She reached over and turned off the tap. The water gurgled away. The broccoli sucked and drained. There was quiet. I could hear her wheezing now. She must have a cold. Eventually she said: ‘I’m sorry you can’t sleep, Elisabeth.’ Her voice is kind and heavy with regret. I hate that. I hate regret. Mum’s regret. Carl’s regret. My regret.
Jonathan never regretted anything.
I picked up another head of broccoli and snipped harder. It’s the rubbery resistance then the sudden snap that drives you wild. Like baby’s fingers.
‘Sometimes when we meditate more intensely, as you have been doing for the last three days, Elisabeth, we find things getting harder rather than easier. We find we have more pains rather than fewer. And more thoughts perhaps. It gets harder to sleep.’
I knew when she stopped speaking she must be looking at me in an inquisitive way. She wanted me to confirm what she was saying.
I snipped the broccoli.
‘The reason is that our stillness, our sila, samādhi, paññā, have allowed the deep sankharas of the past to rise to the surface, the things that really pain and trouble us. It is part of the process of purification we spoke about. You should feel encouraged rather than disappointed.’
I hadn’t said I felt disappointed.
I picked up a fresh stick of broccoli, then stopped. Something was coming to a head, but what? And when exactly? Something was about to change, about to change. Oh, but I’m always about to change and never do. I was not going to cry in front of Mrs Harper.
‘It’s my period,’ I told her. ‘I’m bleeding like a pig. I’ll have to go and get a tampon.’
That was true.
She wasn’t convinced. She waited, watching. It began to get on my nerves. In the end I asked: ‘Why do you pay me all this attention?’
She stood watching, very solid, very soft.
‘You don’t talk like this to the others. To Kristin. Or Ines.’
She was silent.
‘Is it because I’m a bad girl? You want to convert the bad girl.’
Mrs Harper smiled. ‘We have no desire to convert anyone at the Dasgupta, Elisabeth. You know that. I’m not even sure what the word means. I don’t want to change your mind about anything.’
‘My friends call me Beth,’ I said.
I wondered if she had got a whiff of smoke. I wondered what she was doing in the kitchen at three thirty a.m. Was she after a snack? You could see she didn’t starve herself.
‘Ian and I have the impression that although you have been at the Dasgupta a long time, it is not because you want to be here, but because you are afraid of leaving. We would like to see you choose to stay with enthusiasm, or go with courage.’
I could have killed her. Ian and I. Ian and I.
‘Why don’t you just ask what my problem is?’ I demanded. I slammed down the scissors. ‘Why don’t you ask? How can you pretend to help me without knowing anything about me? I could be a serial killer for all you know. Or a nymphomaniac.’
I looked her in the eyes. I meant to shoot arrows. If they hit home she didn’t show it.
‘I suppose we’re concerned that you might do something disruptive to get yourself thrown out. Because you can’t take the decision yourself.’
‘Like what?’
She smiled gently. ‘Hard to tell. Smoking on the premises. Going to the pub. Visiting the men’s side.
I stared at her. She was standing with her back slightly curved, her hands linked over her big belly. What if I rushed over and whacked her in the mouth?
I picked up the broccoli again and made five or six quick snips.
‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘You’re standing in front of me, Elisabeth. With your scissors. At night. In the kitchen. Cutting broccoli.’
‘Beth.’
She said nothing.
‘That doesn’t mean you know me.’
‘You’re here,’ she repeated. ‘Now. What does it mean, to know someone?’
I thought how nice it had been working in the kitchen, alone, and how agitated I was now. Her calmness was driving me wild. I needed a scene. I should chuck the broccoli at her.
‘Why don’t you ask me something? Ask me what’s bothering me. Ask me why I feel bad.’
‘You said it was your period.’ She hesitated. Suddenly I was anxious she might really ask.
‘What are you doing here?’ I said quickly. ‘I’m bleeding. What’s your excuse?’
She sucked in her lips, smiling.
‘Do you need a bowl of cereal, like Ralph? He was here earlier. He eats like a horse.’
Mrs Harper turned, trundled to the water heater, took a mug and a green-tea teabag and filled it with steaming water.
‘I’ve got a sore throat. I need some tea.’ Again she hesitated. ‘You asked why I don’t want to know what’s bothering you, why I don’t ask you. But if you think about it, Elisabeth, why would I want to hear about your sankharas? How would that help? My knowing. Your past sankharas are not you. I’m not a psychologist. I have no expertise in analysing someone’s life history. You’ve been here a long time now. Your stories are no longer you. You can let them go.’
‘Just like that?’
I took a piece of raw broccoli and pushed it into my mouth. It was tough and cold, like the thing the dentist pushes between your gums.
‘If you start telling me your past you’ll go back to whatever unhappiness there was. You’ll get involved again.’
I bit my lip. Something was in the air.
‘Maybe if I tell someone I can get it out of my system.’
She fished the teabag out of her tea and sipped. When she turned to the counter I saw her broad back, her big backside.
‘Let’s try an experiment,’ she said brightly. ‘If you really need to, you can tell me your story, but why not tell it as if it had happened to someone else? Someone called Elisabeth. Someone you used to know before you came here.’
I found I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Something trickled down my thigh. I needed to get to the bathroom.
‘That’s stupid. It’s stupid pretending not to be who I am.’
‘I said it was an experiment. It can’t harm, can it?’ She dipped her face to her cup. Her lips were sipping and smiling.
I tapped the scissors on the counter. It was an incredibly slow conversation. A chat in slow motion. The trickle moved slowly and stopped. She was watching me over the top of her tea. Her body wheezed slowly, her breasts, her flabby stomach. Waiting for a stab from my scissors maybe.
Then I said: ‘I’d rather tell Mi Nu.’
‘Ah.’
She nodded, as if we’d made progress. She didn’t seem hurt.
‘If I have to tell anyone.’
‘Elisabeth, as I said, you don’t have to tell anyone at all. It was you who talked of needing to tell.’
‘I’d rather tell Mi Nu.’
‘Well, do. She receives people after lunch. Make an appointment.’
I couldn’t understand why I was so wired up, why I was gripping the scissors so tight.
‘I can’t,’ I shouted. ‘I keep trying to tell people but I can’t. I get scared.’
She sighed deeply.
‘What have you got to lose, Elisabeth? What is at stake?’
I was praying the morning gong would interrupt us. It must be nearly four. I really needed the bathroom.
‘Well?’
‘She won’t be able to help me, will she? It will be a waste of time. She’ll despise me.’