Page 34 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘What didyouwant to talk about?’ he asks, throwing it back to me.
‘My mum’s partner,’ I say. I’ve never called him my stepfather.
He doesn’t seem fazed by this but I am. Mick’s been on my mind, of course, since I saw him for the first time in years, but I didn’t know I was going to bring him up.
‘Tell me about him,’ Hamza says. ‘When did he come into your life?’
‘When I was nine,’ I say.
‘And what was he like?’
‘He was a violent bastard.’
He nods, and I see that this is the way he is. He must hear all sorts. He doesn’t look shocked, like a friend would. Of course he doesn’t.
‘Did he hurt you?’ Hamza asks.
‘Yes, but not at first. He started out hurting Mum, and I would lie in my bedroom listening to it, too scared to go down and help her.’
‘Do you blame yourself for that?’
I do, I know I do.
‘Because his violence is only down to him. You were a child, Shelley. And even if you hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have been your fault that he was hurting your mum. Do you see that?’
I do. It’s clear and logical, what he’s saying, but it doesn’t change the way I feel, the way I’ve always felt. Like I let her down, and then she let me down right back.
‘When I was a teenager, he started hitting me too. Apparently Mum didn’t know. I thought she did. I moved out as soon as I’d scraped enough money together.’
‘Do you ever see them?’
I shake my head. ‘Never. My grandmother died when I was in my early twenties, and I wondered whether that might bring Mum and me back together, but it didn’t.’
‘I understand. So do you think, on some level, you ended up in a violent marriage because that’s the kind of relationship that was modelled to you when you were a child?’
I feel like he’s pushed me off a cliff, like I’m freefalling. But also like I can see clearly for the first time in a long time. I remember a documentary I watched once, about domestic violence, about it being a cycle, about the pattern repeating. But how could I have known, when I met David? He wasn’t violent for a long time. But could it be that he could sense that vulnerability in me?
‘I saw him, yesterday,’ I say, the words tumbling out and my heart racing even though I’ve barely moved. ‘My mum’s boyfriend. He works here, in the hospital, as a porter.’
‘That must have been very distressing for you,’ Hamza says levelly. ‘I can put something in your notes, if you like, to make sure that situation doesn’t arise again.’
‘Please,’ I say.
It undoes me, this gentle and sensible offer. It makes me start to cry. Hamza doesn’t look uncomfortable, and I wonder how many women have wept in his sessions. He gets up and goes tothe nurses’ station, and when he comes back, he’s holding a box of tissues, and he passes them to me. His mouth is a straight line, but there’s compassion in his eyes. I think, again, that he must hear awful things every day. How does he get it out of his system, stop it from keeping him awake at night?
‘One of the nurses, Angela, I’ve asked her to call my mum,’ I say.
He nods again. ‘Just be aware that seeing her might bring up a lot of feelings. Give yourself time to process them. And take it slowly. Rifts like this can’t be healed overnight.’
It’s all wise, sensible stuff. And when he says that’s enough for today, I’m almost sorry to see him go. Perhaps I would have benefited from seeing someone years ago. Perhaps I would have been able to avoid ending up here in a hospital bed, my brain and body broken. But it’s too late for might-have-beens. I thank him, and he goes, and I’m alone again.
An hour or so later, Angela comes with a wheelchair and helps me get into it.
‘There’s not much to pack up, is there?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not much.’
‘Right then, let’s get this show on the road.’
