The Satanic Mechanic - Sally Andrew

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you experience any feelings of dissociation?’ he asked.

      He was changing the subject now. I wouldn’t have to tell him my secret.

      I frowned and asked, ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Do you sometimes feel disconnected and far away from others, or even from yourself? Do parts of your body feel as if they are operating in a discordant fashion?’

      I nodded. ‘Sometimes my hands do something different from what my head wants them to,’ I said. I remembered how I’d struggled to heat up that orange pudding when I was upset. And how that time with Henk, my mouth had called out something without asking me first.

      He said, ‘Are your nightmares like flashbacks – as if you are reexperiencing the event in the present?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘just like that.’

      ‘Is your current boyfriend abusing you?’

      ‘No. The opposite; he is so good to me.’

      ‘Sometimes intimacy brings up old wounds,’ he said. ‘Do you experience feelings of powerlessness or depression?’

      ‘I do feel sad about what’s happening. I’m not in control of my life, like I should be.’

      ‘And low libido? Sexual drive?’

      ‘It’s not that I’m not interested, but we can’t get really close, that kind of intimacy, because I feel sick, and the shaking and flashbacks start up again.’

      ‘Hmm. Did you have bad sexual experiences with your late husband? Rape?’

      I looked at the glass cat and nodded.

      ‘And these psychological problems have been going on for more than six months?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes. But like I said, it’s got worse recently.’

      ‘It sounds like you have PTSD,’ he said. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder. It sometimes occurs after a traumatic event or series of events. Most common in men after war experiences, and women after domestic violence.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh.’

      I felt relieved to have a name for my problem and a man who understood it.

      ‘Can you fix it?’ I said.

      He gave a sad smile. ‘Unfortunately there is no quick fix for PTSD. But, over time, counselling can help. You said you have a counsellor?’

      ‘Yes, but I am not sure she understands . . . like you do.’

      ‘Counselling is not my department, but try to find yourself a PTSD counsellor or support group.’

      ‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘I just spoke to someone yesterday who was in a PTSD group. A mechanic—’

      ‘Well, do look into that. What I can give you is an antidepressant, which can help improve your mood and regulate your sleeping.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘okay.’

      He wrote out a prescription and handed it to me.

      ‘It may take a little while to work properly, but be patient,’ he said. ‘It will take the edge off while you sort out your problems.’

      ‘Thank you, Doctor Walters.’ I felt tired and hungry.

      ‘I wish you all the best, Mrs van Harten.’

      ‘Doctor?’

      ‘Yes.’ He was closing a folder on his desk.

      ‘Does this mean I can stop the diet now?’

      ‘Hmm. You certainly won’t cure your problems with a diet,’ he said. ‘Addictive eating could be part of the PTSD profile, but it’s a symptom rather than a cause. Of course, there’s no harm in losing a bit of weight.’ He kept his eyes on my face, not the rest of me. ‘I’m not a dietician, but different diets go in and out of fashion. If you apply common sense, you should be fine. Obvious stuff: exercise, eat healthy food, only eat when you’re hungry.’

      The problem is, I thought as I left his office, I am always hungry.

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      If Henk knew how badly Hattie drove over those steep passes he might not have been so quick to tell me to go home. It might’ve been safer to stay and look for a murderer and then ride back on Jessie’s scooter without a helmet.

      Hattie dropped me in my driveway. ‘Toodle-oo,’ she called, as she skidded off, taking some bark from the eucalyptus tree with her.

      I walked between the peach pips, up my pathway of flat stones.

      ‘Kik kik kik,’ I called, as I reached the garden.

      All five of my brown hens came rushing towards me, their reddish neck feathers fluffing as they ran. I was glad that the rooikat or the leopard had not taken any of them. There was a bucket of crushed mielies on the stoep, and I threw them a handful of corn before I let myself in. I had not returned from Oudtshoorn empty-handed. Tannie Rosa had given me her mosbolletjie rusk recipe and a Tupperware of raisins. I’d hoped for some muscadel must wine from her brother, but she wasn’t able to get any in time so had given me some muscadel raisins still on the stalk. I’d ferment these in water to make the sourdough.

      I phoned Rita, my neighbour, to thank her for looking after my chickens, and she thanked me for the eggs. It was almost time for lunch. I looked at the diet sheet. The recipe (if you can call it that) was for a very boring salad. I threw the sheet of paper in the bin. Then I took it out again. I would eat that blooming diet food, but I’d improve it with a little something extra. I prepared the cucumber, tomato and lettuce salad, then added some grated mature Gouda and a dressing with macadamia nut oil and naartjie juice. I ate it on the stoep; it was very good.

      As I looked across the veld, I saw a kudu come out from behind the gwarrie tree. A beautiful big male with a black face and long spiral horns. You do sometimes get trek kudu in our area – buck that like to travel far across the veld and won’t be stopped by the fences – but I hadn’t seen one for years. Steenbuck and springbuck, ja, even the occasional grysbok, but not a kudu. Such a big one too. I looked away for a moment, and when I looked back it was gone. I waited for it to appear again from behind the gwarrie tree, but it didn’t.

      I spent the afternoon doing my laundry and hanging it on the line. Everything dries so quickly in the Karoo. I made an early supper. Again I ate the diet meal, but with something extra. The recipe said steamed vegetables, which I did: beetroot and butternut. Then I fried them lightly in olive oil and added macadamia nut butter and dates and chopped naartjies and feta. I ate on the stoep in the evening light. Delicious. No, really it was. You wouldn’t believe it was diet food. I watched out again for that kudu, but there was no sign of it.

      The problem with good-tasting food is it leaves you wanting more, so I took a couple of diet pills and my antidepressant for pudding.

      That night I was woken from a deep sleep by the noise of hooves, and there it was, that big kudu. Standing right next to my bed. I could see its black eyes glistening in the moonlight. Big pupils, like Slimkat’s. I closed my eyes and opened them again, and it was still there. It was a gentle creature, and I did not feel frightened.

      ‘Slimkat?’ I said.

      The kudu was not looking at me but at the window, as if it was thinking of going out. The sash window was only a little bit open at the top. Even if it was wide open, it would be too small for the kudu to fit through. A steenbokkie, ja, but not a kudu, not even a small kudu.

      I sat up, wanting to explain this to the kudu, and my blanket knocked over the glass of water on my bedside table. I leant down to see if it had broken, but it hadn’t. When I looked up, the kudu was gone. I guess I was wrong about the window. I lay down and quickly fell asleep.

      The next morning, I thought it must have been a dream, but there was my glass on the floor.

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