Finding Technicolour Page 2

  I didn’t look at her, but I knew she was perched at the edge of the chair. I felt her stare. Even through this morphine numbness I felt the sting of her eyes.

  “I don’t remember.” I wasn’t lying. But a heavy feeling weighed me down, making me believe that I would remember the truth soon. And now I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.

  My head rested on the pillow as I stared at the stains on the wall. I wondered whether if I didn’t blink then maybe I’d get to see them expand. My dedication was disrupted when Mum and Liam strolled in.

  “Oh you’re awake. Morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling today?” Mum gently kissed my forehead.

  I was sick of that question. My status hadn’t changed. I was stuck in an unfamiliar mind and a room I didn’t want to be in. My eyes answered for me.

  Mum softly grinned and placed herself on a chair. “P, what I’m about to say might surprise you, but there’s no need to panic or worry …”

  “What?”

  “The police are coming to speak with you today.”

  I set my wide eyes on Liam. His features showed concern but quickly glazed with reassurance. “It’ll be all right, P,” he said. “They’re just going to ask you about the crash.”

  Two officers stepped into the room. The man was tall with big eyes, his skin like melted chocolate. The woman was short and appeared even more petite because of her partner’s height. Her thick dark fringe dominated her forehead and enforced her light complexion. They stood at the end of my bed. Their uniforms identical. The fluorescent vests made me uncomfortable – it was a colour I wasn’t ready to see. Knowing that it would draw attention, I didn’t squint or close my eyes. Their presence made me crave my darkness and, even though I’d just woken up, I was willing to force myself back into the shadows.

  “Hello Peyton, I’m Officer Kole and this is my partner Officer Lacy. We’re here today to ask you a couple of questions about your accident.”

  Mum, Liam and I listened to the police and answered what we could. I decided to use my diagnosis to my advantage and told them I couldn’t remember much. It was the truth, but something inside made me feel like it was a lie. Like there was something I could do to make myself remember.

  It was when we were advised to seek a lawyer that I realised how serious this was becoming. I was worried for the result. Worried about what would happen to me. I knew driving without a licence was reckless, but I remember feeling that I had to – that I had no other choice.

  Time doesn’t fly when you’re cooped up in a rehab room and your daily routine is the same – almost by the second. But somehow the day came for me to go home. I guessed, for the doctors, my status had changed to ‘OK’. Mum and Liam were ready to take me. I guess it was really happening.

  I had no regrets at leaving the unflattering hospital gown behind me. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was dressed in my clothes. A jumper and jeans. Even though I could walk and operate my body without difficulty, I slumped in a wheelchair, embarrassed, as I was slowly trundled out to the carpark. A part of me was nervous about getting into the car, but I wasn’t going to let that bubble to the surface. I was finally being freed from a place I didn’t want to be. But my reality almost didn’t feel real to me.

  The drive was dull. The radio low. Mum drove slowly so all the cars overtook us. She said she wanted me to feel safe. I wanted to tell her to put her foot on the pedal and just get me home. Instead I smiled and thanked her. I really was happy she cared about me so much.

  I stared out the window. Winter was upon us. Everywhere looked grey. The clouds. Trees. Roads. The drizzling rain. I was glad the world looked like that. I don’t think I could’ve coped any other way.

  I wasn’t ready for colour.

  I made my way to the kitchen table, following Mum’s kind-hearted orders. She said she wanted to make us all lunch and that the three of us were going to have our first family meal since my return home. But I knew the real reason we were doing it.

  Thick slabs of bread were stacked in front of us, with whatever filling Mum could find in the fridge. I smiled. I had missed the two of them – even though they were at my bedside every day since the crash. My heart missed the small moments that now seemed so rare.

  I wasn’t hungry, but I took a couple of bites to show Mum I was trying. I knew what was about to happen and I wished she would start it already. Liam devoured his sandwich and Mum ate half of hers before she said what she really planned the lunch for. She looked to my brother. Then both of their eyes set on me. Had they planned the speech? Were they going to tag-team on me?

  Mum grinned. “P, I want us to talk about your therapy sessions.”

  “Mum, I’m not doing them.”

  “P, just listen to what Mum has to say,” Liam said.

  I knew he cared. I knew they both cared, but I didn’t want to speak with a stranger. It just didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t believe that going to therapy was something that would help. There was nothing wrong with me. Well, nothing that words would fix.

  “I don’t want to talk with a therapist.”

  “But Dr Enderson said …”

  “I don’t care what he …”

  “Well Peyton, I do.” Mum’s words escaped firmly but her body and face retracted the meanness they were soaked in. She must’ve felt sorry for me. “Please P, just entertain the idea. Go a couple of times. Just try it for a couple of sessions. You never know, it might help …”

  I couldn’t fight her on that request. Any other time pre-accident I would’ve been able to slither my way out of it. Convince her it was unessential. But I saw the pain in her eyes. I didn’t want her to worry any more. I wanted to make her happy.

  “OK. I’ll go. I’ll try it.”

  Chapter FOUR

  I had two days to convince Mum I didn’t need to go through with the therapy sessions. Two days to show her and Liam that they weren’t needed. But I couldn’t do it. Instead I wasted the forty-eight hours. Remembering the reasons why I had convinced myself to agree to them in the first place – I wanted to show Mum I was OK, I wanted Liam to step off a little more. I hoped that if I went to therapy they’d give me room to breathe. I left the topic alone. We all did, knowing it would only cause unwanted tension.

  I got in the car with Mum. That day, she drove a little faster. Bicycles couldn’t overtake us. We drove down our long windy street. The similar brick houses on either side of the street always looked bland in winter. My eyes stretched over the footpath that led to an oval where kids played cricket and football. We rolled to traffic lights exiting our middle-class suburb and headed towards town, where the large shopping centre and restaurants were. We lived about fifty minutes away from the city and about forty-five minutes from what I describe as secluded country – houses surrounded by empty paddocks wrapped with the stench of manure and the closest neighbour was miles away. As Mum and I made our way to the designated address through the busying streets of town, I glanced out the rain-soaked window, ignoring the pedestrians. My fondness of people and discovering their stories was fading. The rain scurried down the windows and I wondered if from the outside it looked like I was crying. The dark clouds hung overhead. The world was still grey. I was thankful, because when my eyes were open, I could pretend I was still in my darkness.

  We pulled up to a chunky brown-brick building. It looked uninviting. Mum parked the car then at looked me. I watched as she carefully chose her words. I knew she wasn’t going to say exactly what she wanted. She took a breath. “Peyton, thank you for trying this.” She smiled at me. But it was weak.

  I knew she was preparing herself for me to argue with her. Tell her I didn’t want the stupid sessions. That I didn’t want to speak with a stranger. I looked at her face. For the first time in what felt like forever, her cheeks weren’t stained with tears, but I could tell her ducts were working overtime to stall them. I swallowed my want to protest. “Bye Mum.” I left the car and slowly stepped towards the next hour of my life.

>   A car horn sounded. I slapped my hand over my mouth to conceal a scream as I searched the almost empty carpark. The noise wasn’t directed at me, just some idiot driver over the road. Still, my body trembled like a leaf in a winter breeze. I looked to Mum. She had launched out of the car, left the door open and was jogging towards me.

  “I’m OK!” I waved her away and hoped I convinced her I was alright.

  She nodded as she slid backwards, clutching on to the car door. I felt her stare as I continued forward. She wanted to come in with me; not into the session, but to sign in and wait with me. We negotiated but I found myself getting what I wanted. I told her that I agreed to go to therapy if she just dropped me off. I think she let me have what I wanted because all she wanted was for me to follow the doctor’s advice. I knew she would sit in the car, waiting in the car park for me and if I were ever to come to another therapy session, I predicted she would hang about and spend the hour in a café. I saw her quickly scanning the area.

  I drew a deep breath, pushed the door open and stepped to the reception desk. A blond-haired woman perched behind it, her hair tied tightly in a large bun with every strand off her face. Her makeup was light and complimented her natural beauty. She was in her mid to late twenties, dressed in a cream blouse, corporate yet casual. Everything about her seemed perfect and kind of made me dislike her. There I was, a crumpled mess with visible injuries, about to speak with a model. I cleared my throat, wanting to get it over with.

  “Hi, my name’s Peyton Swift. I have an appointment here today.”

  Her large brown eyes lit. “Hi Peyton. Dr Wilson will be right with you. Just make yourself comfortable in the waiting area.” She smiled. And there it was, the final thing that made me have to hate her. Two perfectly straight rows of white teeth. I smiled the most politely I could, then made my way to the waiting area.

  The room was bright. Clean. Shapely cushioned furniture surrounded a glass coffee table. Newspapers and glossy magazines were neatly organised. For some reason I felt like I was placed in a catalogue advertisement; all that was missing was a flat-screen TV on the wall and a large dog curled up on a soft rug. The ugly outside bricks had been deceiving.

  “Miss Swift?”

  A tall man stood in the hallway, dressed in a light-blue long-sleeve shirt and black trousers.

  “Hello,” he smiled. “I’m Greg Wilson. Please come this way …” He stuck out his hand like he expected me to follow him in an eccentric dance. I plodded to where his whole hand directed and entered the room. It was clean, with a subtle floral aroma. The neutral tones were colours I wasn’t ready for. But I had to keep my eyes open. I couldn’t unveil my weakness. Furniture was positioned just so. Everything appeared in its place. Pens and papers were arranged on his desk. Waiting there to take notes on me – analyse my thoughts.

  “Please take a seat.”

  I chose a cream chair at his desk and slumped into faux comfort, my arms crossed over my torso. My eyes strained over the papers. I hoped to read some answers or discover something new about the crash. But they were blank.

  Dr Wilson settled in his chair on the other side of the table. His ankle rested on his knee. His short hair and beard were dark grey. The musky aroma of his aftershave sat in my nostrils. I liked the smell and breathed in deeply, trying to catch as much as I could before he questioned my breathing style. Quickly I moved on to the next thing to look at and caught his eyes. Long dark lashes bordered light-grey irises, encompassed with flecks of blue as the light hit them. They were magical. I’d never seen anything like them.

  He observed me kindly. Let me become familiar with my whereabouts. He probably believed I would be visiting him every week for at least three months, like Dr Enderson had prescribed. But Dr Wilson was wrong. I would only be seeing him for two weeks. Two sessions to prove to Mum that I tried it out but it wasn’t for me.

  “How are you Miss Swift?”

  “Just call me Peyton.”

  “Oh, OK … How are you today, Peyton?”

  “Shouldn’t I be lying down to answer these questions?”

  “If that’s what you want. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  I remained still.

  “So Peyton, have you ever been to a therapy session before? Or had any experience with counselling?”

  “No.”

  “I can tell you’re a little apprehensive about this entire thing. Can I say a little peeved that you have to be here? From my many years of experience I must admit that sometimes it’s easier for patients to open up when they willingly book sessions, but when they’re admitted, it’s a little different … I do know that when they open up, they feel better. They even tell me so. And it does become easier as we progress. The fact that you’re here sitting in this room is a huge step.”

  My stare at him felt harsh, but I couldn’t undo it now.

  “Is there anything you want to discuss today?” He looked at me softly – kind, waiting for a response.

  I didn’t have one.

  “This hour is all yours. Whatever you want to talk about.” His voice was warm. I couldn’t help wanting him to speak again, just so I could hear it. I thought he had the perfect voice for audio books. “Let me remind you that this is all confidential. Nothing you say will leave this room.”

  I inspected the neutral area. Framed certificates hung on the wall. A jar full of water and two small glasses on a small round table. A box of tissues on another. As I continued to analyse the space, I was reminded that I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t need to be there. He couldn’t fix my vulnerabilities through his bachelor-degree spoken words.

  “What do you already know about me?”

  I saw Dr Wilson’s eyes study me. He was surprised. I assumed it wasn’t a question he heard regularly.

  “Come on, you must know something. I was given to you specifically by Dr Enderson. You have to know something.”

  “Peyton, all I know is that you were in some sort of accident. What you tell me about it is up to you. What you want to share with me, is all up to you.”

  “Well, Dr Enderson must have told you that these therapy sessions are something I didn’t agree to doing, nor something I want to do or have any interest in … So don’t expect to get much from me.”

  The minutes slowly ticked away. We small talked. I gave him nothing. Why would I share with a perfect stranger?What was I meant to be sharing? How could I speak with someone I didn’t know, someone I didn’t trust?Why go to therapy and speak about a crash I didn’t even remember?

  Speaking to him wasn’t going to change my past.

  Any of it.

  Chapter FIVE

  I woke in a rush of sweat from the nightmares I couldn’t remember. I tossed the blankets off my injured body and showered, letting the hot steam comfort me as the water soaked my scabs. Some had left my body, leaving me with fresh pink skin. Others would become scars. Would they be beautiful?

  I turned the taps off and let the water descend, then stood still until my naked body was cold and covered in goose bumps. I grabbed the towel and wrapped it around me. Warmth slowly spread over my skin. For a split second I felt OK.

  It had almost been a week since my first therapy session and I was dreading my return to that place. Nothing had changed since I’d been there. There was nothing new I remembered. In the one week and two days since I had been home, Mum had tiptoed around the house making sure things were fine – that I was fine. I was. I think. At least that’s what I wanted her to think. I didn’t want her to be any more concerned than she had been.

  I knew she was stressing about the police and the charges that I might be facing. She tried to hide her worries, but I caught her sitting on the floor counting the coins she had in her secret money jar. I was worried about the charges too. I was stupid not to think about the consequences. I was stupid to think I could drive with just my learner’s permit, alone in the dark. But this gut feeling swivelled in my insides reminding me I hadn’t had a choice.

&n
bsp; Since being home I still felt like a patient. I knew I’d feel better if Mum stopped being so gentle. There might be some normalcy back in my life if she stopped making me feel smothered.

  Liam had gone back to college. I convinced myself that I wasn’t sad to say goodbye; I knew that’s where he needed to be. Not at home with me. He had already taken too many weeks off to stay at my bedside and make sure Mum was stable. I remembered lying in the hospital bed telling him to go back to college, telling him I was OK, that Mum and I were going to be OK, that it was alright for him to go.

  Although I love my brother to death, a part of me was relieved that he’d left. I didn’t need two people tiptoeing around me. He sent me a couple of text messages, which made me miss him.

  Liam: Just arrived back on campus … This place is crazy P! Promise me u won’t tell mum what happened the other week. Almost being expelled would’ve been the beginning of the end.

  Me: I promise I won’t. My lips r sealed big brother. But I expect to reap rewards 4 my silence!

  Liam: & u shall baby sister. Ask & if it’s in my power it shall be yours.

  Me: OK. Speak soon then. And Liam try to stay out of trouble! X

  Liam: Speak soon. Miss u P! xx

  During my early recovery Mum shortened her hours at work, but the lack of money began to take its toll. It took me a few days, but I convinced her to go back to working her usual hours, in turn giving me much-needed free time. Time to think. Maybe even time to remember the crash.

  I’ve gone hours without remembering something, but days without remembering is like torture. And a part of me wasn’t even sure I wanted to remember the whole truth.

  The days slithered by and I still couldn’t recall the accident. When it happened. Why. How it happened. Trying to remember it was like trying to remember a stranger’s memory. Every time I tried to think about it, a haunting feeling took over. Each time the feeling darkened then flashes of memories sparked. I shook them away before they became too real. Before they became too clear. Before I knew what they were and I had to remember.