Accidents Happen by Louise Millar

Helen exclaimed, dropping her delicate, pale hand on the table. ‘You imagine these things, Kate! Constantly! And now he’s copying you, for goodness sake!’ Helen shook her head. ‘I mean, this stuff about hearing noises in his wardrobe. Richard had to check inside three times the other night when you were in London. Jack was terribly anxious.’
    Kate looked at her mother-in-law in horror. What was she talking about?
    ‘I mean, he’s nearly eleven, Kate! When are you going to let him go to the shop or walk to school on his own? What do his friends say? Nearly eleven, thinking there are bad men hiding in his wardrobe?’ Kate saw Helen spot her confused expression, then blink with comprehension before Kate could turn away.
    Helen sighed deeply. ‘Oh, you don’t even know, do you? The boy hasn’t even told her, Richard.’
    Richard shifted in his chair and grunted.
    Kate felt the tears pushing and pushing, her resolve to fight them weakened by the shame of Helen’s exposure of her lack of communication with Jack.
    Helen wrung her hands together. ‘I mean, can you even see what’s going on here any more, Kate? You’re his mother. Some opportunist, probably a drug addict, smashed a window, came in and snatched your laptop. It happens. You need to reassure Jack that’s all it was. Not talk constantly about crime and accident and burglary statistics! The poor little chap’s lying there in the dark, terrified that sinister figures are hiding in his wardrobe because of this constant anxiety of yours, and he can’t even tell you because he knows it will make you worse!’ Her face broke into a horrified laugh. ‘I mean, this is intolerable! You should be fixing this for the boy. Reassuring him that it will never happen, not making it worse, Kate! Not after what he’s been through.’
    Desperately, Kate tried to think.
    Helen continued. ‘And that’s why I feel it’s time for Jack to—’
    Kate held up a hand. ‘No, Helen. No. Please. Don’t say any more.’
    Helen stopped mid-sentence.
    ‘You’re right. I know I’m anxious. But I am trying to fix it. I just didn’t want to tell you,’ she said.
    ‘What, darling?’ Richard asked.
    Helen and Saskia sat expectantly.
    The lie tasted bitter in her mouth. ‘I’ve started therapy.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘I’ve started therapy.’
    ‘When?’ Saskia asked, cynically.
    ‘Tonight. That’s where I was. A woman in Summertown. She’s called Sylvia.’
    ‘That’s convenient,’ Saskia murmured.
    ‘She’s at No. 15 Hemingway Avenue. Look her up if you like. My GP recommended her. And she said she can help me,’ Kate continued.
    ‘When?’
    ‘Next week onwards. I’m going once a week, on Tuesdays, indefinitely. At seven-thirty. She says that it’s all a reaction to the trauma of losing my parents, then Hugo. It’s just anxiety. She says it’s pretty normal. And that she can help me.’
    The three of them sat, Richard nodding, Helen now a shade of fuchsia, Saskia, her eyes darting between them, checking their reactions.
    ‘And I can talk to her about Jack, too. Find ways to help him, too.’
    ‘Well – that’s fantastic,’ Richard said, using the overly jovial voice he always used to gee everyone up. ‘Well done, darling.’
    Saskia tapped her finger on the table. ‘OK then. I’ll babysit for you. When you go.’ There was a challenge in her voice.
    Kate nodded.
    ‘So, that’s every Tuesday, at seven-thirty? I’ll be here,’ Saskia added.
    ‘Helen?’ Richard said.
    Helen began to rub at the stain on the runner with her finger. Kate watched her mother-in-law, her jaw slack, her eyes sad and serious, and she knew, in that moment, that Helen, like Kate, knew that the faded red mark was not wine.
    ‘If this is true, Kate, then I am glad. But I have to tell you, there will be no going back for me now. Perhaps I should have spoken before. But the situation is that I have lost one son, and I won’t allow my grandson to be lost, too. If