33
Maria seemed in a good mood when I arrived at her office, and I was too.
It was an effort to switch my brain to alert mode when she started talking about the past again.
“We haven’t spoken much about the fire. I wonder . . . are you happy to
talk a bit about it?”
I nodded, warily.
“Good. Now, can you try closing your eyes for me, please, Eleanor?
Sometimes it’s easier to access memories that way. Take a deep breath in, and then let it all out. Great. And another . . . good. Now, I want you to think back. You’re at home, and it’s the day before the fire. What do you remember? Anything? Take your time . . .”
I’d been feeling so light and free earlier, so centered in myself, that I hadn’t had a chance to prepare myself properly for this. As I closed my eyes and exhaled to Maria’s count, I had the worrying realization that, before I was even properly aware of it, my brain was off accessing memories in places I didn’t want it to go, scurrying into rooms before I’d had a chance to block them off. My body felt heavy, in contrast to my mind, which floated, balloon-like, just beyond my reach. Now that it was happening, though, I accepted it with equanimity. There was a certain pleasure in ceding control.
“Mummy. She’s angry. Mummy was sleeping but we’ve woken her up again. Mummy’s had enough of us now.” I feel tears on my cheeks as I relate this, but I don’t feel particularly sad. It’s as though I’m describing a film.
“That’s great, Eleanor, you’re doing really well,” Maria said. “Can you tell me more about Mummy?”
My voice is tiny. “I don’t want to,” I say.
“You’re doing great, Eleanor. Let’s try to keep going. So, about Mummy . . . ?”
I said nothing for the longest time, allowing my mind to wander where it needed to go in that house, letting the memories out like trapped birds.
Finally, I whispered. Two words.
“Where’s Marianne?”
