Angels And Hot Chocolate

My Pampas grass was whirling and twirling like a dancer wearing a feather dress. Before long the branches would be snapped clean off. 

The storm was wild that evening. Clouds scudded through the sky at speed. The weather forecast had predicted the wind increasing to sixty miles an hour with gusts of eighty. There was even the odd crack of thunder expected. 

On my drive home I'd seen people being pushed and pulled in all directions, in some cases being lifted completely off their feet whilst their shopping, yanked from their hands, rolled away and they gave chase as best they could. Others, trying to get out of their cars, struggled with the wind head on as doors resisted opening. 

The noise of autumn leaves rustling against each other was getting louder and louder and tree branches were being bent into weird shapes by this unstoppable force of nature. The predicted thunder had also arrived. Each time the wind blew it made my windows and doors rattle. Some of my flower beds had already been destroyed, the bedraggled mess looking like a teenager's bedroom floor. 

In a sense I was lucky. According to the local news, some of the towns inhabitants couldn't watch TV as their aerials were down. Some poor people didn’t even have electricity as power lines had been brought down by fallen trees which were also blocking some roads. Plenty of work for the repair men when the weather stopped behaving like a naughty child banging away loudly at pots and pans and sulking after being told to go to bed.

I could hear branches slapping stridently against the glass and feared my windows would break. Although in bed I hadn’t a hope in hell of sleeping in conditions like this as I was terrified of storms. Sometimes I was sure I felt the bed move and I was shaking and crying. Listening to stormy weather always took me back to my early childhood, to a time I wanted to forget. 

That stormy night long ago when I was six, I lay in bed, reading aloud to my dolls as I was unable to sleep listening to my parents arguing downstairs. Perhaps they thought that being on the floor above I couldn't hear them, but arguing meant shouting so at times I could hear the words, some I didn’t even understand, but I knew deep in my heart that they weren’t good. Whatever they meant they sounded spiteful. I also heard the noises of things being thrown, glass breaking. I would pull the pillow and the duvet over my head then put my hands over my ears but that didn’t completely deaden the sounds. It was as if the storm outside was being played out full force downstairs. The morning after my father left home for good, leaving me with a mother I was terrified of, who made it her mission to ruin my life, not just my childhood.

Back in the present Jessie appeared at my door. She was all too familiar with my fear and even though I was the adult and she was my young daughter she was not afraid and regularly calmed me down during stormy weather.

She looked so cute in her lilac pyjamas with her long dark hair all mussed up from sleeping. As storms didn't bother her they didn't keep her awake and it was long past her bedtime. My crying must have woken her up. She came and sat on my bed and threw her arms around me.

"It's okay Mummy. You're going to be okay. I'll look after you."

I looked at her and almost saw myself at the same age. Unlike me at that age she was full of confidence and knew just what to do. 

"Come in my bed with me and I'll read you one of the stories," she said. "It'll send us both off to sleep then when we wake up the storm will be over."

I was still shaking but just the sound of her voice and her smile had the ability to make me more rational. During storms her bedroom was my safe space. It was very pretty, pink and girly, the sort of bedroom my younger self would have adored. 

"You go lie down again Jessie and I'll make us some hot chocolate to go with the story."

After a quick trip to the kitchen I returned with two mugs. I'd been afraid of the wind while I was downstairs alone but at least now I had the peace of mind of knowing that the rest of the house was still standing and no windows were broken. 

Like me Jessie was very good at stories. We both loved angels and fairies. At her age I had written some down. They were intended to be a long series about the realm they lived in but I grew out of them. I'd read them to Jessie for years then she'd taken up the mantle of finishing what I'd started. For her age, her vocabulary and imagination were amazing. I could easily tell which stories she'd written. They were so much better than mine. For her birthday I'd had a single illustrated copy published. We both loved it and she read it out loud to me whenever there was a storm.  

After the story, the hot chocolate and cuddling with Jessie I felt much calmer. She had a night light in her room, which was more for my benefit than hers, so we left it on and snuggled down in her very comfy bed. It felt so nice to be holding a warm body that had been part of me. She smelled of soap and something else, something that was distinctly Jessie. I buried my face in her hair and inhaled her scent. This was the last thing I can remember doing before I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. If the storm carried on into the night I was completely unaware of it. 

When I awoke the next morning Jessie had gone. Probably playing downstairs or watching TV. She always managed to get out of bed in such a way that she didn't wake me up. 

I was so relieved that there was not a sound coming from outside. The storm had passed leaving a calmness, a serenity, that could quite easily have sent me back to sleep but I knew I had to get up, just this one last time. Today was my last day at work and I was looking forward to being a stay at home mum.

I got home early for once. Jessie was in her room with headphones on so I didn't disturb her. I had high hopes that one day we might write some more of the realm stories together. I kicked off my shoes, undid the button on my skirt and sighed. That felt better. I couldn't be bothered cooking so I grabbed a bag of nachos out of the cupboard, the jars of avocado and salsa dips from the fridge and took them into the living room where I flopped onto the sofa and put my feet up.

I started to reflect on my more recent life. I found as I got older I did this more and more, particularly after a really bad storm. My childhood had left me with no romantic interest in men. So no casual boyfriends, no one night stands, just me living alone since I was nineteen. I couldn't wait to get away from my mother but she kept making excuses, playing on my guilt to get me to stay. Why did I feel guilty? I suppose it was because I'd been daddy's girl which meant I ranked above her in the marriage but in the end I toughened up and realised I had no sympathy for her. Why should I when she'd always treated me so badly? Her only purpose in life seemed to be to create misery. I was devastated when my dad left but she didn't support me in any way, in fact just the opposite. She was completely cold towards me but held me on a very tight leash. She controlled every single thing in my life.

She died when I was twenty six. It was a long, slow, lingering death. Was I there? No. Did I care? No. Did I go to the funeral? No. Did I ever once shed a tear over her death? No, not then and not since. Finally I was free.

I had never seen my dad again since that awful day following the storm. My mother made sure of that as we moved house so many times there was no way he could have found us. Her meanness knew no bounds.

I thought my mother dying would make me happier but it didn't. I was exhausted all the time through working long hours, just because I didn't want to be home alone. Something was missing and I was thirty two before I worked out what it was. A child.

There was no reason I couldn't have one without a man and I desperately wanted a daughter. One I could nurture the way I should have been nurtured. One who would be loved for herself. One who would not be the pawn in a bad relationship, through no fault of her own, yet have to pay for it for the rest of her life. Making her childhood happy and loving would go some way to repairing the damage in mine.

I was determined that there would be no father figure in my daughter's life. It was a guarantee that she'd never be abandoned and hurt the way I had been. It wasn't legal here but I found a sperm bank clinic in America that allowed you to choose the gender of your baby. I would have to book an eight week holiday from work to stay in America until it was certain that I was pregnant. 

I never took holidays so I had plenty of time banked up. My superiors were more than happy to let me have so much time off all in one go as they recognised how hard I worked. The staff were curious as to where I was going for so long so I came up with the story of visiting my fictitious brother in Australia who I hadn't seen for fifteen years.

I had to wait until just before the most fertile part of my cycle so I would have the best chance of getting pregnant. This wasn't easy as I had irregular periods. I could tell you all the details of what happened to me at the clinic, choosing the donor, having all the tests but it wouldn't change a thing. When I returned the following day I saw the same doctor as I'd seen the day before but his demeanour was different, the air in the room felt different. Due to my childhood experiences I was very perceptive to changes in atmospheres. 

He told me that I was infertile and could never have children. I had something called Primary Ovarian Deficiency which could happen to women in their thirties. It isn't the same as menopause, I'd literally run out of eggs years before I should have done. 

I couldn't bring myself to stay in America and use the rest of the time as holiday so I flew home that same day. I had to either come up with a reason why I was returning to work, or stay at home for eight weeks. In the end I chose to stay at home.

Now I have Jessie, my darling daughter who is the light of my life and who I'll be able to do so much more with now I'm not working. I have more money than I could ever spend. As a Senior Portfolio Manager I'd had a long list of high profile clients and had used my experience to increase the value of their portfolios. I earned a huge salary with very little to spend it on so I'd started my own portfolio, under an assumed name and watched it grow into a huge sum of money, then transferred the sum elsewhere. Using company information for personal gain is against the law.

I know that Jessie isn't real. She was born aged six and has been six for twelve years. I'm forty four now. I'd never discussed Jessie with anyone other than a psychiatrist a year after Jessie first appeared. I'd become concerned that I was going mad as I was seeing a little girl in the house. She'd told me she was my daughter, her name and her age. After a two hour consultation he speculated that I'd probably had a nervous breakdown in those weeks at home after I'd been told I was infertile, and that Jessie is part of my psychosis. She's the daughter I always wanted and it was no coincidence that she was six, the same age I'd been when my fear of storms started and my father had left. He said he could treat me with medication and therapy, though it would work better if I admitted myself to a mental health facility, but I didn't want to stop seeing Jessie and still don't so I said no. I can't see anything wrong with that.

Jessie will be with me for the rest of my life. I'll give her all the love that I never had and she can support me during the storms which rage outside entirely beyond my control. My childhood taught me that control is everything. It was taken away from me then so I must have it now. The one thing I can't control is my reaction to storms but Jessie can. Jessie is my saviour and I'll never be alone again. I wonder if she looks like my dad?