The Lost Appointment

The Lost Appointment

Heaviness sank around and within Jenny that day. She'd been up all night and her eyes were thick with lost sleep. It was Monday morning. Time for the weekly counselling appointment. Oppressed air hung beneath mud-like clouds as the previous night's gale continued to thrash violently like a caged predator. She stepped slowly down from the bus, shivering as the wind swiped at her skin. Pressure clenched her chest as she took quick, sodden steps towards the parish centre. An enormous gust racked her body and large, fat raindrops streaked down her face.
I bet she's not going to be here, Jenny thought, as she thumped open the entrance doors. She threw her rucksack onto the floor and slipped into the usual seat beside the stairs to wait. She folded her arms to make a pillow on the pile of Christian newspapers lying on the table beside her, and rested her head with a weary sigh. The counsellor hadn't phoned to cancel, but the morning's tension still squeezed her stomach into nauseous clumps. She might have had an accident, or maybe her car didn't start, or got smashed by a tree. Sure she would have phoned, but what if...what if ...? So many what ifs, anything could've happened.
Wind shrieked against the entrance doors and rainwater streamed down the glass in unrelenting bursts. She swallowed, trying to shift the lump that had lodged down the back of her throat like a solid chunk of ice. If she isn't here....
The fact that the three week break loomed like a huge abyss had been at the front of her mind for the past week. She'd clung to this appointment; now the gale had torn it from her grasp and flung it beyond her reach. She should have expected it really. She wanted... needed...something. Like playing a frenzied death dance with the Devil, inviting it to be snatched away.
She jumped up in her seat as the door opposite opened. Two mothers with pushchairs strolled out, followed by a blonde haired child of about three, who was cradling a small plastic doll in a pink baby-grow. One of the pushchairs contained a baby of about 6 months old. A blue woollen blanket was pulled up to his chin and his eyelids were squeezed into miniature creases as he slept. The mothers stood by the entrance doors, politely unaware of Jenny as they continued a discussion about the coming week's arrangements. Their presence gave a scent of normality that was vaguely comforting. Jenny pulled her bag onto her lap, rummaging awkwardly inside while the little girl gazed at her with her wide-eyed, unblemished trust in a stranger. She found her mobile phone and checked the time: 11.33am. The counsellor appeared any time between 11.30 and 11.40am.
Stop it, Jenny told herself sternly. I'm sure she won't be here. She took a shaky gulp of air as she put the phone back into the rucksack. She zipped it up and hugged it close like a treasured teddy. Her eyes met the child's solemn but expectant stare. Her tiny hand gently patted the doll against her shoulder for pretend winding. Normally Jenny's mind would grapple for a kid-friendly comment to satisfy her, iced with some false enthusiasm. Jenny was a life-time expert at role playing, finding the right lines to say in any situation.
But now heaviness left her barren.
Attempting to build a bridge, the little girl gave her a gentle smile and said a tinkly “Hello.” After a second Jenny forced a smile back. There. Now piss off to your mother.
As if she heard, she skipped over to her mother, words flowing as easily as silk. Jenny couldn't help but compare to her son's daily screeches, moans and hand biting tantrums. Trapped in his autistic cocoon, bridges didn't come easily, or naturally, to him.
Or to me, she thought painfully.
They weren't so different, really.
She stared through the rain-streaked glass. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his task to give her the happy close-knit family she'd desired, or a successful marriage, or make her feel special and loved. Vicious life-storms hung over her birth, and as she grew they had scattered  her wants and needs into barely recognisable pieces. Battered and cut, she'd picked up what was left, and forced herself on.
Now she never felt so alone. So lost. And so..so..fake.
Left chronically ill, single, caring for a child who was lifetime dependant. Jenny had played the latest role to perfection: a strong, all-loving and capable mother. But it wasn't real. It wasn't her. It wasn't what she wanted, what she craved.
Jenny glanced down at the rucksack firmly in her grasp, tempted to reach inside for her phone again, but shoved it onto the floor instead. She watched the little girl climb into her buggy. Her mother strapped her in, then reached for the heavy plastic cover to protect her from the storm. The baby continued to sleep soundly as his mother fastened the weather-proofs over his head. She pushed open the entrance doors, ducking beneath her hood as spray blew into her face. Still chatting, they walked out and the doors swung shut, leaving a leaden, aching silence.
Jenny sat for another minute, ramming my moist palms together, my face burning despite the chilly air.
I can't do this, she thought to herself. I really can't.
She leaned back in the chair as a deep, longing pain threatened to swamp her body. She closed her eyes, willing eternal sleep, trying to bury into the dark abyss, where she had stayed all those years. Nothing would break her now. She wouldn't let it.
She heard gentle footsteps on the stairs and realised the counsellor was there. She had made it.
Tension threw her to her feet. She reached the bottom of the stairs and she shot up ahead, away from her. She couldn't let her guess what hurled deep within, desperate to see the light.