AN: So, uh, this chapter kind of ran away on me… but it's also something of a birthday present for a certain reader. She knows who she is.
So, it's Friday. We're all tired. Kristoff has been drawing up a big project over the last few days, and coordinating with structural engineers—and I know how much he hates being away from the workshop. He trusts us to do the job, but he still worries. I would, in his place. It's only human. It's hard to silence those nagging little doubts sometimes. And brain work can be pretty tiring on its own—which is why Joan is pretty wrecked now. She'd just been cruising through the end of the year until now. Now she has to study hard for her exams; the first major ones in her life—well, mid-terms, actually, but she might be taking it just a little too seriously. And me, well I'm tired because I've been at the workshop, cutting steel and welding non-stop with Audrey for the past four days. Maurice has been helping run the show while Kristoff's been away, and he's actually pretty good at the organisational side of things.
So, to say it again, we're all pretty smashed at this point. We ordered takeout, and there's some empty pizza boxes in the kitchen to attest to that. Kristoff is dozing in front of the computer, screen off. I think he was saying something about going through recent correspondence with those engineers. Joan is too stressed to sleep, and while I know something really good for relieving stress, I don't say it. And also because she might think I intend for her to invite Tina over at this hour. I'm just sprawled on the floor, pillows under me, and a blanket on top. I've decided to totally blob out for what's left of the night. Joan is sitting—lying—fidgeting—and generally being restless on the couch above me.
I sigh, turning towards her. My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her around to face me. I'm not even sure what that look she's giving me is. I don't think I've ever seen it on her face before.
"Your stress is getting to me, baby," I blink. I know that sounds bad. Thankfully she's a bit too tired to take it badly. "Something I can do to make you feel better?"
"Not unless you'r—oh, maybe…" and she rolls gracelessly off the couch and into my pile of pillows, pulling insistently on one corner of the blanket. I throw the blanket over both of us, my right arm over her side, guarding her, keeping the world at bay for a little while. She mumbles something, but it's lost in the gentle rain that's been going on and off all night. I'm glad we're not working tomorrow. Everybody gets a day off. Maybe I'll even let my daughter have her girlfriend over again. I won't tell her why, but in this case, with her so stressed and strung out after just three days studying, I feel like she could use it. Like you could, sometimes—even if your prude butt didn't want to admit it.
There's a gentle snoring coming from the study, and with the rain it helps me doze off, even if Joan is still twitching now and then. My dreams are fuzzy, weird, hazy, but ultimately happy, so I don't know why I wake up with tear tracks down my cheeks. Joan's still asleep, snoring worse than Kristoff. I'll admit it wasn't the most comfortable sleep ever, but, at some point Kristoff wandered over with another blanket, lying with his back to mine, and our fingers interlaced. I know seeing us as a family like this would have made you so happy. Maybe that's what I dreamed about. Maybe that's why I was crying in my sleep. But I'm still surprised I've woken up before everyone else.
Especially considering it's only about seven in the morning. It's well past dawn, so it can't be the light. There's nothing that feels wrong, and the others are still asleep, so it's not that. We get up so early normally that it's actually kind of weird to be this late and—that must be it. My body is so used to waking up early on a Saturday. Thinking of which, the snoring behind me has stopped as well. A hand reaches round from behind me to pull me into an awkward hug through the blankets.
"Ten more minutes?" It's the old joke from him.
I turn and kiss him on the cheek. "That's good for ten more, right?"
"Something else could make it twenty," he gently slaps my backside. "But we wouldn't be asleep then…"
And it was at that point Joan woke up. Impeccable timing. "Eww…" She turns to frown disapprovingly at us. "Right here?"
We just look at her and laugh. She looks at us more suspiciously than before.
"Even we can't be that quiet," I pull her up and into a tight hug before she can think of running. "But I think that's quite enough of that before breakfast."
"Your mother's right, and if you feel like cooking, you can help me in the kitchen."
She falls sideways, dragging me down with her. "I think we're both stuck here, it's up to you to save breakfast now…"
"Fine." I can tell he's only mildly annoyed. I'll make it up to him later.
Now it's just me and Joan, and as the morning's still cold I pull the blanket back around us so we can rest.
"Mom?" She still sounds a little sleepy.
"Yes?"
"Did you and Elsa do this a lot?" She needs to be more specific, because if she's not, I will get it wrong on purpose…
"Sleep on the floor?"
"No," and she elbows me in the ribs to make her point, maybe a little harder than she meant to.
"Sure, we did. A lot of the time we would sleep together, just cuddling, or spooning, or whatever all the cool kids are calling it these days. On rainy mornings, and quiet days. Dark and stormy nights, when she was showing me how to appreciate the rain. Even near the end, just to be close. Just so she'd know I wouldn't let her go. I wouldn't let her run from our pain—" I smile a little, remembering one certain incident "—and once or twice with clothes caked in old vomit because we were just too damn tired to change, and too empty to be sick anymore, and too comfortable to sleep in the shower."
"Okay, now that's just gross… and, I guess, sad?" She doesn't seem quite so sure anymore.
"Love is hard work. It's about little things more than you might think. How do you think we wound up falling for each other in the first place?"
"Wait…" I can hear a penny dropping. "You guys slept in the shower?"
"Once. She couldn't stop being sick, but she wanted to be clean." I shift slightly under the blankets. One of those pillows is in just the wrong place. "I had to help. I'm pretty sure we bought new robes afterwards. It was one of her worst nights."
"That's—I'm not sure what to say, Mom. It's sad, and gross; but how much you loved each other… I don't know if I could ever love someone that much."
"You'll know, one day." I kiss her forehead. "Maybe you've already found the right person."
She didn't even pretend to be grossed out. "Hey, umm, what were we talking about before?"
"Love being about little things, even if they wind up caked over your clothes sometimes."
"Eww." She just gives me a look. "Okay, but what about the big things; aren't they important too?"
"Of course, but I think all the little things add up to more in the end. A few grand gestures won't save a failing relationship, but only doing the little things won't keep the fires burning either. You have to balance it out—and hope the person you love wants a similar balance."
"Maybe I should do something big for Tink…"
Young lady, I recall some of your more recent plans, rebellious or otherwise. You might need help. I don't say it in as many words though. "Do you want some suggestions?"
"Maybe not." Her voice is surprisingly guarded right now.
"I was going to say you could have another sleepover if you wanted, tonight."
"Really?" Joan's confused frown is so cute sometimes. I know she gets it from you. She's doing the finger thing too, I can feel her hands moving under the blanket. "But I thought you didn't like that we… and the other day…"
"You've been such a highly strung little ball of nerves the past few days—and that's just from mid-terms," I kiss her on the cheek. "Did you honestly think your own mother hadn't noticed."
"Umm…" It's more telling than she thinks.
"Well, thanks for that vote of confidence in my parenting. The offer still stands though, if you want to invite her over."
"I'm thinking, because I really need to study for that exam on Monday and—"
"Losing an hour or two today is not going to hurt," I sit up slowly, arching my back to get the kink out of it, the blankets falling around us. "And you'll both feel a lot better."
I don't like that scathing look she's giving me, but maybe I deserve it for being so baldly suggestive about them.
"Just have some fun together; go out and see a movie, if you want. Or walk the mall. Try to put your exams aside for a little while. You come back fresh, it'll help."
"And what if Tink's mom says no?"
"That's out of our control, but Cara seems pretty reasonable," it's all I can say, really. "I still think you should take a break to try and relax though."
"What about some more of your story first?"
"Well, there is one thing I think I should tell you—I remembered it when I was dreaming about the massage and don't give me that look, it wasn't about the massage itself, it was about Elsa's scars."
"Her scars?"
"On her leg, from the surgery to set it and get the pins in place. Those scars. She told me they reminded her of me. Every day."
"Well, you did hit her with your bike."
"That's what I thought, too," I smile at Joan, sitting up and wearing the blanket like a cape. We have one each at this point. "But I was wrong. She told me about how she was lucky it was me, and not the car following me. How she was surprised I kept coming back. I gave her hope, and those scars reminded her of that."
"I guess mom was kinda different then."
More than you know. More than I can tell a fifteen year old. "She was. She was proud of it too, most of the time. Now, as for the rest of the story…"
—∞—
The following Wednesday came around a lot faster than I would have liked. It wasn't just working the previous two days either. I didn't know what to expect out of therapy—I'd never been before, and what I'd seen on TV was too dramatised. I was kind of expecting some large, imposing building with sterile walls, and maybe leather couches. Elsa was with me, and hadn't seemed at all upset about the bike ride. That may have been because her hands were free to roam all over my leathers. She had at least tried to keep it low-key, but part of me was still hovering between frustrated and annoyed.
"I'd tell you to keep your hands inside the ride, but you might take that the wrong way."
Her laughter was rich and cheerful, more so than I'd expected. "You are nervous, Anniken?"
She knew humour was my main defense by now. I gave her a wry smile. "What gave it away."
"Just a feeling." And she stressed that word very specifically. I laughed.
"Thanks," I looked from her to the building which was supposed to house my therapist. It was smallish, modern, and actually quite tasteful for a commercial structure. Even the name didn't really give away what they did too much. It wasn't the sterile white I was expecting either; there was a hint of blue, and two bold stripes of dark red running diagonally from the ground to the corner above the door. It almost looked like fleet livery for a shipping company.
Inside it was surprisingly quiet and comfortable, no one waiting in the large, plush looking armchairs. The receptionist was older than I'd expected, given her voice on the phone—she'd rung earlier in the day to remind me of my appointment. She told me the therapist would see me shortly. I still wasn't sure about calling them my therapist, but that was more of a personal hangup than anything else.
I sat in one of the very soft chairs, Elsa leaning into my side. I heard a door open behind me, and heard careful, measured footsteps coming towards the reception desk. "Anna Christian?"
I turned to see my therapist. He was tall, pale, and had short, spiked hair dyed light blue. He also wore a very professional looking suit. It was almost intimidating seeing him there. His features were sharp, but his smile was genuine. Something in my gut told me that in another line of work he might have been very dangerous.
"A chaperone?" He looked at Elsa, somehow judging her. "Would you like her to sit in, Miss Christian?"
"Is–is that allowed?"
"Of course," he spread his hands wide from his hips. "But where are my manners today; Doctor Hayden Spiros, please, both of you, come with me."
I followed him down the short hall and into his office, Elsa half a step behind me. His office was reasonably sized, and without a desk. Instead he had an alcove in the wall with his computer on it (currently turned away from us), three armchairs in dark, earthy colours, two big beanbags, and a three person sofa, all arranged around a central coffee table. The table was glass, decorated with a flame motif. The room looked like somebody had stolen an upper class lounge room and transplanted it wholesale into this space. On the wall with the alcove hung a series of framed certificates—I assumed they were qualifications.
Around the rest of the room I could see something of an earth and fire motif, with pictures of canyons, balancing rocks and chalk cliffs interspersed with those of roaring fireplaces, a rocket launch, and what looked like a wildfire—and he noticed my staring.
"That was the fire of '09. A lot of people suffered. I helped those I could. Just like all of those pictures."
"The rocket?"
"Oh, nobody died, but the payload that was lost—all I can say is that the person I helped no longer suffers from crippling anxiety or paranoia of system failures," he turned back to me and smiled, showing some teeth. Had I not been deeply infatuated with Elsa I might have appreciated it. "But those are not your problems, unless I am much mistaken and you are, indeed, rocket scientists?"
"No," I laughed, some of my tension flowing away. "Just an engineer."
"You are never 'just' anything," his voice was suddenly firm. "You are an engineer. A job—or career—should never seem shameful or demeaning. Or limited."
"That's not what I meant." I gave him an imploring look. He winked at me.
"And yet, it is what you said." He sat smoothly in one of the armchairs. "That, however, is a discussion for another time. I would like to know how I can help you today."
"I…" where did I start? "I think I might have PTSD."
"Would you prefer an assessment, or would you prefer to discuss the matter first?"
I wasn't sure, so I looked to Elsa, sitting on one of the beanbags. She spread her hands a little and looked pointedly at doctor Spiros. She was right. I was there to talk about my problems with him, not her. He was qualified, after all.
I had to be honest. "I… don't know where to start."
Doctor Spiros smiled softly, and took a clipboard out from under his seat. "We should discuss this first, I believe, so that we have a firmer understanding of the problem." It sounded good up to that point. "I will need to take some notes while we talk, will this be acceptable to you, Miss Christian?"
I nodded slowly, and turned slightly to see Elsa do the same. "I guess so, but I'm still a little lost."
"That is perfectly okay," I had begun to notice how he talked with his hands. "A single session might not be enough for an issue as complex as PTSD."
"I understand that, but right now I… well, I don't know what to do here."
"Perhaps you start at the beginning," Elsa spoke softly, but gave me a pointed look. "Hans tried to kill you."
I stared daggers at her, but she wasn't wrong. That was where this particular problem had started. I had to fill in the gaps for the doctor now.
"Hans is my ex, and he was a narcissistic, abusive, bastard. And he was a cop, so I didn't know how to escape either, and that really sucked. Anyway, it happened not too long after I'd nearly run Elsa over with my motorbike, and we'd been fighting all afternoon—me and Hans, not me and Elsa—and we were in the kitchen, and something inside me just snapped when he kept hitting me, so I grabbed the biggest knife I could find and I… I…"
"You can stop, if you want," doctor Spiros's voice was strangely calming. "It sounds like you are leading up to the traumatic event, and that there is a part of you that is trying not to remember—that part is trying to protect you from reliving the event. For now, if you prefer, we can skip the event, and instead you can tell me the aftermath. Filling in the blanks afterwards, to help it make sense, may well be easier than telling me the events themselves."
"It might help." I tried not to look at anyone. The flame motif on the coffee table had become the most interesting thing in the world.
"What is the first thing you remember after it happened?" His voice was almost crooning, it was weird, but somehow, it seemed to help me open up a little more.
"I woke up, there were tubes in my arm. Kristoff was there." I remembered how he held me down, too. Gentle but firm.
"You were in a hospital then?"
"Yes."
"And Kristoff is…?"
"My boss, and my friend. I made him my emergency contact."
"Given that you woke up in a hospital, with I.V. lines in your arm, we must assume that you were seriously injured during the event."
Of course I was. I'd nearly died. Lying there, bleeding out on the kitchen floor… But before that, another memory. The way I'd shattered Hans's wrist against the counter. The look of utter shock on his face that I, of all people, not only could, but would hurt him. I remembered my smile, savage and deranged, understanding how the power dynamic had changed. All I wanted to do was hurt him. And how? I'd taken that knife and stabbed it deep into my wrist. I was going to make him watch. I was going to make him as powerless as I'd felt all those years.
And that memory terrified me. That I was willing, in my anger, to kill myself in order to hurt him. It was exactly the kind of power he had used against me. It had felt good, but now, remembering, I only felt sick. Physically. It felt like I was going to throw up, the shame and horror was just so visceral. I felt it deep in my stomach. I fell forward.
When I opened my eyes I just stared at the carpet, breathing heavily. There was a hand against my back, gently rubbing between my shoulder blades. I turned. I saw the worry etched at the corners of Elsa's eyes. I rocked back and sat cross-legged on the carpet. I needed time to gather my wits. To remember that I was in a therapists office. That this was supposed to be helping. I looked up to see doctor Spiros taking rapid-fire notes on his clipboard. He saw me looking at him, then put the clipboard down in an empty chair.
"I know it might be difficult, but do you feel capable of continuing today's session?"
I shook my head. I wanted to work through this, but that flashback had hit hard. I still felt sick.
"Then I have to ask you to do something that be both painful and difficult, before you leave," and then he passed me the clipboard with some blank refill paper on it. "Write out what just happened, for yourself. Ask yourself what might have caused it, and write that down too. Keep it, study it, and when you come back we can discuss it together. Take as long as you need, but remember that it's best to write it out while it's still fresh in your mind. I believe your chaperone can offer you the support you might need while writing it."
Doctor Spiros smiled, then went to the door. "I'm just going to have a quick discussion with Lakey, in reception, in case you would prefer some privacy while writing this."
I just looked at the paper, holding the pen in a slightly shaky hand. Was it actually possible to write down something that horrifying and shameful? Did I want to? I sat on the larger sofa, with Elsa beside me. I asked her to sit with her back to mine, so we were sideways. It made it easier if I thought no-one was watching. Even though I knew this would be revealed to doctor Spiros, and to Elsa, it was easier to write if I imagined myself doing it in secret. Well, the words didn't exactly flow, and I didn't write much, but the detail, in places, was graphic. It had to be. My hand was still a little shaky. It was actually hard to believe I'd committed that to writing without my mind actually taking me there.
Elsa turned when she heard the pen stop, and her arms wrapped around my chest, hugging me from behind. I turned to kiss her—and also to flip the clipboard over before she could read too much.
"I think this therapy thing might work," I stood slowly, stretched, and folded up the piece of refill with my writing on it. "It was only about half as bad writing that out."
"That is very good to hear, Anniken," she reached for my hand, our fingers twining together. "I had not realised it was so long since lunch. We could have an early dinner, no?"
I folded the piece of refill again, then handed it to her. "Here." She looked utterly shocked. "For safekeeping. I'd probably lose it, and I don't want to copy it."
"I cannot read this?"
I leaned in closer, and stood on tiptoes so my chin could rest on her shoulder. "I'm scared that you won't; or that you will. You know the story, but still…"
She patted my back with her free hand. "I understand. I guess now we must talk to doctor Spiros and schedule your next session."
"I might still need you."
"I can make time, I think. Rehearsals are getting intense for the Christmas season."
I made an appointment for a fortnight later. I figured that would be enough time to let this one sink in, and maybe let me recover. Subconsciously it was also long enough that I might conveniently forget it. As if Elsa would have let that happen.
—∞—
Joan's just looking at me, mouth slightly agape. I've already told her that part of the story, but maybe she wanted to forget as much as I did. It occurs to me I've never asked her about it. She blinks when I wave at her, then shuffles close enough that we can share the same blanket.
"Are you sure that therapy helped?" The skepticism in her voice is rather thick. "I saw your face while you were telling me that part, mom. It was… I don't… It's… scary."
I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into a loose hug. "That's how I felt too. It's not something I like talking about, but I do have to be honest about. It happened. I did those things. It still leaves me a little shaken to think about it sometimes. I'm better about it now; I understand myself a lot more—and understanding the why was something important too. Doctor Spiros was pretty good at rooting those things out for me so I could move on and start accepting them."
"It's still… in the morning?"
"Unless you think I should be giving you nightmares about this…" I hold her just a little closer. "I hope I haven't already."
"You might have," she admits slowly. "Just after me and Tink got back from running away. I kind of… had to… go to dad."
I shrug. "Well if he was better to talk to—but I thought you were still angry at him then?"
"I was, but I was more scared of not telling someone."
"He never told me." To the best of my knowledge, it's not something we'd discussed.
"I asked him not to, mom," Well, that explains it. He's got integrity—which, I will admit, gets him in trouble with us, but it's still admirable. "But I'm thinking I need to eat something before I die of hunger, then we can talk some more later. And maybe Tink can come over and sit in on the talk a little bit?"
"Sure," I stand slowly, my joints creaking slightly from sitting so long. "Maybe wait a little longer before you call her, if she sleeps like you."
Joan waves a hand airily as she stands. "Nah, it'll be fine. She's always up before me."
I leave it there. Breakfast first, then we can figure out what to do with the day. And if I hear a single comment about my cocoa pops, I'm going to slap your ghost ass.
