The Penn Friends Series Books 5-8: Penn Friends Boxset Page 10

Penny had recognised a lightness in her spirit through the weeks that she had been speaking with Joy. It was as if Joy was her therapist––which, weirdly, she was. Joy had said a few times that Penny needed an actual therapist to talk it all through with, though Penny had fought that suggestion. She knew the danger that held. She could never be as open with someone who could speak, never share her secret with someone who might not be trustworthy.

  Joy, however, was all these things and more. Besides the occasional distraction when a nurse or doctor popped in––usually to see if Penny needed anything, as there was little to be done for Joy––Penny would continuously be speaking with her unlikely confidant. Every response Joy gave back always felt weighted with something far greater than just words. Many times Penny had been stopped in her tracks, marvelling at the simplicity of the thing Joy had just said. Penny wondered if Joy had noticed the difference herself. If she was that wise, Penny reasoned, she must have worked it out ages ago. Penny would never ask her directly about it.

  Why can’t anybody else hear my thoughts? Joy had said, the change of flow initially catching Penny a little off guard.

  “Because you only can communicate to me.”

  Which you specifically gave me, correct?

  “Yes.” Penny didn’t know what else to say and wasn’t going to have an argument that would be nothing more than a heated conversation happening inside her head.

  Then you could make others able to hear me, too, if you gave me the ability to also speak with them? Penny had sensed the question coming, surprised that it had taken this long, in fact. Then again, the fact she’d waited three weeks only made it that much harder to say what she was going to say. Maybe that’s why Joy had delayed. There was even wisdom in her timing.

  “I could have, yes.”

  But you aren’t going to she said, her tone as if accepting what she now realised because you want to keep me to yourself? Penny stood up and paced the floor next to the window, looking out at the carpark, not able to give a response, not able to even look at the woman lying on the bed, for fear that she would wake up and be staring right back at her.

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t do that. People won’t understand,” Penny said.

  They might. You’d be surprised. People can be very understanding. Very forgiving. It was all so true in the case of Joy. Penny had not once felt judged at all by her over the last three weeks, despite everything Penny had shared. Why was Joy so lovely?

  “It would change everything.”

  Change isn’t always a bad thing. A difference can be enjoyable.

  “I would be classed a freak. I’m unique, can you imagine what medical science would do to someone like me?” Penny was sitting back down again now, whispering towards Joy from her nearby position.

  That is assuming you are unique. Have you ever wondered if there are others, like you, out there? Hidden in society just as you are. Penny had never given it a moment’s thought. She’d always been unique. There couldn’t have been––but then again there were those overheard conversations Penny had been unable to shut out between her parents. They’d always known, she remembered her father saying. Maybe she wasn’t alone?

  “I don’t believe there is anyone else with my gift, Joy.”

  That sounds like a very all-knowing thing to say, now, dear. Are you all-knowing?

  “No,” Penny responded, reluctantly.

  Then it’s just as likely that I am right as it is that you are.

  “I still don’t see how it can be. Where are they?”

  Has anyone discovered your gift without you knowing it or first telling them? Penny racked her brain briefly. There had been people to have done stuff around her, people that she didn’t even know the names off. No one had ever guessed because she’d made sure they would never know.

  “No,” she said, again as if conceding a vital point in her legal defence.

  But we weren’t talking about you, now, were we. Sorry about that little diversion. We were discussing my ability to speak to others. If I could, I’d be able to let them know I’m still here. Let them know I’m alive. I could even carry on lecturing if you put your mind to it.

  Penny didn’t have a response. Of course Joy was still there, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Joy was stable, in a good home, under proper care. Most of all, she was Penny’s. The thought that Joy could continue to lecture was as ludicrous as Penny had heard.

  “I can’t, Joy. I’m sorry.”

  Because you’ll feel exposed?

  “Because I will be exposed. Everyone would know about me. There would be no way to hide it.”

  And you wouldn’t have me all to yourself, then, either.

  Penny couldn’t help feeling guilty for that, the guilt cutting right to her heart, but before it could take root and before it could hurt more than it already was, Joy let her off the hook.

  It’s okay; I forgive you. It’s too much for you even to consider; I understand that. I’m just glad we were able to meet. I must suggest, though, that you do take my advice and speak to a professional therapist. They’ll be able to help you in ways I can’t. They’ll be able to voice things that are just impossible for me. At least a therapist can vocalise their advice––I know what this must feel like to you. You must be wondering if what I am saying is just your imagination.

  Penny had been thinking precisely that at that moment; it was as if Joy knew Penny’s thoughts. That notion had bugged Penny for a while already. Was Penny just responding as she wanted Joy to answer? It sounded crazy but voiced, albeit in her head, from the apparent mind of the Nigerian patient lying motionless on the bed in front of her, Penny suddenly didn’t know. Was she making this all up?

  You aren’t making this up Joy said, again too quickly after that last thought for comfort, though went on to say; you can immediately check. Look me up on the University website. See when I arrived in England, see what I studied. If you were making this all up, then nothing you might know about me could be true––how could it be?

  Joy had a brilliant point. Penny didn’t think she could have come up with that herself, but now had a sure fire way of checking that it was happening. She wasn’t really in doubt––she’d used it before, or so she assumed. It was possible Penny had been doing the same with Abbey back in that exam hall. Now, however, she had a clear way of checking. Penny would see what she could find out about Joy later that day.

  Penny checked her watch. She was due at work in half an hour.

  “I need to go soon,” Penny said. She knew she was keeping Joy there like a prisoner. True, she had been there already and would remain that way. But if Penny did grant Joy’s request to be able to communicate with others––all weirdness aside––it would have a considerable impact on the woman’s state of life going forward.

  That would mean Penny would lose her one source of pure therapy. While Penny could arrange to meet a professional, as Joy had urged her to do many times already, that required money. Penny could little afford that, nor face the level of blatant honesty it would need, especially if she were to open up about her gift. The same type of honesty she’d shared with Joy. The kind of honesty that required her to bear her soul to someone else. The difference with a real therapist, however, was that they weren’t confined to a care home in a coma, unable to communicate with anybody but Penny.

  Penny doubted, therefore, she could tell an actual therapist everything, regardless of how much wisdom said she should. Some limited exposure to a professional, though, was something Penny was more than ready to consider. She’d witnessed plenty of other things that had left her scarred.

  5

  With the spare cash I’d managed to save from my first week at the pub––not paying for driving lessons, despite running a car, ironically made money more available––I had enough to trial a few weeks of therapy, as Joy had suggested. Treatment with an actual professional, an interactive person right in front of me, asking me questions, listening to my answers. Not a conversation played out
inside my head, as real as Joy’s responses were.

  I couldn’t help feel for my Nigerian friend––she was a prisoner in her own mind, her body as good as shut down. I hadn’t told her this, though I figured she already knew it.

  My therapist’s name was Isabella Boothroyd–Turner, and yes, she was as upper-class and snooty as her name suggests, but she was also a brilliant listener. Another rock in my otherwise troubled sea. I had enough other issues to fill those first three sessions with, no need to mention my gift. It seemed my life was full of shipwrecks wherever I looked.

  As February came around, with that awful date looming on the calendar for anyone without their own sweetheart, Penny was picking up on her studies somewhat with final exams growing ever larger on the horizon. The first ones were little over three months away.

  Penny’s grades were also picking up, and for that, her teachers were less concerned. In the run-up to Christmas, she’d been flunking nearly every subject. Most would assume a troubled home life from what they knew about Penny––which was an understatement, though no one knew how much of an understatement that was. There had never been much support or interaction with the mother. Penny’s father, if he was still around, had never been present at a school event.

  As January had started, unbeknown to Penny, she was on a watch list. If her grades did not begin improving––and it was less her grades, more her general attitude in class, her motivation for her studies––then intervention would be required.

  Post New Year holiday, Penny’s attitude had changed, however. She was through the problematic autumn, she’d landed in a new job, and she had Joy with whom to speak. Penny was joyful herself. This impact finally caught up with her studies by February, as Penny found the balance between her school life and her working one. Outside of the pub, she had no social life. She’d always been able to move in and out of any group at school, and that had mainly remained so, though she avoided Abbey Lawrence and Kelly McCain, generally got on with most, without being too tight with any one group. That had meant, outside of school, no one knew the other life Penny was living. No one knew about her working so many hours. She had to fit essays and homework around these other priorities––the pub and visiting Joy. Now she needed to add one more priority to that list, following her first meeting with Ms Boothroyd–Turner.

  Penny was not allowed to call her Isabella, as was made clear the first time she tried. Penny was strictly Ms Black when her therapist was speaking to her and, likewise, Penny was to address her therapist by her surname as well.

  Penny had needed to swap a session around at work to make the appointment, but Joy had urged her for so long to give it a go, Penny felt it only right that she made a sacrifice to do so.

  “Please take a seat, Ms Black,” the therapist had said, once they’d got through the awkwardness of how to address each other. The room was immaculately dressed. It looked nothing like the care home setup where Penny had been opening her soul for so long already. The therapist ushered Penny toward a lush looking couch sitting in a Victorian bay window. It was the only seating option available to Penny in the room, besides the desk chair and the one her therapist was already standing next to, which faced the couch and was set back a couple of feet. As Penny climbed on and laid back, Isabella took a seat. Penny stared at the ceiling for a moment; it was hard not to in a reclined position. There was much detail put into the coving and the surrounds for the light fitting that hung from the centre. Penny wondered, if Joy could see, what her view would be. Probably much less to look at in the care home than what Penny was now seeing.

  “You are still seventeen, I see,” she said, her accent very crisp, her words clear, though the flow was becoming, beckoning Penny into a safe place. The thick walls, as well as the strong wooden door which closed as Penny entered the room, blocked any sound that might have come from anywhere else. It was just the two of them. Secrets would remain within those four walls. “I normally don’t work with adolescents, but I see you have insisted and already covered the cost of the first three intro sessions. You understand my rates are discounted for the trial period, correct?” Penny nodded, having been made aware of that already when she had booked the sessions with the firm. At sixty pounds per half hour lesson, Penny didn’t think it sounded discounted at all. She would see how the first three went. She was committed to at least that, anyway. Joy couldn't accuse her of not having at least tried.

  “In my experience, there are often a million different reasons why people come to see me,” she started, Penny now with her eyes closed––it just felt the thing to do––as she listened. “Some just need to talk. Some need to be understood. Many need help processing a situation or situations that have happened to them. Often great trauma is involved. There are always painful memories with which to deal. No one comes to me, walking through my door, without baggage. You are therefore in very good company. There is nothing you can say that I have not been told before,” though Penny greatly doubted that, yet, despite a slight smirk, she made no voiced interruption, and Isabella carried on regardless, having spotted the smirk. Everyone always reacted like that. “And there is nothing that you say that will ever leave these walls. But I must warn you. Without real openness, without answering my questions with honesty, we can make little progress. Most need many sessions to work through the real reasons that have brought them to my office in the first place. No one brings up the main issue in that chair their first few sessions, I can assure you. What I am saying is do not expect immediate results. These things take time.” She picked up a sand timer that was sitting on her desk and turned it over, a small trickle of sand starting to fall through the hole. She placed it back on the desk. “Now that I’ve said all that, we can start the session. The floor, as they say, Ms Black, is yours. Tell me; what is the first issue on your mind?” Isabella now went silent, Penny feeling an invisible spotlight suddenly honing in on her, as if she was the only one on stage, all eyes watching her. She let that image drop.

  “I don’t know where to start,” Penny said after a few seconds, aware that those grains weren’t going to pause to give her time to think. Maybe that was the point?

  “It doesn’t matter what you pick to start. We’ll only get to the meat later.”

  Hearing it like that made it less pressured. Penny could mention something without it being assumed to be the real issue.

  “I don’t have any parents,” Penny said, after an intake of breath, as if preparing for a fast run and needing the oxygen in her system.

  “You mean they’ve left you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Isabella made a note.

  “You said nothing would go outside this room,” Penny said, sitting up as she saw her writing something down. “I’m old enough to live by myself.” Legally, that wasn’t the case. She could have been sixteen and a single mother––the British government would then have given her a house to live in and money to live. But Penny was not in that situation. She was still classed a juvenile and the actions of her parents were criminal. However, that wasn’t why Isabella had noted anything down. She’d come across worst violations before and wasn’t about to report this one, either.

  “Relax,” Isabella said, looking up from her notepad and putting a hand up to beckon Penny to lay down again. “That’s not why I make notes. Lay back and continue, please.”

  Penny obliged.

  “Are you angry with them?” It was always better to ask that than ask if they were dead. The patient’s answer would usually give her that information.

  “I don’t know what I feel,” Penny said. So they aren’t dead, Isabella knew. She’s numb and hurting.

  “When did this happen?”

  “My father left a few years ago, my mum last year.” More frantic notes were taken at this latest revelation, so much so that Penny paused as if allowing time for the therapist to finish her chain of thought.

  “We’ll c
ome back to your parents later. Do you have wider family members looking out for you? Grandparents, uncles, aunts?”

  “No, it’s just me now.” Only a short scribble, one or two words, was made after that answer.

  “I see. Tell me, if you can, do you blame yourself for their absence?”

  Did she blame herself? There were so many ways she could go with that answer.

  “They made their choices,” Penny said, the therapist picking straight through that response.

  “That’s not what I asked.” Silence.

  “Yes and no, is the simple answer.” Nothing was ever simple, not in Ms Boothroyd–Turner’s four walls.

  “Tell me why you say no, for a start. I guess that’s an easier one.” It was.

  “My father made his choice. No one but himself forced him to go. He gave up on mum; he never wanted me…”

  “He never wanted you?” Isabella gently interjected.

  “No. He told me, too. My parents never wanted children. That had been the arrangement. I think they were really happy, then, too. My mother must have tricked him, got pregnant with me and only told him once it was confirmed. That was when they started having problems. It’s how I only ever knew them. Fighting.” Isabella was taking copious notes now.

  “And that made you closer to your mother?”

  “No, not really. My mother couldn’t handle it. It made her feel unloved. She withheld love from me as a result. Turned to drinking by the time I was five. That’s what drove her away from me. That’s why she is now dead.”

  “She died last year?” Isabella had not seen that coming, glancing back at her notes. Penny had implied they had both left her. She circled a few things in her notes.

  “Yes,” Penny replied, but there was no emotion there, no sadness. Isabella had come across a few like this before, but never so mentally stable. She let it drop. Her chosen career always surprised.

  “Why do you blame yourself for them both leaving, and you don’t need to say because you were born? I can see why you might believe that, but that isn’t your fault, Ms Black.” A glance at the sand timer showed her they were nearly halfway through the session.