Part Thirty-Five
It was the night of Halloween, and after having spent the last ten days in a state of intense happiness and relief, it occurred to John that he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Karen since they'd returned from the conference. He knew this had probably been a sensible course of action, to allow them both time to recover from what had happened between them, but he found that he was missing her, missing her friendship and her common sense. He knew that George had seen her a couple of times over the last few weeks, and she would have said if there had been anything wrong with Karen, but he was now beginning to think it was time he found this out for himself. He needed that reassurance that she was still surviving, still coping with everything that had happened to her. It was only three months since her son had died, and John was far too aware that Karen had barely talked to anyone about how she was feeling.
If Karen had been compelled to tell the truth, she couldn't possibly have said she was doing well. In fact she could hardly have suggested that she was even doing vaguely okay. All the fears she'd had after cutting that first time had been realised. She just couldn't help it, she tried to rationalise with herself. It seemed to be the only thing that would enable her to release her emotions, to undo the constricting knot of panic that would take her over whenever she thought about Ross. She loathed herself for doing it, for giving into something quite so despicable. It had become almost easy to bring her own blood to the surface, to feel the physical pain it caused, as this would temporarily drive out the emotional pain, leaving her empty, quiet, and for a brief time relieved. She knew that what she was doing to herself was wrong, but she was almost powerless to give it up.
When her doorbell rang on the Monday night, Karen at first thought it must be "Trick or treaters," given what day it was. But on opening the door, she received something of a shock to see John standing on her doorstep. She hadn't seen him since the conference, and this in itself had been something of a mixed blessing. She knew she had needed a break from John, but in truth she could also have done with his company. "John," She said, opening the door wider to let him in. "This is a nice surprise." "I thought it was about time I made contact with you again," He told her a little warily, coming into the hall, and carefully scrutinising her. She looked paler, thinner, and extremely tired. When they reached the sitting room, John put a hand on her shoulder and examined her more closely, not missing the slight tensing as he touched her. "You look as though you've been working too hard," He said diplomatically. "You mean I look knackered, worn out, and generally not as attractive as usual," She corrected him dryly. "Erm, possibly," He admitted with a slight smile. "Are you all right?" Just for a moment, her expression wavered, briefly revealing how unhinged she really felt. It was such a tempting thought, to be held in those strong arms again, just as a friend, just as he used to occasionally hold her before she ruined everything. She couldn't seem to find anything to say to him, the need to tell him what she'd been doing to herself being ridiculously strong. Seeing her hesitation, and realising that she would probably be a little wary of needing such an advance from him, John gently put his arms round her, feeling the tremor run through her as she desperately strove to maintain her control. "I've missed you," She said unsteadily, her face against his shoulder. "I know," He replied quietly, his hand moving soothingly in the centre of her back. "I've missed you too."
Suddenly realising just what she was doing, Karen moved hurriedly away from him. "I'm sorry," She said, trying to gather her shattered senses together. "I shouldn't be doing this." "We've still got some talking to do, haven't we," John said ruefully, wanting to put her at her ease. "Probably," She admitted sheepishly. "Would you like a drink?" "A scotch wouldn't go amiss," He said, sitting down at one end of the sofa. When she handed him his glass, but didn't fill one for herself, he raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm avoiding alcohol for the time being," She told him evasively, pouring herself a glass of orange juice, and remembering all too clearly the last time she'd partaken of her favourite scotch, on the day she'd started cutting. "Karen," He began carefully, making no comment on her temporary abstinence. "Are you still feeling guilty about what happened at the conference?" "A little," She told him regretfully. "We both know that I slept with you, because I was definitely on a sexual collision course after finishing with George, and because I badly needed the distraction. You slept with me, because you could see that was what I needed." "It wasn't just because of that," John told her with a lopsided smile. "You are incredibly attractive, and that weekend simply gave me the excuse to bring something to a head, something that I think we'd been building up to for a while." "That's the point though, isn't it," Karen told him bitterly. "We shouldn't have been building up to anything, neither of us should, because we both know an awful lot better. John, I need you as a friend, at the moment I need your friendship more than just about anything else, but I don't trust myself not to need more than you can give me." John watched her in slightly stunned silence. He'd had absolutely no idea that her feelings for him ran so deep, but he thought in retrospect that it probably made sense. She had been cut asunder by George at precisely the wrong time, and now she simply craved that stability of having someone for herself. "You don't need to look quite so uncomfortable," Karen assured him with a slight smile. "Just because I'm going through a midlife crisis, doesn't mean I intend to pursue any feelings I might have for anyone." "It's not wrong to feel like this," He promised her gently. "In fact it's perfectly understandable. Do you remember what I said to you, the night you got drunk? I told you not to be afraid of needing someone." "That was before I ruined it, by making you feel as though you'd raped me," Karen replied, her voice full of self-recrimination. "Karen, you have not, I repeat not, ruined our friendship," He insisted vehemently, laying a hand on her left arm to emphasise his point. "Would I really be here if you had?" "I suppose not," She admitted grudgingly. "John, I feel as though I don't really deserve you to be here." "Well, take it from me that you do," He told her gently but firmly, moving closer to her and putting his arms round her. "This is because you're my friend, and I want to help you," He said into her hair. "Not because I'm trying to sleep with you." "Oh, that's good," She said with a mirthless little laugh. "Because I doubt I could come up with the goods even for you at the moment."
"Why so depressed?" He asked her after a short silence. "Or is that a particularly stupid question?" "It's complicated," She told him evasively. "So tell me," He prompted gently, running his hand up and down her left arm. She only just managed to stifle her gasp of pain, as his hand rubbed over the thin dressing that covered her latest wounds. But John didn't miss her flinch. "What?" He asked, unsure as to what he'd done. But as his hand rested on her arm, he became gradually aware of something different, something that shouldn't be there. As he moved to undo her cuff and role up her sleeve, she stopped him. "Don't, John, please." "Why?" He asked, slightly mystified by her behaviour. "Because I don't want you to be angry with me," She told him quietly, not meeting his gaze. "And why would I be angry if I looked at your arm?" He asked, a terrible, nagging suspicion crawling up his spine. Wholly unable to think of a satisfactory reply, Karen simply stared at the sideboard across the room from them. Observing her obvious discomfort, John continued in his endeavour to see what she was talking about. Drawing back her sleeve, he stared in total horror at the barely heeled scars adorning her skin, together with the small, white dressing that clearly covered something more recent. She watched as the fleeting expressions of bewilderment, anger, disbelief and pain flitted across his face. She could feel her skin crawling with the need to cover it up, the need to wipe all hints of it from his memory. He held her hand in his, gently chafing it as he stared at what she'd done. Putting out a finger, he delicately traced one of the older scars, feeling the ridge of uneven tissue where there ought to have been perfectly smooth skin. Rolling her sleeve back down, he refastene the cuff, and got up from his seat. He paced round the room, needing a little time to think. He absent-mindedly refilled his glass from the bottle of scotch on the sideboard. Stopping by the coffee table, he picked up her packet of cigarettes, regarding it thoughtfully. Karen had been watching him in silence until then, but this brought an exclamation of amazement from her. "Now I know I've shocked you," She said dryly, as he withdrew a cigarette and lit it with her lighter. Taking an experimental drag, he screwed up his face in disgust. "Give it here," Karen told him, resisting the urge to laugh at his discomfort. Handing her the cigarette, he sat back down on the sofa. "It must be thirty-five years since I had a cigarette," He told her thoughtfully. Then, seeming to remember why he'd lit up in the first place, his attention returned to Karen. "What made you start doing this?" "It's a bit hard to explain," She said, taking a long drag of the cigarette. "I'm not going anywhere," He told her, determined to get some answers. "The first time I did it, was the day of Henry's funeral. It wasn't a conscious decision, but I felt as though I was suffocating, when I'd returned from dropping Barbara and Nikki back at the prison. I think I was hyperventilating, but instead of looking for anything resembling a paper bag, just like any sensible ex-nurse ought to have done, I poured an enormous glass of scotch, as though that could sort out all my problems. My hands were shaking and I dropped the glass. John, I really didn't decide to do this, it just felt right, something I did almost automatically." "What were you thinking when you did it?" John asked, her assertion worrying him greatly. "I kept thinking of that day when I went to the clinic, when I saw his body, when I saw what he'd done to himself. John, letting out some of that pain, it allowed me to cry, something I'd been finding virtually impossible for fear that I wouldn't be able to stop. Doing that, it made the pain physical rather than emotional, and just for a little while, it leaves me feeling entirely empty, which really is a blessed relief sometimes. I do know that I can't keep doing it, and I'm certainly not stupid enough to think that it's a perfectly decent way of dealing with everything I feel, but for now, it's the only way I can get through it." "You're beginning to sound just like George," John told her, the fear far too evident in his voice. "That's what she said, when I discovered what she was doing after Charlie was born. She told me that it was her way of coping, her way of keeping some sense of sanity in her life. Karen, cutting yourself, it's just as self-destructive as anorexia or alcoholism." "I know," She told him regretfully. "And I will come out of it eventually, but you need to give me time to do that."
When he left some time later, he put his arms round her, briefly holding her tightly to him, betraying the distinct need he had to protect her. "I keep feeling that I really shouldn't be leaving you on your own," He admitted ruefully, softly kissing her cheek. "John, I might currently be living right on the edge of things," She said into his shoulder. "But I'm not about to do what Ross did, because even as miserable as I feel now, I know what it would do to far too many people, you and George included. So please, try not to lose too much sleep over it." "How can you be so matter-of-fact about it?" He asked in sheer wonder. "Because I can finally understand what drives people like Denny, and Buki, and god knows how many others to do it," She replied philosophically. "Physical pain is something they can understand, and possibly because I spent some years of my life trying to cure it, I can understand it too. Emotional pain requires far too much self-exploration, a type of solo therapy that I don't think I've got the courage to face." Oh, the irony of it, John thought to himself as he slowly drove away. He seemed to think he had the courage to face therapy from someone else, yet Karen didn't have it to brave an internal dialogue with herself. How peculiar the world really was.