6
It was agreed between my parents and the school that I’d take time off. Convinced I had to be traumatised by my part in Jemma’s death, it was also decided that I should speak to a counsellor. These decisions were taken without my input. They looked upon me as a child, had no idea of my capabilities, of what I’d done. It was in my interest to play along, to be the innocent child they assumed I was. So, I attended the counselling sessions when I was told.
They were held in a room in a local medical centre. A large modern complex, it was a cold clinical place with icy white walls and cream plastic chairs. Luckily, my father had decided that the seriousness of the situation required that he stay at home, so both my parents brought me to the first session, holding my hands tightly as we entered the building. My mother had barely let me out of her sight since Jemma’s death four days before and her constant reassurances were driving me crazy. It was hard for a woman as emotionally fragile as she was to understand that her only daughter was as unlike her as was possible.
Some attempt had been made to make the room I was brought to less chilly. Chairs were upholstered in a garish floral pattern, matching curtains hanging from the one opaque glass window. An obviously fake green foliage plant sat in one corner. Light sliding through the window hit it and highlighted dust on the plastic leaves.
The counsellor, Mrs Barker, rose from behind a desk to greet us. A short stout woman, she had a kind expression and sharp eyes that made me instantly wary. Once introductions were made, she looked at my parents, then at me. ‘You have a choice, Lissa. You can talk to me on your own, or have your parents stay with you.’
It was nice to be given the choice. I pulled my hands free from my parents’ grip and took a step forward. ‘I think I’d prefer to talk to you alone.’ I heard my mother’s gasp and turned. ‘Honestly, Mum, I think it would be easier.’
‘Of course, it would,’ my father said. ‘We’ll pop across the road to the café and come back for you in an hour.’ He gave my cheek a pat and looked at Mrs Barker. ‘You won’t allow her to leave without us?’
‘Of course not,’ she agreed.
My mother couldn’t leave without grabbing me in a painfully tight hug. And then she was gone.
‘Let’s sit,’ Mrs Barker said leading me to a corner of the room set out for a tête-à-tête. Two chairs, a low table holding a carafe of water and two glasses. It was probably designed to be a comfortable informal area, but I was immediately intimidated and wondered if it was too late to change my mind and beg my parents to return.
It was probably the usual reaction because Mrs Barker waved me to one chair and said, ‘Don’t be nervous, I really don’t bite.’
There was no point in my telling her that it wasn’t her bite I was worried about. There was something in her eyes that seemed to say she wasn’t easily fooled. I sat on the edge of the chair she indicated.
She sat on the other, her two feet on the ground, hands crossed casually on her lap. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
I’d done some research, knew I would be expected to talk, to open up my heart. Not my soul, though. Luckily, because that’s where I’d locked all the bad stuff away. ‘Because of what happened with Jemma.’
‘Can you tell me about it?’
A predictable and boring question. I trotted out the same story I had told anyone who’d asked in the last few days… the GP my parents insisted on calling to see me, the social worker who came, the neighbour who visited, eyes wide with curiosity. As I had with them, I forced my voice to a lower register which I’d decided sounded sadder, and kept my eyes lowered to my clasped hands. At the end, I looked at her, wishing I was able to cry on demand. ‘I keep thinking about it.’
That last sentence was probably the only honest thing I said to her that session, or any of the three that followed. What I couldn’t tell her, of course, was what I couldn’t stop thinking about… the look in Jemma’s eyes as I watched her die. There was something sad, something beyond my ability to understand in those eyes. They haunted me.
The police, once they had their signed statement, took no further interest in me. An inquest ruled Jemma’s death as a tragic accident and put no blame on the poor child who’d been tempted by a pretty glass bottle. The school was requested to make the playground safer and when I returned to my class almost three weeks later, the railing surrounding the playground had been sheeted with dark green metal.
It wasn’t the only change. Before, I was either being bullied, or ignored and sidelined, rendered invisible. There were times… sad pathetic moments… when I welcomed the bullying, the interaction. Painful as it made me feel, it was good to be part of something.
After three weeks away, I could sense a subtle shift in my classmates’ attitude towards me. I was no longer the mousy child who was so easy to target. I had gained a certain element of interest… even of notoriety… I had killed someone. It didn’t matter to them that it had been ruled an accident, they were fascinated by it, and by me.
Ashling, who had once been Jemma’s bosom buddy, waved to me when I entered the classroom. ‘Come and sit with me.’
‘There’s space here,’ Marie said, shuffling up on the bench. It was the nearest choice, but as I sat, I saw her smile of satisfaction and her victorious toss of hair. I had become a prize; the girl others wanted to be with. I imagined I heard Jemma’s snort of derision.
That I didn’t want to be part of my classmates’ sad pathetic little cliques was beside the point. Seeing things from the inside was far preferable than seeing them from the outside. Jemma had the last laugh though because my newfound popularity didn’t translate into invitations to their homes. My classmates may have been temporarily fascinated by me, but their parents were wary. They had no need to be. I wasn’t so stupid as to be involved in anything controversial again. Why should I? My life was far more comfortable now that I was neither being bullied nor ignored, and I didn’t care about the stupid parties and sleepovers my classmates went to in each other’s homes. I hooked on a mask of sublime indifference and nobody… not one person… could have guessed how the exclusion hurt.
The final change was an end to the bullying culture. Without Jemma to lead the pack, the rest of the worst floundered. For a while, they looked to me as a potential replacement. That was never going to happen. I also wasn’t interested in championing those who remained on the outskirts; they needed to fight their own battles and find their own way out of their grim little world. But when I saw Ashling laughing and nudging the girls around her after she’d ‘accidentally’ tripped up one of these sad creatures, I found it impossible to turn away. I watched as the victim stumbled, and almost fell, her face contorted in embarrassment.
I knew how she’d be feeling… not long ago, it would have been me lying there suffering an overwhelming, bewildering, painful sadness. It almost made me rush to her side. Instead, I turned to Ashling, looked her up and down, and sniffed. ‘Seriously, that’s so childish.’ Without another word I walked away, shaking my head as if in disappointment.