You Need to Hear My Story

Dr. Parson looked down at the file open before him, his brow furrowed.

"Aah, yes. I'll pick up the story from where Mrs. Harrison left off. The day that she went to see her lover to break up with him, the babysitter pulled out at short notice, something about a sick child at home. Anyway, Mrs. Harrison decided to take her nine-month-old daughter to her lover's house with her.

"According to Mrs. Harrison the child was asleep in the pram when Mrs. Harrison and her lover went to the bedroom to engage in sex. Fire investigators never decided exactly what happened but they think that in all probability the baby woke and managed to crawl out of her pram. They think she may have knocked over one of the candles or a scented oil lamp the lover had lit for his seduction. Apparently, he had them all over his apartment as he knew Mrs. Harrison was partial to them. As an aside, Mrs. Harrison has hated scented candles ever since.

"Whatever, by the time the pair noticed smoke coming under the bedroom door, the apartment was well alight. According to Mrs. Harrison when she opened the door she was met with a wall of flames. She says her lover shoved her out of the window and jumped out after her. She tried to climb back in to save her daughter but the lover stopped her, and when she begged him to go back in and save her daughter he refused. The child's body was found in the ashes. The only blessing was she died of smoke inhalation before being burnt."

Dr. Parsons paused to let the horror of the story sink in. Pamela swallowed several times; fearful she was about to throw up on the doctor's desk. Wendy's story was so much worse than she had imagined. Tragic was an understatement. Wendy's baby, her poor, innocent little girl had died. Nine months old. She couldn't even begin to understand the guilt and devastation Wendy would have felt.

"It was the next day that the police informed her husband of the child's fate and the circumstances of it. The husband blamed her for everything, of course, divorced her for adultery, and was awarded custody of the boys."

At Pamela's raised eyebrows, the doctor elaborated. "Mrs. Harrison lost custody of her sons as she'd already attempted suicide by then thus proving herself unstable and therefore unfit to care for two young boys. The two sons, who, as I'm sure Mrs. Harrison confided in you earlier, were extremely protective of their little sister, never contacted her ever again. She hasn't engaged in any type of sexual interaction since because the mere thought of it triggers her PTSD. As you know, she was having sex while her baby was dying. Despite all our efforts, we've never cured her of her disorder."

At that point his phone rang. Pamela was relieved. Despite having given him assurance she was strong enough to hear Wendy's tale in its entirety, she wasn't certain she could take any more. It was just too awful. She wanted to go away and digest all that she'd learned.

Dr. Parsons stood, asking the person on the other end to wait before quietly telling Pamela he had to take the call and asking her to see him the next day. He grabbed from his in-tray what she recognised as an authorisation form and handed it to her. It gave Pam permission to enter Wendy's room to return the handbag and make sure everything was fit to be left, perhaps for a long time.

He let her out of his office, but before she could head in the direction of Wendy's room the safety officer for the facility waylaid her, asking her to complete the preliminary incident report from the afternoon's events. Pamela sighed. She just wanted to be alone to absorb all that she'd heard.

Even though she omitted details about the topic of her chat with Wendy prior to her self-harming incident, having to write the simple words, 'Mrs. Harrison became upset over memories of her past' was enough to bring on flashes of Wendy's anguished words and her face. Pamela didn't think she'd ever forget the level of pain she'd seen in Wendy's face.

She placed the report in the manilla envelope the safety officer provided. She closed the folder in preparation of handing it over when she noticed it had already been labelled with Wendy's details. Even before Wendy's confession she'd been curious as to Wendy's age and the date of birth was right there, on the front cover of the file, so Pamela made a mental note of it.

Finally finished with all the protocols that Wendy's self-harming incident set in motion, Pamela went straight to Wendy's room and let herself in with a master key.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, surveying the room with a new, more knowledgeable eye. Being part of a facility, the rooms themselves were quite generic, though Pamela had seen a few residents personalise their space, making them more homey. Many attended the craft workshops and made things to decorate their rooms with. Wendy had done little to hers. It looked like a motel room with nice but forgettable watercolour still lifes on the wall and tasteful but equally forgettable cushions and rugs. Pamela had been in Wendy's room on prior occasions but it struck her for the first time the lack of personal effects on display. No photos or mementos were to be found.

The room was open plan with the kitchenette, dining, and lounge all in the one area. She deposited the handbag on the kitchen counter, washed a dirty cup, tipped some milk from a carton in the little bar fridge and generally tidied up the little living area.

Resting on the kitchen bench was an A4 envelope which had been opened. The edges were torn, like a puppy had attacked it. That detail surprised Pamela; Wendy was always such an elegant and fastidious person. She looked like someone who would use a letter opener to open her mail. The envelope made the bench look untidy but Pamela wasn't sure where to put it and so she left it where it was for the time being. She wondered as to its contents. Was it Wendy's last will and testament? Some legal documents? Pamela's curiosity was aroused but she resisted the temptation to look inside.

With the living area tidy, Pamela opened the door into the bedroom. It was the first time she'd been inside Wendy's bedroom. Wendy normally kept the door to it closed. It was a generous sized room and the bed was neatly made, but it was the walls that drew Pamela's attention.

Lining each and every wall were photographs mounted in simple black frames of various sizes. Pamela wondered why Wendy didn't display them in her living area. A closer examination told Pamela they were arranged in chronological order, commencing from the right-hand side of the bed.

The first was a black-and-white photograph of a radiant young woman, in a wedding dress, standing next to a tall, handsome man, their arms entwined, standing in front of a car with tins and boots tied to the back. Wendy had looked lovely, Pamela thought, with her delicate features and large eyes. The epitome of the radiant bride.

The next set of photos were obviously school photographs of two smiling boys in uniforms, hats, and ties. Pamela smiled at their gap-toothed grins. She could see a bit of Wendy in the younger one, and a lot of the man in the wedding photograph in the elder boy. Clearly, they were Wendy's sons. Pamela wondered what their names were.

Beside the school photos was a picture taken outside a church. Obviously the same man as in the first wedding picture, but a different bride and they weren't looking at the camera. The husband remarrying, Pam guessed. She wondered who had taken the photograph and shared it with Wendy. A friend perhaps? How hard it must be for Wendy to see her former husband's happiness. To see him move on. Pamela knew it would kill her if she ever lost Jake.

A quick glance around the remaining photos revealed that the school photos of Wendy's sons were the last of the posed photographs.

One photo on the first wall caught Pamela's attention because no people were captured in a moment in time. Rather, it was a sad shot of a solitary headstone. The headstone was quite striking, made from black granite with a beautiful carving of an angel and flowers down one side of the front face. Pamela stepped closer to read the inscription. Sophie Harrison. So that was Wendy's daughter's name. Pamela's heart gave a little clench at the inscription, 'Tread softly, an angel lies buried here.' She heard again Wendy's voice describing her little girl as an angel and ached again for Wendy's loss.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Pamela moved to the next two photographs. They were taken from a distance, zoom shots of two graduations by the looks of it. Wendy's sons?

Just to the right of that, another two wedding shots, taken outside two churches with two different brides and grooms. 'Wendy's sons again,' thought Pamela.

Pamela turned toward the next wall. There were two collections showing various children. Pamela couldn't help smiling. The photos captured the children in action. There was smiling, sweaty faces running on slender legs down a soccer field, lovely little ballerinas, and determined faces, a bat resting ready to whack a ball out of the park. Wendy's grandkids were cute and wonderful. They made Pamela think of her two tearaways. They too loved their soccer and baseball.

Yet, collectively, deep down, the photos told a horrendous story of isolation. In none of the photographs was the child looking at the camera that had captured for all eternity that moment of time in their lives. Not one photo showed the child smiling directly at the camera, at the taker of the photo. It had the effect of excluding the viewer from the captured scene.

Pamela continued her slow journey around the room. Each series of photos showed both landmark and family outings.

Her circuit of the room complete, Pamela moved to the centre and slowly swivelled. Her eyes took in all of the photographs and the horror they spoke of. A wave of desolation swept through her. No wonder there always lingered about Wendy a look of melancholy. No wonder that even her smiles looked sad.

On a hunch, Pamela returned to the living area and picked up the A4 envelope. She gave it a little shake and two sheets slid out and onto the benchtop. One sheet was yet another photograph. Pamela held it up. It was of a small child, maybe around eighteen-months-old, Pamela judged. He was cute with his blond curls and big smile. Pamela could almost hear his laughter as a smiling old man pushed him on a swing while an older lady stood by at the man's shoulder laughing. The man might be older and greyer, his shoulders not quite so broad and straight, but he was still recognisable as being Ronnie Harrison, Wendy's husband.

The other sheet, with the header of a private investigation company, was simply a report.

Dear Mrs. Harrison,

Please find enclosed a photograph of your latest Great Grandchild, as requested. We believe they named him Joshua. The man pushing him on the swing has been identified as one Ronald Harrison. The woman, Jennifer Harrison.

Please contact us again if we can be of further assistance.

Pamela picked up the photo again. She knew exactly what she had to do with it. She hunted around in Wendy's drawers and found some pins. Ceremoniously, she walked into the bedroom with the photo and pinned it above the bed. The only place left if she wanted to follow the sequence of photographs of husband, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It wasn't framed like the others, but something told Pamela it was important to add it to Wendy's collection.

Again, she surveyed the room. It was all so wretchedly tragic. Each photo evidence of a life lived remotely by a woman that had never seen her descendants in the actual flesh, just through an investigator's lens. Wendy had paid a high price for her bad choices, her selfishness and stupidity.

Pamela knew she should leave but somehow she couldn't quite make herself go. Feeling drawn, she moved to stand before the first photograph, the one of Wendy's and Ronnie's wedding.

Still smiling, she studied Wendy's face. She looked so happy. Radiant. Smiling up at Ronnie, her face suffused with love. An expression Pamela had never seen on her 91-year-old friend's face. How had a woman who so clearly loved her husband lost sight of that love? How had she betrayed it?

Something, an awareness, a truth, broke free from its cage in Pamela's mind. This room could be hers. This future could be hers. This could be her life. Old and alone, living in an aged care facility. No visitors. No one who loved her. A life lived via someone else's telescopic lens.

Wendy had been right after all. She did need to hear Wendy's story.

With a last glance back at a completely wasted life, Pamela sent Randall a text telling him to never speak to her again. Relief flooded her. She felt as if she'd managed to walk away from a car wreck unscathed.

She couldn't wait to go home and hug her two sons. She felt an overpowering need to hold them close and never let them go. She needed to hold her husband and tell him how much she loved and appreciated him. She needed them to know they were her world, now and always. Of course, by the morning she'd want to strangle them all for having left their dirty laundry all over the floors of their respective bedrooms but she couldn't think of three other people she'd love to hug and strangle at the same time more.

THE END

NOW A JOKE OR TWO TO LIGHTEN THE MOOD AND EASE YOU BACK TO REALITY!

CTC's JOKE

Vandemonium1's annual performance review of CreativityTakesCourage said she lacks "passion and intensity."

Clearly, he's never seen her alone with a block of chocolate.

AND VAN1's

I was in the pub with CTC last night and I said, "I love you."

She said, "That was the beer talking."

I replied, "I was talking to the beer."