Obviously Ellen could no longer see her on a professional basis, but she could refer her to someone else who could help her both with her leg pain and her inability to let go of Patrick. She would be kind and firm and put an end to all this nonsense.
(Part of her recognized the folly of her own thinking: If only Saskia saw how very nice and understanding Ellen was, she would graciously step aside.)
“This is my problem, not yours,” fretted Patrick. “You’re pregnant, remember, you should be avoiding stress.”
“She won’t come,” insisted Ellen. “I’m sure she won’t come.”
“I’ve got to do something about that restraining order,” he said.
Ever since they’d returned from Noosa, he’d been talking about this, but for some reason Ellen still hadn’t managed to identify, he never actually got around to doing it. She was sure it wasn’t just about his pride; there was something else behind his procrastination, but she didn’t push the issue. From what she’d read, restraining orders didn’t offer much protection against truly committed stalkers anyway.
In the end, Patrick decided to go to work, because it turned out that Ellen wasn’t going to be alone in the house after all. A large plumber would be there replacing the hot water system, which had unexpectedly died the day after they returned from Noosa.
The large plumber was a friend of Patrick’s and he promised to stay within earshot the whole time, should Saskia turn up. (Although what if Saskia swiftly removed a gun with a silencer out of her handbag and shot her, or plunged a syringe into her arm that caused total body paralysis, including her vocal cords? Ellen had seen too many horror movies to believe that even the largest plumber could offer any protection from a real psychopath.)
As the time drew nearer for Saskia’s appointment, Ellen sat at her desk and pretended not to care either way. She tried to do some paperwork, but her heart was hammering too hard for her to concentrate.
She won’t come, she thought.
But actually, she didn’t really believe that. At their last session, Ellen had lent Saskia one of her books about hypnosis for pain management. They’d talked about how they both resented people who didn’t bother to return books. “Don’t worry,” Saskia had said. “You’ll get it back.”
The minutes ticked by and the doorbell stayed silent. Was she disappointed or relieved? She felt she could convince herself that either emotion was authentic.
At twenty past eleven, the phone rang and Ellen snatched up the receiver.
“Ellen O’Farrell Hypnotherapy, how can I help you?” There was only the tiniest tremor in her voice.
Silence. Ellen thought she could hear the muffled sound of traffic on a busy road.
“Hello?” she said.
Nothing. She pressed the phone hard against her ear. She could definitely hear traffic. A horn tooting.
She said quietly, “Saskia?”
The line went dead.
My car broke down on the way to my appointment with Ellen. In the middle lane of the highway. Everyone angrily tooted their horns at me, over and over, like their tooting would finally convince me to make my car work again.
I got out of the car and screamed at the tooters: Just what do you expect me to do? Do you think I’m doing this on purpose?
They wouldn’t have been able to hear me over the sounds of the traffic. They would have just seen my mouth moving silently and furiously, my arms waving about. “Crazy,” the tooting motorists probably muttered to themselves.
Yes indeed.
While I waited for the NRMA man to come and rescue me and my car, I decided to call Ellen to let her know that I wasn’t going to make it. It felt like the polite, normal thing to do. That’s what I would have done for any other appointment. After all, that’s what I would have done if I was still Deborah.
I had been looking forward to surprising her by turning up as usual for the appointment. I was interested to see how she would handle it. I was wondering if she would even let me in the house. Would she slam the door in my face? I didn’t think so. I don’t think door slamming is in her sweet, spiritual nature. I suspected that Patrick might be there with her, waiting for me, ready to call the police, ready to finally take out that restraining order he’s threatened so often, ready to be protective of his precious, pretty, pregnant fiancée.
But if Patrick wasn’t there, and she did let me in, I was going to admire the ring and ask her when the baby was due and if she was planning a big wedding. I was going to ask did she mind if I wore white too or would that be offensive, or was I not on the guest list? Ha ha ha. I was going to ask her if Patrick still liked sex in the shower and Sunday morning blowjobs. I was going to watch that serene expression of hers shatter like broken glass.
Or else I wasn’t even going to mention Patrick. I was going to continue in my Deborah role and hand back the book she’d lent me and enjoy watching her pretending not to be “totally freaking out.” I have been watching a lot of television this week. Television featuring young American girls. Their language is catching.
I was playing it by ear. I could have handled anything, done anything, said anything. That’s what I thought anyway, but as soon as I heard her voice on the phone, my own vanished.
My vocal cords were paralyzed. It was literally physically impossible for me to say, “Oh, hi, Ellen, it’s me, Saskia, I’m not going to make my appointment this morning because my car has broken down.”
I couldn’t act like a normal person again when she now knows me as a crazy person, because that would imply I have a choice. That I can choose to be crazy or normal. And if I have a choice, then that would imply that I’m not really crazy at all, and I should just stop it and get on with my life.
But what life? Patrick and Ellen are my life. Without them, there’s just a job and grocery shopping and a car that needs a new automatic transmission and that’s about it.
The doorbell rang that afternoon, after the plumber had left, when Ellen was studying the fancy control panel for the new hot water system.
Patrick had chosen a system where you could preset the water temperature that came out of the tap. He said it would be perfect for bath time with the new baby. Ellen hadn’t even known such systems existed. (Also, “bath time”! She marveled at his casual reference to something so ordinary and yet extraordinary.) He’d put together a long list of things that needed doing around the house to prepare for the baby: the power-points had to be childproofed, the spiral staircase was a “death trap for toddlers” and so on and so forth. “So I guess we’ll have to get quotes.” Ellen’s stress levels had risen as she looked at the list.