Chosen (13 page)

‘Now hold on to your calm. OK?'

‘What?'

‘He said he'd been concerned that you are too attached, smotheringly attached – his words – to Jake, and to Seth. You mollycoddle them. Don't allow them any room to breathe.'

‘That's nonsense!' But the word
mollycoddle
zigzags through her like a bolt of lightning.

‘Keep calm,' Martha reminds her. ‘Now. Perhaps that was why Seth left? You still treat him as a baby when he's a young man, trying to grow up. Perhaps that's why he's ambivalent about seeing you?'

‘No. That's not so. I don't believe that,' Dodie says, struggling to sound calm.

‘Well, Rod thinks the separation is doing Jake good.'

‘Rod would
never
say that!'

She shakes her head and the room swings from side to side, Martha's face swaying like a lantern. ‘I don't believe you. I feel sick.'

She shuts her eyes. Inside, the furry light-blobs slide and blur. Martha goes to stand behind her, leans over, faint smell of lavender and sweat, and begins to massage her scalp with tiny delicate movements, so gentle and so subtle that it makes her want to cry. ‘It's OK,' Martha whispers, ‘let it go now, let it go.'

Her scalp rises to the touch of Martha's fingertips, her hair seems to lift and sway like underwater weeds. The
calm of the hum returns and, in fact, Martha hums as her fingers move and Dodie sees behind her eyelids a picture of a woman, of herself, with Jake in her arms and Rod in the doorway of his shed, saying, ‘Will you not mollycoddle him?' And she's clutching the child so desperately, because, why? Because he banged his finger and he isn't even hurt;
he
doesn't need to be hugged and he struggles to leave her arms. It's her need, not his. Is it true then that she smothers him? Mollycoddles him and Seth. Martha stops massaging and she feels a pang of loss.

‘Rod says you've never really got back to your old self since the birth. Since your depression?'

Dodie stiffens.

‘He says it runs in the family.'

Dodie turns slightly away and presses her own fingers hard into her scalp, scrubbing and scratching, rubbing out the soothing touch. ‘It was nothing really, just a bit of post-natal . . .' But as she speaks the dark months are there: a taste like metal, the heaviness of the world closing in around her, the mean faces of the people in the streets and even the flowers and how, in the bath, the useless milk wound like sad smoke from her nipples and how could Rod tell anyone? Confide in Martha, this stranger, who he's never even met?

‘Look at me,' Martha says, and she tries the blink again, but Dodie won't look into her eyes this time, or at her face.

‘You can't make me. You can't make me stay. I'll go back to my hotel and wait for my flight there.'

‘All right.'

Startled, Dodie looks up.

‘You're right. We can't make you stay. This is not a jail. Maybe it's better if you do leave.'

Dodie stares at her knees, a lump forming in her throat, tears wobbling her vision. She feels an immensely cold space opening up around her. Martha, the mother, is letting her go. They sit there for a long time. She can hear a click as Martha swallows. The foam from the ripped chair is the colour of
new baby poo; she remembers the sweet-sour smell. Sour was her blood then and her milk and now sourness trickles down her sides. How deep the pain. How will she have the strength to get up now and go?

‘I can't remember about my ticket,' she says, weakly.

‘We'll take care of that.'

They sit longer, no window to show the light, nothing to show the time and it seems there is no limit to it as far as Martha is concerned as it unspools loosely around them. Martha pours more tea but it's barely warm. Dodie drinks greedily. It does have an effect on her, restful and soothing.

‘How do you feel now?' Martha says at last.

‘I . . . I . . .' Dodie's voice quavers. She clears her throat. ‘Weird.' She does a shivery laugh. ‘Kind of – I don't know – lost or like I'm losing my marbles.'

‘That's good Dodie, it feels strange, I know, but it's marvellous, it's your old identity moving back, letting you see past it.'

Dodie presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets hard enough to hurt, to make red patches swim and jump. ‘OK, I was depressed,' she swallows, ‘but I got better. It
was
all . . . hunky-dory.'

‘Truly?' Martha's eyes search hers until she has to hang her head. ‘Rod's concerned that you won't go back to your teaching.'

‘I only wanted to stay at home with Jake. Be a full-time mum. What's wrong with that?'

Martha says nothing.

‘It
was
working,' Dodie insists, ‘it
was
.'

‘Look,' Martha says, ‘look, why don't we make a deal? I'll take you to meditation, just one more, then you can eat, then we'll give Seth a last chance to see you and if you still want to leave after that I'll call you a cab. How's that?'

‘Yes,' Dodie says, ‘yes.' She feels a rush of relief. She can let go again, just for now, relax back into it, and her heart blooms when Martha smiles at her with such approving warmth.

‘It's a deal,' Martha says.

Of course she wants to go home, but just a bit longer here; a little more of the calmness and the peace, and then Seth. The thought of seeing Seth is a little frightening now, a sharp edge in her mind. His eyes will tell her what he's done. Ludicrous to think her little brother . . . But she does just need to see his eyes, his face, his dear face and then home, to Jake, to hold her baby in her arms.

The Mask nods at her, and she goes to the back of the meditation room and kneels beside Rebecca, for one last time, and joins the humming. She can relax now; enjoy this last experience. She searches for the feeling of the warm bath, but it's more of a choppy current now and it carries with it something insistent that bears down on her, something that refuses to be submerged or dodged, a rope, looping through the water, rearing out at her like an eel.

How easy it had seemed, what a treat and a relief to think of ending it. The image in her own mind had always been the rope: but
she
got better,
not
like Stella, she got better and she was filled with love,
not
like Stella, and is filled with love. Don't think of the blue rope and Stella doing it, the actual process of her doing it, of making the knot and climbing onto the banister and the moment of the drop, what went through her mind in the stretching seconds of that drop. And not to think about how close she once came to that herself. No one knows that, not even Rod, how very close she came.

The day was winter dark and never light and Jake cried and cried and his face was monstrous, his cries swallowing her down the red ridges of his throat and she knew she could shut him up for ever and she lifted the pillow – but then she stopped, she stopped and walked away. And then, then, shocked by what she'd thought of doing and to escape the cries that rasped through her mind and brain, she searched the house, and if a rope had been there ready she could have, would have done it, just to stop herself, to stop it, everything. But Rod came home and next thing was the hospital.

Emotions boil up around her, getting inside her, or maybe finding their way out of her, the rawness, the taste of depression, the smell of it, the terror of her own flesh and blood, her own child and his greedy mouth and hands, how could she feel that? Be that? She's a turmoil, a whirlpool, crazying the calm; where is that calm? The smooth water, the warm, where has it gone?

The way her heart is flailing she fears that she will drown, her breath won't come, she opens her eyes, her mouth to scream – but then it's over. It's calm.

The humming holds her up and she sees, feels an opening. There's light shining clearly between who she is and her experience, a clean space made of light. She gasps and almost laughs out loud at this sudden knowledge, glimpse of wisdom, is it? Yes it is. She presses her hands to her chest, waits for her heart at last to slow. So tired suddenly, but lovely tiredness. And of course it's easier after all, easier to acquiesce, like a child, to stop the frantic doggy-paddle against the flow, stop straining and float in it, allow the light of wisdom in, to let the edges go.

The bell to end meditation has tingled through the air. The Mask says, ‘Now, I have good news.' They all look up, open and innocent as a roomful of babies. ‘This evening,' he says, ‘is the Festival of the Lamb. A very special occasion at Soul-Life, at which you will come face to face with Our Father.' He holds his thumb to his chest in the familiar gesture, and they all do the same. Dodie finds her own thumb clutched in her own hand, and even a smile, a flutter of excitement. She will have to stay for this.

O
ne Mask offers little cakes off a tray; another offers paper cups of wine. Dodie takes one of each as she files through the door with a crush of others. The cake, in a fluted paper case, is iced and cherry-topped. The treats
make people fluttery and childish. Dodie's mouth waters at the fresh spongy smell.

By the time she's inside and has found John, Rebecca and Daniel and squeezed among them at the back, the long, lowceilinged hall is crammed. Candlelight glows from sconces on the walls – no, not real candles but electric simulacrums. There must be a couple of hundred people. A sea of white and lilac. She doesn't want to eat her cake yet, doesn't want it to be gone.

On a raised platform at the front, twelve Masks are lined up to face the audience. In the centre of the platform waits a kind of throne: empty, garlanded with white and lilac flowers. The atmosphere is giggly, restless with suppressed excitement. Dodie dips her lips into the warm white wine and strains her eyes for Seth. He must be here, surely. From the back it's hard to see; her eyes rest on dark heads, young men of his height, but it's too dim and packed. She studies the twelve figures on the stage. Seth could not be among them, of course not, could not in such a short time have become a Mask: but still she stares at one that stands beside the throne; it could be him, no it couldn't. The blank eyes stare out over the crowd. Even if it was Seth and he was looking, he wouldn't be able to see her, lost in a blur at the back. And on the other side of the throne is a Mask that looks like Hannah. Something about the stance – could it be Hannah? Hannah a Mask? But she has a name; she has an identity. She's Hannah.

‘Is that Hannah?' Dodie whispers, but Rebecca lifts a finger to her lips. Dodie realizes she's eaten her cake without even noticing. And that is a bad habit, unmindful and fattening. She screws the paper into a ball, tempted to chew it for the last bit of sweetness. John hasn't touched his cake. Rebecca has eaten exactly half. Stop thinking about cake. She swallows the nippy wine and concentrates. The twelve blank Masks stare straight out. Different heights make an asymmetrical pattern, the row of eyeholes and mouth slits sipping and rising again, like some kind of dot-dash code.

Music begins, quiet at first and rising pompously. The fidgeting and whispering cease. A door at the rear of the platform opens and two Masks come through – Our Father and an attendant, the shape and size of Martha. Could
she
be a Mask?

A sigh goes up from the crowd and from somewhere a sob. One by one, clutching their thumbs, people drop to their knees. John lets himself down and Rebecca follows. Dodie leaves it a moment too long and so is the last one standing. The dark eyeholes of all the masks rest on her until she kneels.

‘Our Father,' say the Masks.

‘Our Father,' echoes the crowd.

Our Father stands at the front of the platform and raises his arms in a gesture of benediction.

‘Our Father here on Earth,' chant the Masks and the crowd follows. ‘Blessed be thy name.'

‘Please be comfortable,' Our Father says. Dodie's startled by his accent – English, surely, with flat Northern vowels overlaid with an American twang and rather quavery, as if he is very old or ill. Everyone kneels. Dodie looks at Rebecca's fervent face and then at John's. He hasn't touched his cake.

‘Do you want that?' Dodie whispers. He hands it over and she puts it in her mouth, mindful this time of the eggy vanilla taste and the sweet squelch of the neon cherry.

‘It is too long since I last addressed you all,' Our Father begins. ‘Since that time twelve new devotees have been chosen. Let us honour the newcomers. All of you who've arrived since our last ceremony, please stand.'

Dodie, Rebecca, Daniel, Mary and the other novices get to their feet. The kneeling crowd swivel to see them. Surely Seth should be among them? But he certainly is not.

‘Welcome to the newly Chosen,' Our Father says. ‘We honour you, we cherish you, we love you.'

Beside Dodie, John topples from his knees, head cracking on the floor, wine spilling.

‘Our Brother is overcome by the power of the Lord's love,' Our Father says. ‘Praise Him!'

‘Praise Him!' echoes the crowd.

Dodie tries to help John up, but Our Father says, ‘Leave him be, and now, all of you, please kneel down.'

‘Are you all right?' Dodie whispers, and John shifts a little, does the barest nod. Dodie pats his arm, looks at Rebecca, but she is absorbed in watching Our Father.

‘Tonight is the Ceremony of the Lamb,' he says. ‘But first we witness the sacrifices. Sister?' He indicates the attendant Mask – who surely is,
must
be, Martha – and she helps him – he must be very old and weak – to lower himself on the throne.

The Mask who might be Hannah steps forward. ‘Peter,' she says, and yes it is Hannah's voice.

A tall guy stands and steps up on to the platform.

‘What is your sacrifice?' Our Father asks.

‘All my worldly goods,' he says. ‘My company and my house. With no hesitation.'