A Place Called Here

‘To misplace something is to lose it temporarily by forgetting where you put it. I always remember where I put things. It’s the things that I don’t misplace that I try to find; the things that grow legs and walk away all by themselves that annoy me.’

‘Do you think it’s possible that somebody else, other than you, moves all these things?’

‘Like who?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘Well, in the case of the Sellotape the answer is clearly no. In the case of the socks, unless somebody reaches into the washing machine and takes out my socks then the answer is no. Mr Burton, my parents want to help me. I don’t think that they would move things and then forget about it every single time. If anything, they are more aware of exactly where they put things.’

‘So what is your assumption? Where do you think these things are?’

‘Mr Burton, if I had an assumption, then I wouldn’t be here.’

‘You have no idea then? Even in your wildest dreams, during your most frustrating times when you’re vigorously searching into the early hours of the morning and you still can’t find it, have you any opinion at all as to where you think the missing things are?’

Well, he’d clearly learned more about me from my parents than I thought, but having to answer this question truthfully I feared would mean he’d never fall in love with me. But I took a deep breath and told the truth anyway. ‘At times like that I’m convinced they are in a place where missing things go.’

He didn’t miss a beat. ‘Do you think Jenny-May is there? Does it make you feel better to think that she’s there?’

‘Oh God.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘If someone killed her, Mr Burton, they killed her. I’m not trying to create imaginary worlds to make myself feel better.’

He tried very hard not to move a muscle in his face.

‘But whether she’s alive now or not, why haven’t the Gardaí been able to find her?’

‘Would it make you feel better to just accept that sometimes there are mysteries?’

‘You don’t accept that, why should I?’

‘What makes you think I don’t?’

‘You’re a counsellor. You believe that every action has a reaction and all that kind of stuff. I read up on it before I came here. Everything that I do now is because of something that happened, something somebody said or did. You believe there are answers to everything and ways of solving everything.’

‘That’s not necessarily true. I can’t fix everything, Sandy.’

‘Can you fix me?’

‘You’re not broken.’

‘Is that your medical opinion?’

‘I’m not a doctor.’

‘Aren’t you a “doctor of the mind”?’ I held up my fingers in inverted commas and rolled my eyes.

Silence.

‘How do you feel when you are searching and searching but you still can’t find whatever it is that you’re looking for?’

I could tell this was the weirdest conversation he had ever had.

‘Have you a girlfriend, Mr Burton?’

His forehead creased. ‘Sandy, I’m not sure that this is relevant.’ When I didn’t answer, he sighed. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Do you want one?’

He was contemplative. ‘Are you saying that the feeling of searching for a missing sock is like searching for love?’ He tried to ask the question without making me sound stupid but he failed miserably.

I rolled my eyes again. He was making me do that a lot. ‘No, it’s a feeling of knowing something is missing in your life but not being able to find it no matter how hard you look.’

He cleared his throat awkwardly, picked up his pen and paper and pretended to write something.

Doodle time. ‘Boring you, am I?’

He laughed and it broke the tension.

I tried to explain again. ‘Perhaps it would have been easier if I said that not being able to find something is like suddenly not remembering the words to your favourite song that you knew off by heart. It’s like suddenly forgetting the name of someone you know really well and see every day, or the name of a group who sang a famous song. It’s something so frustrating that it plays on your mind over and over again because you know there’s an answer but no one can tell you it. It niggles and niggles at me and I can’t rest until I know the answers.’

‘I understand,’ he said softly.

‘Well, then, multiply that feeling by one hundred.’

He was contemplative. ‘You’re mature for your age, Sandy.’

‘Funny, because I was hoping you’d know an awful lot more for yours.’

He laughed until our time was up.

That night at dinner Dad asked me how it went.

‘He couldn’t answer my questions,’ I replied, slurping on my soup.

Dad looked like his heart was going to break. ‘So I suppose you don’t want to go back.’

‘No!’ I said quickly and my mum tried to hide her smile by taking a sip of water.

Dad looked back and forth from her face to mine questioningly.

‘He has nice eyes,’ I offered by way of explanation, slurping again.

His eyebrows rose and he looked to my mum, who had a grin from ear to ear and flushed cheeks. ‘That’s true, Harold. He has very nice eyes.’

‘Ah, well then!’ He threw his arms up. ‘If the man has nice eyes for Christsake, who am I to argue?’

Later that night I lay on my bed and thought about my conversation with Mr Burton. He may not have had answers for me but he sure cured me of searching for one thing.

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