THE ADDRESS WAS HALF an hour from Nott Cott. Just a quick drive across the Thames, past the park…but it felt like one of my polar journeys.
Heart pounding, I took a deep breath, knocked at the door.
The woman opened it, welcomed me. She led me down a short corridor to her office.
First door on the left.
Small room. Windows with venetian blinds. Right on the busy street. You could hear cars, shoes clicking on the pavement. People talking, laughing.
She was fifteen years older than me, but youthful. She reminded me of Tiggy. It was shocking, really. Such a similar vibe.
She pointed me to a dark green sofa and took a chair across the room. The day was autumnal, yet I was sweating profusely. I apologized. I overheat easily. Also, I’m a bit nervous.
Say no more.
She jumped up, ran out. Moments later she returned with a little fan, which she aimed at me.
Ah, lovely. Thank you.
She waited for me to begin. But I didn’t know where to begin. So I began with my mum. I said I was afraid of losing her.
She gave me a long, searching look.
She knew, of course, that I’d already lost my mum. How surreal, to meet a therapist who already knows part of your life story, who’s possibly spent beach holidays reading whole books about you.
Yes, I’ve already lost my mum, of course, but I’m afraid that by talking about her, now, here, to a perfect stranger, and perhaps alleviating some of the pain of that loss, I’ll be losing her again. I’ll be losing that feeling, that presence of her
—or what I’ve always felt as her presence.
The therapist squinted. I tried again.
You see…the pain…if that’s what it is…that’s all I have left of her. And the pain is also what drives me. Some days the pain is the only thing holding me together. And also, I suppose, without the pain, well, she might think…I’ve forgotten her.
That sounded silly. But, well, there it was.
Most memories of my mother, I explained, with sudden and overwhelming sorrow, were gone. On the other side of the Wall. I told her about the Wall. I told her I’d spoken to Willy about my lack of memories of our mother. He’d advised me to look through photo albums, which I’d promptly done. Nothing.
So, my mother wasn’t images, or impressions, she was mainly just a hole in my heart, and if I healed that hole, patched it up—what then?
I asked if all this sounded crazy.
No.
We were silent.
A long time.
She asked me what I needed. Why are you here?
Look, I said. What I need…is to be rid of this heaviness in my chest. I need… I need…
Yes?
To cry. Please. Help me cry.
