Page 58 of The Pieces of Us
I stare at the distinctive, ethereal shape of Ailsa Craig in the distance, beyond the water Lisa and I have been immersing ourselves in, once a week for the last three months, whether we feel like it or not.
She talks about endorphins and noradrenaline and the sympathetic nervous system, but for me it’s about strength.
If I can survive several minutes in water so cold it takes my breath away, maybe I can survive what I’ve learned about my origin story.
Lisa tucks the tartan blanket tighter round our legs. ‘Feel good?’
‘Feel good,’ I say. ‘Therapy tomorrow.’
She hands me a flask of hot chocolate. ‘You’re doing brilliantly. I know how hard this all is.’
‘Progress is slow.’ I sigh. ‘Lis, I can’t get over the feeling that I should never have existed in the first place.’
It’s not the first time she’s heard me say this, over coffee or wine or hot chocolate on this beach, through frustration and fear and revulsion and tears – frequently tears, from both of us.
After finally admitting that being too busy for therapy is the worst excuse in the world, I’m eight sessions down.
The first question I asked Matthew, my therapist – ‘How many will I need?’ – was met with the honesty Lisa knew I’d appreciate when she recommended him to me.
‘Well, I’ve been in therapy for years,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how you feel in a few months.’
‘Piece by piece,’ I replied.
‘I like that,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ I told him.
My feet are warming up under their layers: thick socks, fur-lined slippers, Lisa’s tartan blanket.
She gave me a knock-off Dryrobe from Aldi for my birthday and I now fully appreciate what all the fuss is about.
Minnie wears it to keep warm around the flat, meaning I’ve finally been able to donate her old padded coat to charity. I gulp the hot chocolate.
‘Cat, you took that darkness and turned it into light. Look at who you are. A single mum. You have a wonderful daughter and an adorable granddaughter. You’ve coped with that so incredibly well.
You’re also the best friend I could ever hope for.
You have no idea how brilliant you are, Cat.
You have people who love you who will never give up on you. Please don’t give up on yourself.’
‘I’m stuck in shame. Matthew says this is the hardest stage to move out of.’
‘Tell me,’ she says, her voice gentle.
‘He says I feel rejected by Beth because of how I was conceived. That I feel shame about things that were done by someone else to my – to Beth. And then to me.’
‘And what do you say about that?’
I shrug. ‘I say he’s right. I mean, it makes sense. My brain doesn’t have the memory of leaving Beth – or of her leaving me – but my body does. The trauma is still here, still in me. It’s never gone anywhere. It’s manifesting as shame, guilt, all that difficult stuff.’
‘And that’s why it’s so painful,’ she agrees. ‘I think being able to recognize that is a huge step forward. Remember you weren’t rejected by Minnie or Sandra or even Beth. She wanted you, Cat.’
I hold up my flask. ‘Cheers to that.’
‘So … what comes after shame?’
‘Anger, apparently.’ I laugh. ‘That will be fun for you all.’
She laughs too. ‘Matthew will help you figure out how to release anger in a controlled way. Just wait. He’ll have you throwing stuff at the wall, all sorts.’
‘I look forward to it,’ I tell her, and realize that – weirdly – I actually do.
My heart races when I hear a thud in another part of the flat.
I used to worry I’d fall asleep and drop Ruby while I was breastfeeding her.
It’s a whole new level of worry when it’s your sleep-deprived daughter feeding your four-month-old granddaughter and you’ve been diagnosed with anxiety.
I hear Matthew’s voice in my head and go to my safe place.
I’m in a room full of flowers, and I know flowers.
I know them even better now I’ve started a college course in advanced floristry.
Pete is thinking about opening a second shop in the city’s thriving southside and wants me to manage the first one when the time is right.
I spend a few minutes going through my list – baby’s breath, Gypsophila ; calla lily, Zantedeschia ; carnation, Dianthus ; daffodil, Narcissus ; foxglove, Digitalis ; lavender, Lavandula ; lily of the valley, Convallaria ; snapdragon, Antirrhinum – until my heart’s no longer pounding and my breathing feels normal.
I’ve tricked my nervous system into thinking it’s safe, and Ruby and the baby are safe too, sleeping in the living room surrounded by all the essential components of a nursing mother’s toolkit: burping cloths, half-drunk mugs of tea, packets of biscuits, nipple cream, a large L-shaped cushion that goes everywhere with them.
I carefully tuck a blanket round Ruby and Elizabeth Mary McAllister and take the discarded mugs and biscuit wrappers into the kitchen.
Something catches my eye on the way there, and I realize what caused the unexpected thud.
A brown-paper parcel lies on the doormat.
I don’t recognize the writing – my name and address in thick, neat capital letters.
It’s been wrapped with great care, using so much Sellotape I need to work my way in with scissors.
The copper medal is almost the size of my palm. Round and weighty, the engraved face depicts a winding river above the words ‘Walled City Marathon’.
Inside the envelope, within the folded pages of a letter, is a cheque – more money than I could earn in three years.
My dearest Cat,
Well, I did it! I completed my first marathon – and it may well have been my last, although you never know … I might decide to subject these old legs to another 26.2 miles of torture. I’ll decide when the blisters on my poor tortured feet have healed …
It’s all about crossing the finishing line, of course – hopefully in one piece. But I was pretty chuffed with my time of 4 hours 45 minutes. (Did I mention how old these legs are??)
I didn’t tell you what I was doing in case my worst nightmare came true and I didn’t manage to complete it.
But I did, and so I can now share with you that my running club friends and I ran to raise money for the Alzheimer Society of Ireland.
It’s our tribute to you and Minnie. (It’s still strange not calling her Mary, but I’m trying!) Between us we raised more than two thousand euros.
The Derry Marathon medal is considered to be one of the nicest in the UK (it’s certainly one of the heaviest!) and I’d like you to have it. Something to remember your Irish family by.
Beth worked hard throughout her life, and while her motivation was to make a difference, rather than accrue wealth, she made good financial choices.
She left her home in Belfast to Emily and her savings and investments to be split between her sisters and brothers.
Cat, the six of us bickered such a lot when we were children!
But on this we are in absolute agreement.
We hope the money will make life a little easier for you and your children.
I’m sending you all my love, Cat. And to Minnie, Ruby and baby Elizabeth.
I’m so looking forward to coming to visit you in Glasgow someday.
Perhaps I’ll go back to Kilmarnock too …
We could go together? It would be nice to show you where Beth and I (and the rest of us!) grew up.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve been back, and it would be an emotional experience. But I’m sure it would be cathartic too.
In other news, your cousin Sian (Reenie’s daughter) is going to be a mother.
Her latest round of IVF – her final attempt – was successful (hooray!) and she’s doing grand.
Another wee baby in the family! I’d better dust off my knitting needles and stock up on blue wool.
Yes, it’s a boy, although Sian informs me that pink for girls and blue for boys is an extremely outdated view these days.
Please keep sending me emails with your news. I love hearing what you’re all up to. And photos of your beautiful granddaughter are most welcome. I have the one you sent me of you, Minnie, Ruby and Elizabeth framed on my dressing table. Four generations of McAllister women, amazing!
I shall speak to you soon, I hope.
All my love,
(Aunt) Sandra x
I read Sandra’s words over and over, then I carefully fold the letter and put it into Hugh’s cigar box beside Beth’s baby bangle, note and postcard. I loop Sandra’s marathon medal over my head and it stays there until Asim arrives for dinner. I know he’ll want to see it.