A chapter from my work in progress:Â âGod Watches from the Fishbowlâ
âAh donât know. Iâve been in and out for the last 2 year. Should you not know that Sheila?â
âI do Alana. Iâm just giving you the opportunity to answer the questions yourself. Itâs aimed at empower..â
âWhat kinda worker are you? No even knowing when Iâve been in and out. How many years you study to do this?â
Sheilaâs attempt at hiding her lack of preparation falls flat. Half truths and outright lies are immediately felt by Alana, like an instinct, the statement just sticks and jars until she knows. Sheâs tried to explain this instinct before, to various workers, whoâve mostly entertained it in a humorous sort of way. She remembers explaining this to a young woman who, just graduated, was full of untarnished empathy. She was tall and pretty and pale and while Alana hated her for this she began to hope they could be friendly. This was a guarded secret for months as the worker was continually tried and tested. This first two sessions Alana spent texting and laughing at any word spoken. Feigning a mocking disinterest while watching, feeling and analysing every reaction and interaction. She was every girl from her childhood with neat plaited hair and ironed clothes. The girls that Mumâs fuss over at the school gate, smoothing unruly hairs before a loving goodbye kiss.
After some time Alana gave a little more and tested a little less thoroughly. The worker was passing and faring much better than most. And while at times she said things like âI understand how you must feelâ when she didnât, there was a tangible feeling of a real effort being made to at least try. So, one October 14th, Alana told her about the ability. The ability she had to feel lies. Some time ago, Alana had read something about bats âthey are able tae see space without sight. They reach out with sonar. Giving out an receiving, getting these signals back. The signals give them feelings, like vibrations that hit them, telling them where they are and where other things are. Thatâs how I feel about lies. I just know. I can feel them hitting me and they are heavy, landing on my body like a dull thud. Thatâs how I know.â Her heart was pounding in her chest, anticipating the response sheâd so long waited for. She didnât know what this response should look like, only that she should be taken seriously.
Like most things so far, it wasnât what sheâd imagined. Worker sat in an oppressively bare room, hum of the ancient computer behind, wearing an expression of complete bewilderment. A chatty young woman, who had never faltered before, had lost every word she knew. For a moment Alana thought she might cry on receiving an emotion so unexpected. It was surprise, mixed in no small measure, with fear. The worker had not anticipated Alanaâs intelligence. It wasnât Alanaâs gift that shocked her but her ability to articulate herself in such a way that left her worker panicked and embarrassed. A shift in the relationship sat them side by side as thinking, feeling equals. Every theory book she had read and the code of conduct she had signed made her promise a âprofessional relationshipâ with a level of âdistance.â But now her heart, like a fat balloon fit to burst, could not comprehend âprofessionalâ and âdistance.â By the time her worker had resolved herself to speak Alana had lost all notions of mutual respect and decided never to talk about her ability again. She left 2 weeks later for a Masters in psychology. Alana does not remember her name.
She knew she would always remember Sheliaâs name. Sitting in front of her now all rosacea faced and over plucked; a woman who clearly ate her feelings and squeezed her chubby toes into witchy points. Red stilettoes, Alana often thought, âso as she can impose some sharpness about her rounded folds.â How could you forget that name? Such a stereotypical social worker, whingey, superior, middle-class, Kipling guzzling, in it for the wrong reasons, overbearing, Dickensian pitying, tory voting, these people just donât try hard enough thinking, Waitrose shopper, plant waterer, who pretends to read the guardian but has an online subscription to the Sun on the down low, hairdresser once a week, baking cupcakes only sheâll eat, two kids who hate her, who goes home at the weekends and doesnât even think about the kidsâ lives sheâs meddled in because she knows best, always, because the degree says so and so do her pointy fucking shoes.
âAlana, I really need to get this report in today before the panel convenes on Tuesday. (Sheâs used the word convene to intimidate me here. Obviously no thinking itâs part of my vocabulary) Would you stop messing about and give me an answer please?â (this bitâs to make me feel childish for âmessing aboutâ and to embarrass me into giving up an answer to a question she should already know the answer to).
âFuck off Sheila.â
Sheliaâs lost the rag and she goes off on one saying this and that in a tone I donât like so I zone out. Iâm thinking about what it would be like to keep beeâs, wearing one of those space suits, pulling out sweet and sticky honeycomb and dripping it into jars to sell at a wee fruit market. A market full of fresh flowers, that smells like summer. Maybe Iâd sell jam an aw. I could work away by myself, not bothering anyone, just happy with my beeâs and a wee bit of money for some toast. Toast and honey. Now thatâs a winning comboâŠ
⊠ânot going to listen to me or respond then I have to leave Alana. Iâll be back tomorrow at 10. Ok? Alana? Does that work for you? (I nod) Right Iâll be back then.â
Exit Sheila. Pursued by a bat.
Lily Ann Sinclair