Lullaby Read Free

than consent.’
    ‘You lied.’
    ‘Sure, if you like.’ It didn’t seem to worry her. ‘It’s not about informed consent,
it’s about capacity for informed consent. That’s my job, to see if you are capable
of knowing what you want.’
    ‘Is anybody?’ I asked.
    ‘There’s a scale.’
    ‘You have to make sure the trauma hasn’t affected me.’
    ‘Your twin brother is dying,’ she answered. ‘If the trauma hadn’t affected you, there
would be something seriously wrong.’
    ‘You need to be sure my decision can’t be challenged in a court.’ I knew a little
bit.
    ‘That’s part of it.’
    ‘How am I doing?’
    ‘Until you asked that question, very well.’
    This time her smile was different. Like she’d just realised how nervous I was, how
much I needed her to like me.
    ‘So how did they die?’
    ‘Picnic, lightning.’ Her fault, for encouraging me.
    ‘You know, I’m sure I’ve read that book.’
    ‘I only saw the movie. It was lightning though. We don’t know the circumstances.
Only that Dad was driving, and for some reason he stopped and got out, even though
it was pouring with rain. He was in the middle of the road when they found them,
and she was half in, half out. Like she’d got out to drag him back in, or to see
what he was doing, or…He had a torch. People had theories. I don’t think they were
arguing. Neither does Theo. They didn’t argue much. With everybody else, all the
time, but not with each other.’
    ‘What did they argue with other people about?’
    ‘How do these questions help?’ I asked. ‘What do they have to do with judging whether
I’m in my right mind?’
    ‘If I have to explain every question—’
    ‘Just this one.’
    Maggie considered it, or considered me. I’ve never been that good at holding eye
contact, especially when there’s silence. Three beats, and I have to talk or look
away. Apart from with Theo. Theo was like looking into a mirror.
    ‘We ask about your past because it gives us a sense of how you see yourself. And
the more we talk, the less guarded we become. In your case, your parents died suddenly.
So this question can give me an idea of how you cope with loss. Essentially, I’m
building a picture of you, and comparing it to reference pictures: of people who
are suffering but competent, and of others who’ve lost their frame of reference.
It’s imprecise, but it’s what we have. Is that enough information for you?’
    I nodded.
    Imagine playing chess, and your opponent starts explaining all their moves to you.
How insignificant would your skills have to appear to them, before they would be
prepared to do that?
    ‘You’re recording this?’
    ‘I’m sorry, I thought you’d been told.’
    ‘Yeah, I had.’
    ‘For clinical review, should my findings be challenged. In those circumstances the
only person to access this would be another psychologist.’
    I nodded.
    She left a gap for another question.
    I let it close over.
    ‘So, your parents, what did they like to argue about, with other people?’
    ‘Education, politics, how to raise children. The environment.’
    ‘And you miss them?’
    ‘Of course I miss them.’
    And, even though it was exactly what she wanted me to do, I slipped into a story.
I needed my parents close.

    ‘I remember one morning, a month before they died, we had breakfast together. That
was unusual. Mostly it was four people running late, each sure the other three were
deliberately making them later. But this day there was a strange coincidence, like
when a room full of conversation suddenly falls silent, and we all sat down together
at the table, by a window, looking out over the water. I watched people pushing into
the wind, hurrying to get to the station, too busy to notice how beautiful the ocean
is when it’s wild. The radio was on. We were the only people I knew that listened
to radio. There was a panel discussion about the upcoming election. Theo asked Dad
what something meant, I don’t remember