Spare

Yes, I’ve already lost my mum, of course, but I’m afraid that by talking about her, now, here, to a perfect stranger, and perhaps alleviating some of the pain of that loss, I’ll be losing her again. I’ll be losing that feeling, that presence of her—or what I’ve always felt as her presence.

The therapist squinted. I tried again.

You see…the pain…if that’s what it is…that’s all I have left of her. And the pain is also what drives me. Some days the pain is the only thing holding me together. And also, I suppose, without the pain, well, she might think…I’ve forgotten her.

That sounded silly. But, well, there it was.

Most memories of my mother, I explained, with sudden and overwhelming sorrow, were gone. On the other side of the Wall. I told her about the Wall. I told her I’d spoken to Willy about my lack of memories of our mother. He’d advised me to look through photo albums, which I’d promptly done. Nothing.

So, my mother wasn’t images, or impressions, she was mainly just a hole in my heart, and if I healed that hole, patched it up—what then?

I asked if all this sounded crazy.

No.

We were silent.

A long time.

She asked me what I needed. Why are you here?

Look, I said. What I need…is to be rid of this heaviness in my chest. I need…I need…

Yes?

To cry. Please. Help me cry.

26.

The next session I asked if it would be all right for me to lie down.

She smiled. I was wondering when you’d ask.

I stretched out on the green sofa, tucked a pillow under my neck.

I spoke about the physical and emotional suffering. The panic, the anxiety. The sweats.

How long has this been going on?

Two or three years now. It used to be much worse.

I told her about the talk with Cress. During the skiing holiday. The top coming off the bottle, emotions fizzing all over the place. I’d cried a bit then…but it wasn’t enough. I needed to cry more. And I couldn’t.

I got around to talking about the deep rage, the ostensible trigger for seeking her out in the first place. I described the scene with Meg, in the kitchen.

I shook my head.

I vented about my family. Pa and Willy. Camilla. I frequently stopped myself, mid-sentence, at the sound of passersby outside the window. If they ever knew. Prince Harry in there yapping about his family. His problems. Oh, the papers would have a field day.

Which led us on to the subject of the press. Firmer ground. I let fly. My own countrymen and countrywomen, I said, showing such contempt, such vile disrespect, to the woman I loved. Sure, the press had been cruel to me through the years, but that was different. I was born into it. And sometimes I’d asked for it, brought it on myself.

But this woman has done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

And whenever I complained about it, privately or publicly, people just rolled their eyes. They said I was whingeing, said I only pretended to want privacy, said Meg was pretending as well. Oh, she’s getting chased, is she? Wah-wah, give us a break! She’ll be fine, she’s an actress, she’s used to paps, in fact, wants them.

But no one wanted this. No one could ever get used to it. All those eye-rollers couldn’t take ten minutes of it. Meg was having panic attacks for the first time in her life. She’d recently received a text from a perfect stranger who knew her address in Toronto and promised to put a bullet into her head.

The therapist said I sounded angry.

Shit, yes, I was angry!

She said that, no matter how valid my complaints, I also sounded stuck. Granted, Meg and I were living through an ordeal, but the Harry who’d snapped at Meg with such anger wasn’t this Harry, the reasonable Harry, lying on this sofa and laying out his case. That was twelve-year-old Harry, traumatized Harry.

What you’re going through right now is reminiscent of 1997, Harry, but I also fear that part of you is trapped in 1997.

I didn’t like the sound of that. I felt a bit insulted. Calling me a child? Seems a bit rude.