without a solution. And so, because you weren’t able to work out how to deal with the problem, you decided to hide from it, bury it, carry the burden alone.’ Miriam leant forward. ‘Does any of this make sense to you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Miriam, I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘Judith, you were acting in self-preservation. You must understand that no one needs you to be perfect. People will like you, faults and all, if you just be yourself.’

‘But I no longer know who I really am any more!’ I cried.

‘Yes, you do,’ Miriam said. ‘You do. Judith, that person is trying hard to get out, and she’s never going to be the one to hurt you, believe me. Let her talk. Let her tell you what you did that was so bad. Listen, do you know what you did? You hung on to the human chain that your friends had formed on the rocks. That’s it. You survived. That’s your guilt. You can live with that, can’t you?’

I could not answer, did not have to answer. I leant back. I felt as if I was seeing Miriam through a hazy curtain. The air shimmered between us. I was light-headed, my bones brittle, without substance, like scraps of paper.

‘What’s bothering you,’ Miriam said, ‘is plain to see. Not letting yourself connect with your own feelings. All your stiff upper-lip way of dealing with these memories is tearing you apart, leading you off on paths that don’t lead anywhere. What happened today?’

‘One of the children in my charge fell into the deep end of the swimming pool yesterday afternoon,’ I said. ‘She was all right, but it shook me up. And then I had that dream again about Frances.’

‘So you didn’t get much sleep last night.’

I shook my head.

‘Have you had anything to eat since yesterday?’

‘No ...’ I began to say that I was not hungry, that I was too tired to eat, but Miriam was on her feet and heading for the kitchen before I could protest.

‘It’s good to voice your feelings. That way you’ll feel easier. Grief requires time. In your case, extra time.’ Miriam stopped then. ‘Are you with me?’ she said.

I nodded my head and sat looking at my fingernails. Ugly, ragged. I’d started biting them again recently. Narrowing my eyes, I blended everything to grey in Miriam’s room - the curtains, the walls.

She placed before me orange juice, bagels, fried eggs and coffee.
‘Eat,’
she urged, and I obediently took up my knife and fork. ‘You’ll feel better once you eat.’

But I was too restless to eat. Restless with her calm, restless with my own story laid out between us, restless with myself. I shifted in my chair, elbows on the table. I took a few tentative bites of the eggs and pushed the plate from me. Too risky. Too nauseated.

‘So you don’t think I’m potty?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘of course not. Just eat.’

‘I’ll try.’ My stomach felt in poor shape and my legs were suddenly frail and rickety. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t come to see you this morning. I felt so lost.’

‘And now?’

I closed my eyes. ‘Like I’ve lost sixpence and found a shilling.’

Miriam put her hands together, resting her chin on them, scrutinising me with moist, friendly, blue eyes. She smiled, and her expression embraced me with all the motherly concern my heart at that hopeless moment longed for.

‘Listen, Judith. It wasn’t your fault that as a child you were small, vulnerable and needy. It wasn’t your fault that your friend drowned. You’ve been bound to those memories by a sense of guilt. What happened this morning was that you let go of yourself and felt some pain. That’s good because feeling is not selective. If you can’t feel pain, you aren’t going to feel anything else, either. And the world is full of pain. Also joy, anger and revenge, humour, good and evil, vanity, jealousy, humility, horror and love. The strong feelings are all around you and they aren’t always pleasant. Shutting yourself off from all feeling won’t make the world any safer. Some things can’t be foreseen or understood or blamed on anyone - they can only be endured.’