Trusting Me, Trusting Her

things are changing and i'm losing it

Chapter Two

On June 11th, my mother passed away from a brain haemorrhage in our home; completely unexpected and seemingly without any external cause. My poor brother had come home from school to find her draped over the kitchen sink, hands gripping the marble tiles like she could swim her way back from death. We rang an ambulance and sat huddled in the open hallway, Holly holding two cups of steaming cocoa in front of our unresponsive faces like we were ghosts she was trying fruitlessly to establish contact with. 

Isobel and Elio were my only lifeline; Elio with his soft auburn hair and wide, hazel eyes... mum's eyes. Isobel with her soft cheeks and dimpled smile... mum's smile. They were irrevocably traumatised from this experience, whining responses to the paramedics like wounded puppies.

 My heart ached constantly; my college graced me with a three month grieving period but I felt like I'd never stop grieving for a mother who truly felt like my only friend on this endless, empty planet. I suddenly felt the sole responsibility of myself, the twins, our grief, the future, the past, the dogs, the home...

I pull myself out of bed when I hear Elio whisper my name from the hall. The house is silent now, when my father does and doesn't come home, the latter being more consistent. If I could sleep for eternity, I would do it... but the twins need me now more than ever.

'Poppy's cryin',' he says, deadpan. 'I think they're both hungry, but we've got no food,'

'I'll run to the corner shop,' I mumble back. We both stand there for a while, staring at each other, trying to find the words. 'Do you want to come with me?'

'No,' he says, chewing on his thoughts for a moment before spinning around and floating back down the hall to his room. I watch his mop of long, dark hair disappear around the corner and I sigh. Elio wasn't the best at communicating, even before this happened. That disconcerting stare; the huge, empty eyes...

 I shudder and throw on my coat before barrelling out of the front door, head down, with £8.95 clutched in my hands for dear life. It's only been two months since it happened, but we're already feeling the disadvantages of only having one income. Dad hasn't stepped foot in the house since last Sunday. No calls have been received, no money has been sent over. 

The kids have had a ration for their meals; I don't have the time or energy to make them packed lunches, either. So they just exist here, sad and hungry.

I feel a dull emotion surface, one which I've always harboured against my father: expected disappointment. Of course he would leave as soon as the going got tough, he always did. I'd be surprised if mum's death wasn't because of all the stress...

No.

That's not right. That throbbing sensation in my chest flares up again, my nerves alighting with wrong, wrong, wrong. My mum didn't die because of my dad; she didn't die because of stress at all, did she? Once I connect the dots, my mind settles. I suddenly feel like I don't belong in this pretty little town with it's pretty little quirks and appearance. It all seems so fake... distant. I dig deeper for a bigger revelation but nothing comes. I am alone again.

Garrett Taylor, at Fowey River Practice

Always keeping his work separated from his home-life, Garrett finds that the sudden changes over the last couple of months, namely, his gorgeous wife's death, has impacted his ability to do so. He suddenly finds it increasingly difficult to hear his patient's worries without screaming at them to grow up and move on, like he and his children have to. 

He absently stokes past the pictures on his desk: Gen's first day at Fowey River, the twins and him on a nature trail, Angelica...

He groans, the tortured noise reverbrating across the otherwise empty office space. His 12 o'clock appointment creeps through the door not too long after.

'Morning, Doctor Taylor,' she greets meekly, her hands immediately switching from the door to across her chest. 

Her name is Jenny Turner. She is shorter than considered average for her age-group, potentially six inches smaller than his Genevieve. Her hair is mousy brown and flat, rather unremarkable for somebody who worries about people judging her constantly. She arrives prudently early for her weekly sessions, but only ever enters the room at 12 o'clock, briefly discusses her difficulties over the past week, and promptly leaves at 1 o'clock with little more than a mumbled goodbye.

'I heard about your wife,'

Garrett freezes like a deer in headlights, completely at a loss. His sweet wife, the prettiest woman he has ever seen grace this planet, the loving mother of his three beautiful children, his confidant, his soulmate-

'-sorry, Doctor Taylor, if I've overstepped or made you uncomfortable. It really wasn't my intent, I'm just really trying to be more direct and it came across all wrong- I'm so sorry-,'

'It's fine, Jenna,' he manages, with a tense smile. 'It's still a little bit fresh, but I'm managing just fine. Remember those techniques we were talking about? Nice, big breath- in and out, please,'

Her face is traffic-light red with shame and embarrassment but she follows his directions and eventually settles down, sheepish. When she leaves an hour later, Garrett is still trying to shake it off, the feeling that gobbled up his mind as soon as she was mentioned, the itch that has seemed to have permanently taken over his skin. The guilt, the regret, the hopelessness.

He thumbs open his phone with the motor-control of a veteran in the throes of a panic attack, swiping past missed call notifications and angry, desperate text messages from Gen. The feeling bubbles to his chest once again. 

He eventually settles on the one contact he was looking for, shooting an absent look at the clock before dialling.

One, two, three tones and then the voice at the other end of the speaker greets him, fills him with relief.

'Finally Garrett,' it says, 'I was wondering when you'd call me,'