Parallax

Her fingers trembled as she punched the clinic's number into the
phone. She knew it was her duty as a mother to be strong for the
family. They'd always called her 'the stalwart' and 'the family rock',
but that familiar nauseous feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, was
a stark reminder that it was getting the better of her again. Her grip
on reality was loosening; the hopeless, terrible nightmare from the
past returning, out of control. Her head was spinning as the phone
connected and started to ring. She knew all these symptoms were the
precursor to another breakdown; she also knew there was nothing she
could do.
Marion clutched the receiver so tightly that her knuckles turned white;
she didn't even noticing the pins and needles in her fingers. Her
complete concentration on the rhythmic ringing helped her regulate the
short, panicked gasps for breath. She felt desperate.
"Stewart Consulting, Mary speaking, how can I help you?" The
receptionist's heartless preamble didn't impress her at all.
"Doctor Stewart," Marion shouted, "I need to speak with Doctor
Stewart." Without pause she continued, "Please hurry, can you see if
he's available, I need to speak to him right now. It's an emergency."
Her voice was shaking; choked up as if she'd had the wind knocked out
of her.
"I'm sorry madam..."
She heard the pages of the receptionist's dairy being turned.
"?all of Doctor Stewart's appointments are taken for the rest of this
week. We could fit you in next Tuesday afternoon, if that's any
use?"
"Please, just listen to me. I really need to speak to him right now.
I'm one of his patients; Marion Coolidge; look it up!" She started to
cry. Her sobbing had an immediate effect on the receptionist's cold
demeanour. She calmly interrupted Marion, this time in a much softer
tone. "Please my dear, calm down and tell me what's wrong."
"Thank you," sniffed Marion, "though I'd rather not say; he'll know
what it's about!"
"OK, hold on just a minute. I'll go and see if he's available." The
haunting Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah drifted from the phone's
tinny speaker. Music on hold! Marion remembered liking this once,
before all the trouble had started. Now it seemed that Handel's only
purpose was to remind her of her angst.
"Marion?" Finally Doctor Stewart's soothing voice interrupted her
tormented concentration. "Are you OK? Tell me what's wrong?"
"Jesus Reg, I can't stand this anymore, it's driving me crazy. This is
the worst it's been in ages. I haven't slept properly in over a week
and it's getting harder and harder to cope. The medication doesn't seem
to be doing anything. Maybe we need to try a higher dose ?"
"Marion!" He interrupted her. "Please, you have to try and get a grip,
for Emily's sake." He paused for a moment, then continued, "I can't
stay on for long as I'm actually with another client at the minute, but
I promise I'll call you back after I've finished; it'll be around 5pm.
Is that OK?"
"Emily's down at the beach again."
"Listen Marion, you are all doing so well and you've been through such
a lot. I'll tell you what; I'll be finished here at the clinic by 6pm;
would you like me to come over?"
"Oh Reg, I'd appreciate that. I really could do with some company
tonight. Stay for dinner!"
"OK then, I'll see you later."
"Bye."
Marion replaced the receiver then sank to her knees. She rested her
head in her hands and wept. The flood of grief stricken tears trickled
down her fingers, over her hands then down her arms, staining her pink
dress with dark streaks. Dune Cottage was no longer the blissful
paradise that it had been an eternity ago, before the accident.

Not too far from Dune Cottage, out towards the sea, and over to the
west a little, Emily was sitting contented on her little plastic
deckchair. She watched the waves lap gently against the shoreline, her
chair just out of reach of the rushing water that advanced towards her.
The sea breeze energised her tired mind as it danced passed her,
tossing her jet black hair in its wake.
Suddenly a circling seagull dive bombed from its high vantage point,
straight into the breaking waves. There was a brief pause, then, as
Emily watched with bated breath, it rose from the sea clutching a large
flapping fish tightly in its beak.
"Bravo Mr. Seagull," shouted Emily as she jumped to her feet and
applauded the great sea bird's skill. "Couldn't you catch one of those
fine fish for me?" she asked politely. The great bird flapped its
mighty wings, climbing higher and higher before finally flying off to
the west. "Suit your self, you selfish oaf" she called after it. "I
hope it tastes horrid." She commended herself on her fine rebuke before
sitting back down on her little deckchair to continue her afternoon's
vigil.
"Dad will be home soon," she thought to herself. "I do hope I've time
to finish this wretched jumper before his birthday." She reached down
and pulled a mass of tangled wool and needles from her wicker knitting
basket and inspected it. "Hmm," she thought, "still a bit of work to
here."
Carefully she began to disentangle the knotted clumps of coloured
plait, replacing each unwanted strand into her basket. "That'll do for
the arms," she would say, "and that for the neck."
She had it all planned; she'd give it to him after dinner. It would be
a lovely surprise for him and he'd wear it as they all sat round the
fire and told ghost stories, long into the night.
It was his birthday the day after tomorrow; she had to be finished by
then.
A small fishing boat appeared on the line of the horizon, shimmering in
the early evening haze as the sun began to dip low in the western sky.
Its ghostly silhouette bobbed along on the waning tide, looking more
like a shadow than a real thing.
"At last," thought Emily, "he's been ages today. I do hope they've
caught some nice Mackerel. I could just eat a Mackerel for tea
tonight."

Suddenly she smiled, remembering something her father had shown her the
previous day. He'd been pushing her on a swing, up in the playground
behind the beach house, when he'd asked her to shut her eyes as tightly
as she could so that not even a sliver of sunlight could get
through.
"Have you done it?" he had asked. "Are they shut as tightly as you can
possibly shut them?"
Emily had scrunched her eyelids up so tightly that it had hurt. "Yes,
Dad, I can't see a thing. Hold on," she paused, "colours, lots of
flashing colours. They're very pretty. What causes it?"
"Magic," replied her father. "Good magic; the kind that exists in all
good things."
"Where does it come from?" asked Emily, continuing to strain, keeping
her eyes tightly shut.
"It's what's inside us all; it's what we're are all made of. It flows
all around us; the very fabric that makes up the universe. It's what
made you, and it's what made me, and it's what made your mother."
"Why can't we see it normally, you know, when we just look at
things?"
"You can, Emily, when the light's just right and goodness is flowing
from your heart, it lets you see it. It likes to remind us that it's
there, always protecting us."
Emily opened her eyes and stared back at him. "That's amazing. It's so
beautiful."
"And when you die," he continued, "and go to heaven, your spirit
becomes part of the goodness that makes up our universe."
"That's nice," said Emily, happy that she was a good person.

The sun had dipped lower in the west, spreading its crimson fingers
across the rippling ocean waves. Emily sighed and looked at her watch,
"A quarter to six," she muttered. "S'pose I'd better get packed up. Mum
will be expecting me home soon." She popped on her little pink hat and
dug her toes deep into the gooey sand one last
As she cast a final glance towards the fishing boat she sighed. "Oh
well, it's gonna take him at least another hour to unload all those
fish. I hope he's not home too late or mum will go spare."
As fast as she could, she folded up her deckchair, picked up her basket
and started the short march back to Dune Cottage.

Emily stood outside the old wooden door that led into Dune Cottage. Her
mother had been acting a bit strange of late, crying and shouting and
slamming doors, but never really making any sense. Emily knew she
wasn't well, depressed or something, but she didn't know why. Why would
a woman, who had everything, suddenly start behaving so
strangely?
Emily drew in a deep and calming breath before opening the door.
"Emily, is that you?" Marion's voice sounded shaky and tearful.
"Oh dear, she sounds upset again," thought Emily before calling back.
"Hi mum! Dad's on his way. I just saw the fishing boat coming into the
harbour."
"I've made dinner, dear, it will be ready about seven o'clock." Marion
walked from the kitchen into the hall and over to Emily. She hugged the
little girl and helped her with her basket and hat.
"I love you mum," said Emily, desperately trying to cheer her up. She
always tried to make her mother feel wanted and loved. It was her duty
as a daughter.
"I love you too," sniffed Marion, stifling another sob.
"I'm gonna go and get washed," said Emily. "Oh, I almost forgot - look
at how much knitting I've done. Dad will be so impressed, won't he?"
Emily held up the tangled mass of wool allowing Marion to get a good
look at it.
"You have done well," replied Marion, but she couldn't look at it
properly as her eyes were brimming with tears. "Run along then and get
washed up."

Emily stepped out of the shower and quickly dried herself. She loved
the sea, but she also loved removing all traces of it from her body
before relaxing for the evening. The salty taste on her skin was gone,
the rough sandy textures between her toes and fingers washed away, down
the plughole and back to the sea.
She sat on her bed quietly combing her hair and thinking about her
mother. "I do hope she gets better soon. She is so upset all the time.
It's almost as if dad isn't even here sometimes."
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. She hurriedly pulled on some
clothes and ran from her room. "Dad," she hollered as she dashed over
to the old wooden door. She flung it open and her heart sank. "You're
not dad," she said to Doctor Stewart.
"Hello Emily," replied Doctor Stewart, not at all phased by her
dismissive greeting. "How are you today?"
"I'm fine," she answered, then, a little more quietly she added, "I'm
worried about mum. She's not having a particularly good day
today."
"I know my dear, that's why I've come over; to see if I can help. She's
invited me for dinner."
"Excellent, come in and give me your coat," said Emily. She reached out
and took his coat. It was an extremely heavy coat so she struggled with
it and hung it on the lowest of the coat hooks in the hall.
"Mum," she called, "Doctor Stewart's here. I'll send him through to the
kitchen."

"I'll keep out of their way for a bit," thought Emily. She hurried off
towards her room so as to not disturb the adults. "I wonder what time
dad will be home, it's getting late," she muttered. It was 6.48pm
precisely. She liked precise things, and time was the most precise
thing she had. She always checked time precisely with her very precise
watch.
As she passed the door to the kitchen she glanced through and noticed
her mother locked in a warm embrace with Doctor Stewart. She was
sobbing and he was trying to console her.
Three neat places were set at the table, ready for the casserole to be
served at seven.
"I hope dad doesn't see them hugging like that," she thought. "He
wouldn't like it." She shook her head and went into her room.

At seven o'clock Emily came into the kitchen and sat at the table.
Marion was at the stove, stirring the casserole with a wooden spoon.
Doctor Stewart sat opposite Emily and smiled politely.
"So, no sign of dad yet," Emily reflected. She checked her watch again:
7.02pm.
"Have you taken your tablets yet?" asked Marion as she looked down at
Emily with pitiful eyes.
"Uh huh," replied Emily, "just a minute ago, in my room. Do you want to
see what I've been knitting, Doctor Stewart?"
Doctor Stewart looked at Marion for approval before answering. "OK,
Emily, let's see what you've been up to since I last saw you."
She ran to the hall and returned with her little wicker knitting
basket.
"Very nice," said Doctor Stewart. He held the tangled mass of wool to
the light and studied it for a minute. "What is it?" he asked.
"A jumper, silly! For dad's birthday! It's the day after
tomorrow."

They all ate dinner. The adults had some wine and Emily had orange
squash; she liked squash, especially orange.
"That was lovely, mum," said Emily, "very nice indeed!"
"Wonderful stew," said Doctor Stewart, applauding Marion's culinary
expertise.
Marion felt better now, because Doctor Stewart was here. It was hard by
herself; his company helped her cope; helped her get a grip on
things.
"I think it's time for bed," said Marion. She took another gulp of
Rioja.
Emily frowned then looked at her watch. "But, mum, it's only 9.23pm,
and dad's not even home yet."
"Emily, please. You know it's your bedtime. Doctor Stewart and I have a
few things we need to talk about. Be a good girl and run along."

"Dissociate amnesia is a very complicated condition," said Doctor
Stewart. "The drugs she is taking will only help us create a way in.
She is very disturbed."
"But David died almost three years ago, and she still doesn't seem to
be getting any closer to accepting it." Marion looked tired.
"Generally, the normal course of psychotherapy can take up to five
years to get any form of significant result. More complex cases take a
lot longer."

In her room, Emily lay wide awake inside the cosy covers of her bed.
Her eyes were screwed tightly shut and she watched the dancing lights
of the magic popping across the empty blackness of space. Then she saw
it; a new colour lit up behind the others; a brighter, yellow colour.
It made her feel warm and happy. She thought of her father and
smiled.