Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'I'm still new in London, so I don't really know anybody who could...'

I broke off, unable to continue.

Clarice touched my hand. 'That's fine then. I'll be your supervisor'.

She continued, explaining how I could bring any toys or clothes I liked for Jack. I could play with him. I could hold him. I could simply watch him sleeping. I could also bottle feed him, and Clarice would act as liaison between the nanny and myself to find out what sort of formula he was drinking, and what his feeding routine was right now.

'The only thing you cannot do is leave the room with him unaccompanied. Nor, I'm afraid, can you be left alone with him at any time. Supervised contact means just that'.

Another firm, we're going to get along just fine, aren't we? smile.

'I know that this is all rather artificial and difficult for you. But we can try to make the best of it. All right?'

I nodded.

'Right then', she said, standing up. 'I'll be back in a moment'.

She disappeared into an adjoining room and returned a moment later, holding a familiar carry-chair.

'Here he is', she said quietly, handing him over to me.

I looked down. Jack was fast asleep. But what struck me immediately was just how much he'd grown in three weeks. He'd filled out a bit, his face had more definition, more character. Even his fingers seemed longer.

'You can pick him up if you want', she said.

'I don't want to disturb him', I said. So I placed the carry-chair on the floor beside me, reached down and, using my right index finger, stroked his clenched fist. His hand unclenched, his fingers wrapped around mine, and he held on to me, still sleeping soundly.

That's when I lost the battle I'd been waging ever since I arrived here. I started to cry, putting a hand across my mouth to muffle the sobs and not wake him up. Once I glanced up at Clarice Chambers and saw her watching me with a cool professional eye.

'I'm sorry' I whispered. 'This is all a bit...'

'You don't have to apologize', she said. 'I know this is hard'.

'It's just so good to see him'.

He didn't wake for the entire hour... though his fist did unclutch after around ten minutes, so I simply sat by him, rocking him in his chair, stroking his face, thinking just how serene he was, and how desperate I was to be with him all the time.

Clarice said nothing for the entire hour, though I was conscious of her watching me - seeing how I related to Jack, how I was handling the highly charged emotionalism of this situation, and whether I seemed like a stable, balanced individual. But I didn't try to play to the gallery, or put on a big maternal show. I just sat by him, happy for the temporary contact.

Then, before I knew it, Clarice quietly said, 'It's time, I'm afraid'.

I gulped and felt tears sting my face.

'All right', I said.

She gave me another minute, then walked over to us. I touched his face with my hand, then leaned over and kissed his head, breathing in his talcum powder aroma. I stood up and walked to another corner of the room, staring out a grimy window at a trash-strewn courtyard as she picked up the carry-chair and left. When she came back, she approached me and asked, 'Are you all right?'

'I'm trying to be'.

'The first time is always the hardest'.

No, I thought. Every time will be hard.

'Remember - you can bring clothes and toys for him next week', she said.

As if he's a doll I can dress up and play with for an hour.

I shut my eyes. I nodded. She touched my arm with her hand.

'It will get easier'.

I went home. I sat down on the bed and cried. This time, however, the crying wasn't underscored by that physical sensation of plummeting which I so associated with the start of an extended depressive jag. This was simply another ferocious expression of grief - and one over which I had no control.

They say there's nothing like a good cry to expunge all the pent-up sorrow you carry with you. But when I finally brought myself under control, and faltered into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, I found myself thinking: That did me no good whatsoever.

I thought: if I am permanently kept from him, will this ever stop? Will I ever come to terms with it?

The next six days were bleak. My sleep was broken - despite the ongoing use of knock-out pills. I had little appetite. I left the house for the occasional foray to the corner shop or Marks and Spencer. I found myself devoid of energy - so much so that, when I did go down to St Martin's Hospital for a consultation with Dr Rodale, she immediately commented on my wan appearance.

'Well, it's not been an easy few weeks', I said.

'Yes', she said, 'I did hear about the court order. I'm very sorry'.

'Thank you', I said - though I was silently angry at her for her professional reserve, her refusal to tell me I had been so desperately wronged, especially when she knew that I was incapable of physically harming my child, and that I had been in the grip of a monstrous ailment over which...

No, no. I wasn't going to play the don't blame me card again. I was simply going to face the reality of the situation and...

... but why the hell couldn't Dr Rodale tell me what she must know: that the court decision was so manifestly unfair?

'And how do you feel in yourself right now?'

She had quickly moved us back into the realm of pharmacological questioning. All right then: you want straight answers, you'll get straight answers. So I met her gaze and said, 'I cry a lot. I find myself angry a great deal of the time. I think what's happened to me is completely unjust and underhand'.

'And those "downward spirals" you used to describe?'

'They're not so frequent. It's not that I don't get low - I do all the time - it's just that I seem to be able to dodge the black swamp. But that doesn't mean I'm exactly happy...'

Dr Rodale's lips contorted into a dry smile.

'Who is?' she said quietly.

At the end of our interview, she announced herself once again pleased with my progress, and appeared even more gratified by the knowledge that the anti-depressants had proved so effective.

'As I told you from the outset, these sorts of drugs take time to build up in the system - and to demonstrate their efficacy. But the fact that you seem to be avoiding the "black swamp" shows that they have made considerable positive impact. You may not be happy, but at least you're functioning again. Which is good news. So I see no need to alter the dosage for the time being. But on the unhappiness front... have you been in touch with Ellen Cartwright?'

Actually, she called me the day after I saw Dr Rodale, apologizing profusely for being incommunicado when my solicitor's assistant came chasing her for a witness statement.

'The message on my answerphone was a bit garbled', she said, 'so I didn't exactly understand why she needed this statement from me. Something about a court proceeding...'

I informed her about that proceeding, and its outcome. She sounded appalled.

'But that's scandalous', she said. 'Especially as I could have told them... Oh God, now I feel dreadful. But how are you feeling?'

'Horrible'.

'Would you like to start our sessions again?'

'I think that would be a good idea'.

'Fine then. One thing, though - you know that I just do NHS locums at St Martin's - and only for anyone who's resident in the unit. So if you want to see me, it will have to be on a private basis'.

'And what's the charge?'

'It's £70 per hour, I'm afraid. But if you have private health care...'

'We were with BUPA, but I'm pretty sure I've been taken off the policy'.

'Well you should still give them a call, and if you're still covered they will tell you how many weekly sessions they're willing to cover - and for how long. You'll also need a reference from Dr Rodale - but that will be no problem'.