Make a Christmas Wish Page 9

  ‘There are no such things as ghosts,’ I said. ‘I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for everything that’s happened to you, and as for Joe I’m worried about him. Maybe Dr Clarkson can help.’

  Now we’re here and Joe is saying stuff that sounds completely mad, I am feeling more anxious than ever.

  Dr Clarkson looks at us now. She knows about the affair. I was in such a state after Livvy died, I took time off work for stress, and the whole story came out then.

  ‘And how do you feel about your dad and Emily?’ Dr Clarkson says carefully.

  Joe looks at us both.

  ‘Emily’s nice,’ he offers, ‘but she’s not Mum.’ Ouch.

  ‘I see,’ says Dr Clarkson. ‘Joe. Please can you go and sit on one of the brown chairs near the reception desk? You can choose which one. I need to have a quick chat with your dad.’

  ‘OK,’ says Joe. He seems totally unfazed and dutifully leaves the room.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ Dr Clarkson asks.

  ‘A few days,’ I say. ‘I guess with the anniversary last week everything has suddenly become very raw again.’

  ‘Has anything unusual happened apart from that?’

  Where do I begin? I think. But I’m not sure I should share that, otherwise Dr Clarkson will think I’m mad too.

  ‘Joe did ask if Emily was going to be his new mum,’ I say. ‘We were both shocked.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Dr Clarkson. ‘Joe seems fine in himself, but it might be the stress of the anniversary and thinking you’re going to replace his mum has triggered some kind of psychotic episode. I think I probably need another opinion.’

  ‘I’m not sure another counsellor would help,’ I say. ‘Joe didn’t do too well with the last one.’

  ‘No, not that,’ she says. ‘I think he needs some quite specialist advice. In the meantime I’m going to write down a prescription for Joe, which might help to calm him down if he gets upset again.’

  Medication? She wants to medicate my son? Livvy would kill me if she were here.

  ‘Are you sure that’s necessary, Dr Clarkson? Can’t we solve this another way?’

  ‘Well, it might help in the short term,’ she said. ‘I can understand your concerns, but what I’m prescribing isn’t addictive at all, and it’s a very low dose. You could always see how thing go, and wait a while longer. But it might be helpful knowing you’ve got it in the house to prevent him becoming agitated and upset.’

  She puts her glasses on, and taps away on her computer, but when she goes to print out the prescription, she frowns.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Sorry, the printer seems to be on the blink.’

  She tapped some more and still nothing happens. I look at my watch surreptitiously; I need to get to work.

  After five minutes Dr Clarkson says, ‘I’m so sorry about this. I’ll leave it in reception for you to pick up later.’

  I feel I’ve been given a reprieve.

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll refer Joe to Dr Sabah, at the teenage health clinic, but I’m afraid it will be the other side of Christmas now.’

  The other side of Christmas seems an age away, but it doesn’t look like we have a choice.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Dr Clarkson,’ I say.

  We get up to go and then I spot a trailing cable.

  ‘Think I might have found your problem,’ I say. ‘The printer’s unplugged.’

  ‘Really?’ Dr Clarkson frowns. ‘I could have sworn I’d plugged it in.’

  Emily

  Poor Adam, thought Emily as he went to work after the appointment. He looked so miserable and worried, Emily offered to take Joe for a hot chocolate and see if she could get him to open up a bit.

  Adam looked hugely relieved when she suggested it.

  She gave him a kiss and then said brightly to Joe, ‘Shall we go to the café by the river?’

  Joe’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes please,’ he said. ‘Can I have a large hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows, please?’

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ said Emily.

  It was a grey miserable day, and a bitter east wind blew in their faces as they approached the river. Despite the festive cheer in the café, Emily had been left disturbed by what the doctor had said. What if Joe was seriously unwell? Although Adam had tried to be upbeat for Joe’s sake, Emily knew he was worried sick.

  Joe in the meantime seemed quite unconcerned. He sat cheerfully drinking his chocolate, wittering on about the technical specifications of the telescope he’d asked for for Christmas. Emily didn’t understand a word, but was enjoying listening. He was keeping up a constant chatter about the constellations, and his enthusiasm was infectious. On a good day Emily could just about tell where the Plough was but Joe was a veritable encyclopaedia. He didn’t chat to her very often, and it was lovely listening to him talking about it, even though Emily couldn’t help herself from slightly drifting off when he went into a long description about stars she’d never heard of, and from there into a rambling monologue assessing the evidence about whether or not aliens existed.

  ‘They must,’ he said. ‘There are so many other planets out there. I can’t see why some of them don’t support life. It’s illogical to think anything else.’

  Emily laughed.

  ‘I suppose you could be right,’ she said, thinking how relieved she was to be having a conversation about the possibility of alien life, instead of about his dead mother coming back from the grave.

  ‘And if you think about it,’ he continued, ‘it’s not so unreasonable to think that ghosts exist. If there’s life on other planets, why shouldn’t there be an astral plane which none of us can see?’

  Oh good, they were back on ghosts again.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Emily said.

  ‘I know it is now,’ said Joe happily, ‘otherwise Mum wouldn’t have come back.’

  ‘Joe,’ Emily began cautiously, ‘will you tell me why you’re so certain it is your mum? All the things happening at home could be coincidence. Your dad’s been saying for ages he needs to fix the wiring at home. Things get lost all the time. You and your dad are so untidy I’m not surprised you can’t find anything. And it’s so draughty in your house, it’s no wonder the cards blew off the table.’

  She said this with rather more conviction than she felt, because despite Adam’s insistence that nothing untoward was happening, she’d been seriously rattled by the events of the last few days, especially when she was on her own. And Adam was so worried about Joe, she hadn’t wanted to push him into talking about it further. What was more, despite her own misgivings, Emily didn’t really want to encourage Joe into believing his mum had come back to haunt them. The creeping fear which she was tamping down, because it was utterly ridiculous, was that if Livvy had reappeared, she might be about to exact some terrible revenge on her and Adam. Why else would she be here now, of all times?

  ‘That is a logical explanation,’ admitted Joe, ‘but I know it’s Mum. I hear her thoughts in my head.’ He tapped his head and smiled. ‘I’ve told you before. She just wants to talk to us, and Dad isn’t paying attention. That’s why she’s doing all the stuff with the lights and everything.’

  ‘But if she’s so determined to talk to your dad,’ Emily argued, ‘why doesn’t she appear in front of us?’

  Joe frowned.

  ‘I don’t think she can,’ he said. ‘I think she needs us to let her in.’

  He sounded so certain, Emily felt a chill up her spine. What if Joe was right? What then?

  Livvy

  I am steaming mad when we leave the GP’s surgery. I cannot believe that Dr Clarkson has suggested medication for Joe, or that Adam’s even considering it. There’s nothing at all wrong with him, only none of them can see it. I have to find a way of communicating with Adam, and soon, or Joe will be sectioned before I know it.

  It was satisfying to pull the plug out of the printer, so Dr Clarkson couldn’t print the prescription. I must skip back later and make
sure it gets lost in the system. If Adam remembers to go back, he’ll be sent away again, and this close to Christmas he might not have time to go and get it. That will give me the opportunity to make my presence properly felt, and there’ll be no need to feed mind-altering chemicals to my son.

  I drift through the ranks of Christmas shoppers, so happy and excited about the coming season, and wander in and out of pubs and restaurants in the evening, full of shiny happy people. I feel discontented and alone. It would be nice to meet some other ghosts to share this misery with. Who knew being dead could be so lonely? The only person who remotely acknowledges my existence so far is Joe, and I’ve not managed to talk to him. In fact, I’ve only made matters worse.

  Maybe I should try Mum. She’ll be a tough nut to crack. As a renowned sceptic – she wasn’t even very convincing about Father Christmas when I was little – I know she’ll resist me. But it’s worth a try, even if I get a lecture for my pains, which I probably will. Mum never stinted from putting me right when she thought I’d gone wrong, and I suspect, like Malachi, she’d think I’m handling things badly.

  Mum lives in a two-up two-down off the local village green. It’s small, but pretty, and she keeps it spick and span. She downsized after Dad died, and I’m glad she’s in a position to be comfortable. Now I’m gone there’s only Adam to look after her in her old age, and it might be tough for him to manage that. Adam and Emily. I feel angry all over again. How can Mum be on their side? What about me?

  It makes me feel sad to think that even Mum seems to have moved on, and is getting by without me. She’s my mum and though our relationship was prickly when I was alive, I miss her badly. No one tells you that the dead get to grieve for the living as much as the other way round. But it’s true. I miss Mum, Joe and Adam with a fierce ache, and it feels like Mum has forgotten all about me. She’s my mum; surely she must still think of me sometimes?

  Mum is sitting at the piano practising Christmas carols when I arrive. She’s playing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, and I sit and listen for a minute; it’s lovely to hear her play and sing again.

  She’ll be getting ready for the Christmas services. I feel a pang. Christmas carols were such a huge part of my life growing up; such a feature of Christmas. I miss that too. It’s been years since we sat down and sang together. Mum’s not particularly religious, but she loves the music and, to be fair, so do I. It’s an absolute joy listening to her sing. The sound takes me back to being little, when, Father Christmas issues notwithstanding, Christmas seemed a magical and simple time. In my memory it’s always snowing and we’re all smiling, and I make snowmen with my dad. Though I know that probably only happened once, the perception is still strong. Amazing how memories, particularly good ones, cast such long shadows.

  I sit listening to Mum sing, and my heart feels peaceful and content for the first time since I died. My earlier rage has dissipated. Tentatively I approach the piano.

  ‘Mum?’ I say. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Mum stops, frowns, adjusts her glasses, and begins to play ‘Silent Night’. We used to sing this together when I was young. Mum would provide the descant to my alto. I always envied her the purity of her soprano voice. Dad sometimes joined in, though in the main he preferred to listen. We were so happy then, the three of us, a secure and tight little unit. Somehow, though I retained that closeness with Dad, I lost it with Mum, particularly after he died. I feel utterly bereft. My mum is standing right by me and I can’t reach her, or talk to her, any more than I could when I was alive. It makes me feel very lonely.

  I go and stand behind Mum and sing with her. I realize she can’t hear me, but it comforts me to be this close to her. Sure, Mum drove me mad when I was alive, but she’s my mum, and sometimes I was really horrid to her. Hang on, where did that thought come from? I had never considered it before. Mum was often on my case with Joe, and always seemed to be there, under my feet. I got very fed up with what I saw as her interfering. But she was only trying to help. It’s only just occurred to me that maybe I should have listened harder.

  Joe’s Notebook

  Do ghosts exist? Logic says they don’t. When you’re dead you’re dead.

  Is logic wrong?

  There might be life on other worlds for all we know, so why not think there is life after death?

  Dad and Emily think I am mad because I’ve heard Mum talking to me.

  I know I’m not mad.

  Mum was there in the café with me and Caroline. She’s been moving things round the house. She’s been switching the lights on and off and making it cold.

  She sits in my room and listens while I talk to her.

  I know it’s her.

  I’m not mad.

  Therefore ghosts must exist.

  My mum is still here.

  Christmas Past

  ‘Ah-ha, we have progress.’ Malachi finds me sitting on the green by Mum’s house, watching people struggling home in the cold. ‘You’re beginning to see the impact of your behaviour on other people. That’s what you need to understand before you can move on.’ I feel disconsolate and miserable, and in no mood for Malachi. Did I really treat Mum badly? It makes me feel horrible to think that I might have.

  ‘Maybe not all the time,’ says Malachi, ‘but I’d say you tried her patience quite a bit.’

  ‘Well she tried mine,’ I snap defensively. ‘You have no idea what it was like for me always having her around.’

  ‘Oh I think I do,’ says Malachi remorselessly. ‘And I’d say you were damned lucky to have had her there.’

  Suddenly I’m back in the house again, and sitting with a 5-year-old Joe. He is carefully building pieces of Lego, one on top of the other, crafting some fantastic building, as he does. Mum is there too, sitting watching him, and helping him when he needs it.

  I have a jolt. I remember this moment so clearly. It was a difficult time and I was at the end of my tether. The feelings of panic and nausea return to me.

  I am on the phone to Claire, Joe’s key worker. Joe is now at school and it’s not going well. They’ve tried their best, sending home a letter to the other children about how Joe has a special brain and doesn’t understand things the way they do, but it’s not working. The class teacher is stressed and hasn’t been trained for this. Joe is one headache too many.

  Joe does have a one to one helper: a local mum who’s come back to work to fit in with the family. She’s getting training on the job. It’s not ideal. Besides, I get told by the other mums that she often gets hiked off to help the other kids, and at break time Joe is left to his own devices. The reception kids get it, and leave him alone, little enough not to notice the differences between them. They understand when Joe sits in the corner rearranging his pencils, or stands up occasionally muttering things to himself; that’s just what Joe does. But the bigger kids tease him. Today there’s been an incident, and Joe has hit another boy. His mum has complained. I might have done too, if I were her and didn’t have an Asperger’s son.

  My arms and legs are proof of Joe’s violence, when he doesn’t understand what is happening. But I know he doesn’t mean it. He lashes out because he is lost in a world of his own, and our world seems alien and frightening to him. Now he’s sitting here with his Lego, he’s calm and happy as Larry. If you manage him right, he is a sweet boy.

  ‘Which they’re not,’ I explain to Claire. It’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation. ‘And he was provoked.’

  ‘I do sympathize,’ says Claire, ‘but I think we might need to reassess his situation. A mainstream school might not suit long term.’

  ‘So you mean he has to go to special school?’ I say flatly. Ever since I found out about Adam’s brother, I have dreaded this.

  ‘It might be the best way,’ says Claire gently. ‘Certainly, when he leaves infant school. You need to plan a strategy. I can help you.’

  She carries on talking but I don’t listen any more. I don’t want to hide Joe away in a special school like Adam�
�s parents did with Harry. It started there, and then they sent him away permanently. Though Adam has shown no signs of wanting to do the same there’s a bit of me that’s really afraid he might think this is what we should do too. He never sees his brother and barely ever talks about him. It terrifies me history might repeat itself, and Adam’s parents will persuade him we should send Joe away. That was why I was so desperate to keep Joe in mainstream school, but it’s clearly not working.

  I am utterly miserable when I get off the phone. Mum says, ‘Everything OK?’ though it obviously isn’t. I wish she wasn’t here, putting her oar in. I wish I could go and hide and be alone somewhere and someone else could take this burden off my shoulders. Because though Mum is here and I can take a couple of hours out, it’s not enough. I need weeks or months away from this. And I am never ever going to get that. There are some days it’s just too hard, and today is one of them.

  I don’t answer her, but I go to the kitchen and do what I sometimes do on days when it gets too much. It’s only 4.30 p.m. but it’s dark already, and the sun is well over the yardarm. I pour myself a large drink and stare out at a mouldering sky.

  Mum follows me in. ‘That’s not an answer you know.’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ I say savagely. Mum has been telling me I drink too much since my teens. ‘It’s only one. And I’ve had a shitty day.’

  ‘You know best,’ says Mum, with pursed lips, though that’s obviously not what she thinks. She goes back to Joe, while I continue to stare out at the garden. Before I know it, I seem to have downed the glass. So I pour myself another one. One more can’t hurt.

  Chapter Seven

  Ten Days to Christmas

  Emily

  ‘I feel like I’m a prize sow in a pig judging competition,’ wailed Emily as she and Dad set off to walk to Adam’s house. She was beyond nervous about meeting Felicity and deeply grateful that Dad had driven down earlier in the day for their pre-Christmas get-together.