Chapter 11
Going Christmas shopping was like willingly throwing herself into a blast furnace: her core temperature growing hotter while an everincreasing pressure seemed to be crushing her limbs. Not feelings she wanted to share with Lenore.
On the drive south, they chatted about all things Yarrabee—small-town life, how the practice was going, the ins and outs of house purchasing—all the while skirting around the information Hannah had shared about her meltdown in Owen’s first session. It had been a blessing when Lenore dozed off. Today was supposed to be fun—finding the perfect gift for Nancy and exploring the village an hour south that had become famous for its quaint shops and gourmet delights. Any talk of trauma, present or past, was not on the agenda.
Hannah followed the car’s navigation system into the car park and Lenore woke with a start when the engine stopped. ‘Oh, we’re here.’
‘Sure are. What would you like to do first, explore or grab a coffee?’
‘It’ll be a tea for me. But I know it’s coffee o’clock for you. Let’s do that.’
Taking her old friend’s arm, Hannah led her to the nearest cafe. This town too was festooned with Christmas decorations, wreaths made from native flowers hanging on shop doors and giant kangaroo cut-outs in Santa hats bouncing across the rooflines. Being a Saturday, shoppers were out in force, jostling along the pavement, bags in each hand, diving through one doorway and then the next in a frenzy of retail therapy.
Crossing the foot traffic and bustling Lenore through the jampacked cafe’s door was no mean feat but they managed to find a table for two in a corner.
‘I hope this isn’t going to be too much for you.’ Hannah peered at Lenore’s pale face over the top of the menu. ‘We can head back any time if it gets too tiring.’
‘Don’t you worry. Crowds don’t bother me, nor does Christmas.’ Lenore underscored the not-so-cryptic comment with a carefully raised eyebrow. ‘You on the other hand—’
‘I’m fine. What would you like to drink? The usual?’
‘I might let my hair down and lash out on an Earl Grey. And a piece of that carrot cake I saw on the counter on the way in. At least my appetite is back now that blasted chemo is done with.’
Hannah hovered her phone camera over the QR code in the centre of the table, not quite ignoring the queasy feeling in her stomach. The reminder there’d be no more treatment was more bitter than sweet. ‘Done.’
‘So …’ Lenore tucked her menu back into the cutlery holder. She had that look on her face, eyes narrowed, nose slightly wrinkled, fixing her victim with that laser stare, the one that signalled she was about to stage an inquisition. The one she used when launching into a consultation. ‘What exactly did you have planned for Christmas before Nancy and I gate-crashed your party?’
Avoiding Lenore’s questions was like line-dancing in stilettos: a scenario to steer clear of at all costs. ‘Nothing much. Just the usual.’
‘The usual being disappearing into the wilderness completely on your own.’
‘With my phone and a flare, and making sure someone knows where I’m going.’ One comment into the conversation and she was already on the defensive.
‘That’s what you were going to do?’
‘Possibly. I hadn’t set anything in concrete.’
‘You can’t find someone else who likes traipsing around the bush I suppose, a friend who might like to accompany you on your jaunts? At a more suitable time of the year?’
‘You know me, I like doing my own thing.’
‘I do know you, which is exactly why I’m asking.’ Lenore shook her head, as if she’d come across a particularly vexing clue while doing a cryptic crossword. ‘I worry about you being on your own so much. It’s not healthy. And even less fun. That old saying “work to live, not live to work” has some merit. You spend far too much time working and not enough enjoying yourself.’
‘You’re one to talk.’ In her prime, Lenore had been the classic workaholic. ‘How many PhDs did you do, on top of your client hours and your teaching?’
‘Yes, and I was a fool. Spent far too much time slaving away at my desk and burning the midnight oil.’
‘But your work was important, you helped so many people, clients and your students. You don’t regret any of that, surely?’
Lenore looked wistfully out the window. ‘I do, in a way. It was very satisfying, the study and the clinical hours, and I’m glad I was of use to others. Helpful. But now …’ She drew in a long breath, her shoulders rising then falling again as she exhaled. ‘Now I wish I’d focused more on life outside of work. Perhaps found love sooner. Dealt with my demons a little earlier.’
Demons? As close as they were, Lenore had never shared a lot about her early life, the years before they’d met. Apart from a couple of vague references to an alcoholic father, she’d said next to nothing. And prying into people’s personal lives was not in Hannah’s playbook, not unless it was in the office. She’d learned from experience that in the game of getting-to-know-you, for every question you served, there would be one lobbed straight back.
Their drinks arrived, and Lenore sliced the carrot cake in half, sliding one piece across the table on a napkin. ‘You’ll have to help me out here, it’s enormous.’ She cut into the cake, licked the icing from her lips and placed the fork on her plate. ‘I may have mentioned to you that my father was a drunk. But what I failed to share was that he was also abusive. To my mother, and to me.’
The few sips of latte Hannah had taken curdled in her stomach. Hand trembling, she settled her cup on the table. If her friend wanted to share this story now, she had a good reason.
‘It was physical abuse, and emotional too, not sexual. No one survives beatings like the ones he gave and comes away unscarred. But, like you, when I finished school, I left home and put it all behind me. My mother had passed away by then. Died when she was forty-five, from cancer of the oesophagus. Undoubtedly stress induced. My father sank into the depths of despair—despite the way he treated her, he claimed he still loved her. All the fire went out of him and he virtually drank himself to death. So, at eighteen, I was on my own. I wanted to know what made people tick. Why they acted the way they did, how they could profess to feel one emotion but behave in a way that was completely opposed to it, which is why I went into psychology.’