Let's Talk About You

“As far back as I can remember I always had a nursemaid. When I was a child, she was the only person who was ever around. It changed as I got older, I saw Daddy more, but she was always there. She fed me, helped me get dressed in the mornings, and taught me things like reading, writing. I didn’t love her though.

“She wasn’t really the kind of person I could love. She wasn’t exactly tactile; she never hugged me or did any of that physical shit. I couldn’t care less though. I didn’t want her touching me. She had these hands that made me want to cringe. Really bony and thin, with great yellow nails like claws, God I hated them. It wasn’t because she was old, either, because the rest of her was fine, not too many wrinkles or saggy skin. She wasn’t pretty though, quite plain in fact. She used to tuck me in for bed, I’ll never forget this, and read me a story. It was always Doctor Seuss. Maybe that’s why I hate Doctor Seuss now, because it reminds me of her. What do you think? Is that possible? Well I hate Doctor Seuss anyway I don’t care why. Maybe if Daddy had read it to me I would like it.

“I was always asleep when he came back from work, Nana made sure. Sometimes I wasn’t though. I would lie awake for ages, waiting for him to come home and hoping he would come in to kiss me goodnight. He never did, of course. We weren’t that close. I don’t think he ever once did that.”

The therapist looks up from her notes. The page is almost full, I notice, with neat print. Good God, is she analysing every damn word?

“So you and your father weren’t close then?”

“I just said that.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask again?” Stupid bitch. I take another biscuit from the tin on her desk.

“Never mind. Did you become close in later years? In your early teens perhaps?”

“No. We were never what you keep calling ‘close’. He worked a lot, I’ve told you. He never had time for me at all.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Why should it? It’s not like he could help it, is it? And, I mean, Mother died when I was very young, so he probably felt he wouldn’t be very good at bringing up a kid. Its not surprise he wanted some help.

“I don’t remember Mother. I have a picture. Do you want to see? No wait, I don’t have my wallet. I usually carry it everywhere. She was beautiful, you know? Long blonde hair, big blue eyes. People say I look like her a lot. All Daddy’s friends, people who knew her. I don’t think I do. I have blue eyes and blonde hair, but that’s about it. I didn’t have her jaw line, or rat teeth. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not being nasty. She did have rat teeth. Why can’t I say that?

“I’m told I’m too blunt, and I suppose I am. I once said to this kid at work, he wanted to buy two bags of crisps, and I told him no he should go buy an apple and go for a run. He was so damn fat. His Dad told my boss. That was my first job.

“But why is it wrong to tell the truth? Pete always said ‘honesty is the best policy’. Damn, I’ll never forget that. If I ever told a lie, no matter how small, he would give this ‘I’m oh-so-disappointed’ look and go ‘honesty is always the best policy Christopher’.

“Oh right, I haven’t told you about Pete. He was my second nursemaid, but I was too old to call him that, so he was my minder. But to me he was just Pete. I liked him better than Nana. He had this smile that made his eyes shine, and crinkle up at the corners. His teeth weren’t straight either.

“Nana left when I was twelve, and we got Pete. I don’t think Nana liked me very much near the end. That’s okay. I didn’t like her very much either.”

“Why not?”

“Does it matter? She annoyed me.”

“Did you ever speak to her again?”

“No. Why would I? Pete was there. Nana wasn’t. That’s it.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Do you see why Daddy chose Pete? Because I don’t. He was nice, but I’m sure most people are. I couldn’t see anything special about him. Daddy must have liked him a lot though. He came to live with us after about a month, or so I was told. I don’t know how soon it was. Nana never lived with us.

“It was about that time that I was allowed to eat dinner with Daddy at the table. Sometimes Pete ate with us. He hardly spoke to me though – Daddy I mean. Only to tell me that my tie wasn’t done up right, or that my hair needed combing. It was such a polite affair.

“ ‘How was your day, Christopher?’ he would ask, all business-like and shit. Like I was some damn client. ‘Fine thank you Daddy,’ I would reply, it was always the same reply. Then I would ask about his day. I never wanted to, because then he would go on and on about his stupid clients for hours. But if I didn’t he would say it wasn’t polite not to ask him back.

“My day was never fine though. Pete didn’t seem to mind me lying about that. I hated being home-schooled. I wanted proper friends, my age, not Daddy’s business colleagues going ‘oh gosh you’ve grown’ and shit like that. I never had any friends my age. Except one. This girl. She was called Kate.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She had brown hair, in a braid, and green eyes. I always liked green eyes. You have green eyes, don’t you? They’re nice. Hers were a bit like yours actually, almost too big for her face. And a pinafore dress, white and black striped, with this red blouse underneath. Her clothes didn’t match, but so what? I don’t see why they have to.

“We would sit for hours and talk. About anything in the world. I would tell her how boring my lessons were, how horrible Nana was, and she would tell me about her home. It was nice, her house. It had a white picket fence and yellow shutters. Kate said her mother always baked fresh cookies every Thursday, and that they were always too sweet.”

“Did you father like Kate?”

“He didn’t know about her.”

“He didn’t? Why not?”

“I never told him, did I?”

“Did she live far away from you?”

“Yes.”

“Who took her home?”

“Nobody. She went whenever I wanted her to, and came when I called her. We were always in my room.”

There’s a pause between us. The therapist is staring at me, thinking. Then she asks me slowly:

“Christopher. Was Kate … a real person?”

“No. I never said she was, did I? Don’t assume things. You’re usually never right. She was my friend, nobody else’s.”

There is another pause. The therapist is writing hurriedly on her notepad. I stare out of the window, watching a raindrop chase its friend down the windowpane. The smaller one is caught just at the bottom, where the glass meets wood. Damn. Better luck next time. I smile to myself.

“Christopher.”

“Yes?”

“Do you miss your father?”

“I don’t know. I never really missed him when he was at work, this is just the same.”

“It isn’t really, Christopher.”

“Stop saying my name that way, I don’t like it. It’s like I’m thirteen again, being told off by Pete for lying.

“Of course it’s the same, don’t be stupid. He wasn’t around when I was growing up, he isn’t around now. What’s the difference?”

“He’s … he’s dead now Chri … you do understand that, don’t you?”

I laugh out loud.

“Of course I understand! I’m not some kind of moron. He’s dead, like Mother. Like Nana. Like Kate.”

“Kate died?”

“Yes. I killed her.”

There is a deep silence. The therapist stares.

“I got bored of her; she was no fun after a while. Always whining about one thing after another. A bit like Daddy, really. He was always whining about me. I didn’t like it very much.”

“You mentioned at dinner he …” she suddenly goes silent, staring at me. I stare back, waiting. She appears to be thinking. It looks like hard work.

“Christopher. Where were you when Daddy died?”

“At home.”

“So … you heard the gun go off? It must have terrified you.”

“It didn’t really. I mean, I heard it, who wouldn’t have heard it? But I wasn’t scared.”

“I know that dealing with a person … taking their life in such a tragic way must be distressing for you. So I don’t want you to think too much about that day just yet. We can get to that later. That’s what these sessions are for. To help you sort through how you feel, piece by piece.”

I stare at her. Then lean forward.

“Will you tell people what I’ve said today? About Kate? And that I didn’t like Nana?”

“No. I’m not allowed. That would be breaking the law. You’re my client and I have responsibilities to you.”

“So I can tell you some more secrets? Things I haven’t told anyone else, like how I used to lie when Daddy asked if I had done my homework?”

“Yes. I won’t tell a soul.” She smiles at me, leaning back in her chair.

“Okay.” I get up and go to the window, looking out. This office is on the twentieth floor. I can see our house from here. It’s on the end of the street, just where Elm Road meets Calico Drive. It’s a small house, but I like it.

“I didn’t like Daddy whining. It reminded me of Kate.” I stop, remembering. It had been really cold that night; I don’t like it when it’s cold.

“Carry on.”

I smile at my reflection. I don’t look bad. I suppose I look just like the traumatised son whose father committed suicide a week ago, just like they think I am.

I go quiet for a moment. Then speak, ever so softly.

“Daddy never killed himself.”

The words hang in the air, dripping with poison. I can hardly believe I’ve said them. But she won’t tell. She’s not allowed. So it’s okay.

“Daddy never killed himself.” I repeat, a little louder. I can hear her breathing.

“Go on.” Her voice is strange, like he has something in her throat. “Who killed Daddy, Christopher?”

“Kate.”

“K-Kate?”

“Yes. Because I told her to. I told her it would be our secret. But she couldn’t hold the gun right, could she? So I had to do it. But she pulled the trigger. It was her fault.”

The therapist is shaking. She isn’t writing anymore, thank God. That wiggling pen was driving me mad.

Outside, the rain has suddenly got a lot worse, and I can hear thunder in the distance. I trace a raindrop with a fingertip. It’s a bit too quiet in the office. I turn to face her, thinking that she looks awfully strange. Maybe she isn’t feeling well.

I look in the tin on her desk. I almost feel like she backed away a bit, but she wouldn’t do that. It’s not like she’s afraid of me, or anything. The tin is empty.

“Are there any biscuits left? I’m still hungry.”