Another Night, Another Day

  ‘Do you mind if I leave now?’

  Gillian checks the time too. She nods. ‘Aye, you can leave. We’re down to see one another again on Friday. But two and a half thousand years, Michael. That’s a while to establish that the talking cure works in practice. So perhaps next time we meet, you might like to try giving it a wee go?’

  * * *

  ‘Ah, Abby, welcome back,’ says Johnnie. ‘So, you’re joining us for Relaxation?’

  Abby nods. The extra tablet has helped – finally – reduce her panic. ‘Sangeeta suggested I come.’

  ‘Great,’ says Johnnie. ‘Can someone get Abby a mat?’

  A glamorous young woman Abby vaguely recognizes from the eleven o’clock session is about to lie down, but instead scrambles to her feet and goes to a basket of exercise mats in the corner of the room. ‘Here you are,’ she says, handing over a dark-pink roll.

  ‘Thanks.’ Abby looks around to see what is expected of her. The sofas are already taken, but the coffee table has been moved to make room for the rest of them to lay out their mats on the floor. By the time Abby has edged in too, the space is crowded.

  Abby stretches out on her back and watches as Johnnie dims the lights and shuts the door.

  This is all very odd, she thinks. Then again, everything feels strange at the moment. She adjusts her shoulders, trying to slow the ceaseless churning of worries about Callum and the potential chaos at home by focusing on her surroundings. Still, she’s uneasy being close to so many strangers. Ever since Callum learned to walk, crowds have brought nothing but trouble. A flurry of anxiety pierces her drug-induced calm.

  She hears Johnnie open a CD case and slip a disc into the player. Then the gentle tinkle of music fills the room.

  Chill, Abby, she says to herself. The more hyper you are, the longer they’ll keep you here.

  ‘Gradually start to bring yourself into your body . . .’ says Johnnie.

  Abby is tempted to turn her head to see what he is doing – where’s he sitting? Is he reading from a book? – but forces herself to keep her eyes closed.

  ‘Take a few moments to get in touch with the sensation of your breath.’

  Abby senses her lungs rise . . . and fall . . . rise . . . and fall . . .

  ‘When you are ready, bring your awareness to those places where your body is in contact with your mat or the sofa.’

  Ah yes, thinks Abby. There are my heels . . . calves . . . thighs . . .

  ‘And with each out breath, allow yourself to sink a little deeper.’ Johnnie’s voice is soft and soothing. ‘Should your mind start to chatter or whirl, see your thoughts as mental events that come and go like clouds across a sky. Gently acknowledge those thoughts, then watch them float away . . .’

  Abby is beginning to feel lighter and less agitated.

  ‘And now, imagine your breath travelling down your body, through the right leg, to the toes of your right foot.’

  Her breathing slows.

  ‘Spend a moment being aware of the sensations in your foot, then, on an out breath, release any tension you may notice there . . .’

  Within minutes, she is asleep.

  20

  ‘So how was it?’ asks Anna as soon as Karen answers her call.

  Karen yawns. ‘Sorry, I must have nodded off after I put the kids to bed. Hang on.’ She gently lifts up the cat, who’s snoozing on her belly. Then she reaches for the TV remote to turn down the volume.

  ‘Do you want to speak another time?’

  ‘No, you’re all right.’

  ‘Excellent, ’cos I have to admit I’m very curious. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to go to Moreland’s. You read so much about it in the press.’

  Depends what you mean by ‘press’, thinks Karen, but then Anna has always been partial to celebrity gossip. She hoists herself onto her elbows to chat.

  ‘I had a great day, actually. What I hadn’t realized was they take a more holistic approach, so your mind isn’t seen as a separate entity, as if you’re cut off at the neck. We spent time in the garden, for instance.’

  ‘Ooh, talking of gardening – you still OK to come to the allotment on Wednesday?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Karen. ‘Have to be after work, though.’

  ‘Great. Anyway, did you meet anyone famous?’

  Karen laughs. ‘Sorry, no.’ I’m sure I recognize Lillie, she thinks, but we’re asked to respect one another’s privacy. ‘I expect the celebs go to the London clinic. I gather it’s far grander.’

  ‘Oh.’ Karen can tell Anna is disappointed. Doubtless she was hoping to experience a cross between a luxury spa packed with A-listers and Bedlam, albeit vicariously. ‘I should hope it wasn’t too basic. I hear it costs a fortune.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong – it’s very comfortable. I only mean it’s surprisingly normal. The others on the programme I’m doing don’t seem that different to you or me.’

  ‘No madwomen in the attic, then?’

  ‘Not a single Mrs Rochester that I saw.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Don’t want you bumping into any axe-wielding psychopaths in the corridor.’

  ‘Me neither. I’m sure some of the patients have more serious conditions, though – I didn’t get to meet that many of them and some have clearly been going through stuff—’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘ – but then so have I.’ Karen thinks of the episode with Elaine and the wine – Anna would appreciate that story, having lived with an alcoholic – but resists sharing. ‘Well, nothing terribly dramatic, far as I can see, only the sort of thing lots of people go through – divorce, redundancy . . .’ She hesitates. It was such an intense day; some of the revelations in the group later in the afternoon were very personal. Still, she can tell Anna about her own experiences, can’t she?

  ‘I’m glad you’re finding it so helpful already,’ says Anna, when she’s filled her in on the session with Johnnie.

  Karen detects a hint of suspicion in her friend’s voice. Considering that Anna is the person Karen normally confides in, is she perhaps a touch jealous? I mustn’t make her feel excluded, she reminds herself. ‘I’m very grateful – it’s all down to you that I’m there.’

  She can almost hear Anna purr down the line. ‘It wasn’t just my doing, it was Simon’s, too.’ Karen’s healthcare policy was a legacy from her husband; he set up their cover.

  ‘I’m lucky, but it does make me worry about other people who don’t have access to a similar level of support.’

  ‘You need to stop worrying about everyone else and look after yourself.’

  That wasn’t what I meant, thinks Karen. ‘From what I’ve heard, treatment for depression on the NHS is a postcode lottery, and the waiting list for therapy can be months. I hate to imagine what state I would have been in by then.’

  ‘I don’t think you should feel remotely guilty about being there. Simon paid into that policy for years.’

  ‘Not that it did him any favours . . .’

  They sigh in unison. ‘Surely that’s even more reason you’re justified in using it now? Let’s just be glad you’ve got this safety net.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Karen. ‘And it sounds mad, but it gives me comfort, thinking that Simon helped with this. As if he’s continuing to look after me from beyond the grave.’

  ‘That’s not remotely mad,’ says Anna. ‘Then again, I always did maintain you’re the sanest person I know.’

  * * *

  There’s a tap on Abby’s bedroom door.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m alive,’ she calls out. She’d hoped her chat with Beth would have made it clear she was not a danger to herself.

  ‘Phone call for you,’ Sangeeta announces through the door. ‘You can take it in the nurses’ office up here if you like.’

  Damn, thinks Abby. I turned off my mobile for a reason. She gets up from the bed where she’s been lying, wondering whether she can ask for another diazepam as she’s sure the one she took earlier is wearing off, and op
ens the door. ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘I think it’s your husband.’

  Oh no, thinks Abby. Something’s happened to Callum. Why else would Glenn call? She almost pushes Sangeeta out of the way in her rush down the corridor.

  ‘He’s on that line.’ A male nurse gestures to the phone on the desk opposite.

  ‘Thanks.’ Abby grabs the receiver. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Glenn. ‘It’s fine.’

  The old Abby would have slid, relieved, into a chair, but this Abby seems to have no ‘off’ button. She jigs from foot to foot. ‘How’s Callum?’

  ‘He’s cool, actually.’

  Really? thinks Abby. That sounds highly unlikely. Callum is rarely ‘cool’, and even when he is Glenn never seems to acknowledge it.

  ‘Yeah, we had a remarkably easy day, all things considered.’

  You mean considering I’m in here, thinks Abby. Shirking my responsibility. Why don’t you just say it? She swallows her irritation and says, ‘So did you have to take the day off? I’m sorry . . .’ Although I’m not truly sorry, she thinks. I feel bad that Callum’s routine has been upset, but not that Glenn’s had to miss work. It’s about time he spent more than five minutes with his son.

  ‘It wasn’t a problem, honestly. You don’t need to apologize.’

  That’s weird too, thinks Abby. Lately she’s felt as though Glenn wants her to apologize for almost everything – even, on occasion, for existing at all.

  ‘No, we’re OK, trust me. I don’t want you to worry about us. I wasn’t calling to bother you or upset you about anything. I was, er . . . well . . .’ He coughs. ‘I was thinking it would be nice to bring Callum in to see you . . . But mainly, I wanted to find out how you are. Everything all right in there?’ He sounds different, somehow, less antagonistic and uncompromising.

  ‘I’m, um . . . OK, I guess.’ She doesn’t know where to start. It’s been so long – months, possibly years, since her husband last asked how she was feeling, let alone showed any desire to have a more meaningful conversation. She almost wonders if the diazepam hasn’t, in fact, worn off and she’s having a drug-induced delusion.

  ‘You had everyone very worried,’ he says, his voice catching. ‘Me especially . . .’

  And suddenly she realizes why he’s calling, why he’s done such an about-turn, why his voice sounds so tight and strange.

  Of course. Glenn thinks I took an overdose, she remembers. God, my brain is addled! No wonder he seems so distraught. After all, that’s what they say, isn’t it: most people who kill themselves have attempted suicide before? So he’s rung because he’s concerned – frightened, even. Yes, that constriction in his throat is a sign. He’s terrified I’ll try to do it again, and next time I might succeed.

  * * *

  Michael is heading back to his room along the corridor when Abby comes out of the nurses’ office at speed.

  ‘Whoops!’ he says as they collide, and steps back in embarrassment.

  Abby rubs her shoulder.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. I’m a bit all over the place at the moment.’

  Tell me about it, thinks Michael.

  ‘Anyway, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘Takes two to tango,’ he says, then cringes at himself for using such a naff expression. It’s not even in the right context, he thinks. To his consternation Abby turns to walk beside him down the corridor.

  ‘I’m along here too,’ she says. ‘What room are you in?’

  ‘This one,’ he says, as they arrive at his door.

  ‘Small world.’ She opens the door opposite. ‘This is me.’ He’s expecting her to turn and leave him, when she pauses on the threshold. ‘How did you find today, then?’

  The question stumps him. If he says he’s loathed it, she might be insulted, given she’s been part of it. But he can hardly say he’s enjoyed himself; other than for a few minutes at lunch and in the session with Beth, he hasn’t. ‘Bit tricky . . .’ he says eventually.

  She nods. ‘Let’s hope it gets better, eh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Anyway, sleep well.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ he says, then fears this sounds rude, so adds, ‘I haven’t slept properly for weeks.’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  Michael senses she’s waiting for him to say something else, but he’s at a loss. They both stand there, hovering. After a while he ventures, ‘It doesn’t help, the way they keep checking up on me all the time.’

  ‘They do that to you too?’ Abby lowers her voice and glances up and down the corridor. ‘Still, at least they’ve stopped following me round. That was horrible.’

  ‘I can imagine . . .’ His voice trails off.

  ‘Well, I hope you have a better night tonight.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She gives a wry smile, and says, ‘After all, tomorrow is another day,’ before closing her bedroom door.

  21

  Abby peers through the glass door into reception. Glenn and Callum are already waiting so Danni buzzes her through at once.

  ‘The little lounge upstairs is free,’ says Danni, checking her file. ‘Why don’t you three use that?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Abby says, but Callum starts to keen in distress. He’s not used to seeing me in this strange environment, she concludes, and when Glenn asks Callum to take his hand, Callum makes a bid to get away. It’s only by working together that they finally cajole him into the room.

  Funny to imagine that only forty-eight hours ago I was here with Sangeeta, Abby thinks, closing the door. I feel much calmer already – now my child is the wired one.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ says Abby, as Glenn sets Callum down. She crouches to her son’s level. In a giant pair of ear defenders, his elfin features seem especially tiny; the overall effect is both comical and heart-wrenching. ‘It’s Mummy. Mummm . . . meeeee . . . Remember me?’

  God, she thinks, it’s been less than a week but how I’ve missed you. She rests on her haunches and waits, hoping, yet she can’t get him to so much as touch her, let alone give her the hug she craves. But at least he hasn’t had a complete meltdown, and before too long he stops wailing and goes to clamber on one of the sofas.

  Glenn sits down on the settee opposite. There’s still something swashbuckling about my husband, she observes, seeing him afresh after being apart. He’s so tall and dark, whereas Callum’s so slight and fair. But there is an echo of Glenn’s face in our son’s if you look carefully – the dimple in his chin, the curl of his lips.

  ‘So, is it going OK in here?’ asks Glenn. No sooner has he said this than Callum reaches up and grabs a small vase from the window ledge behind the sofa. Then he picks out the flowers and throws them on the floor.

  ‘Oh, Callum.’ Abby leaps to retrieve them. But Callum pays no heed. He tips up the vase and – ‘NO!’

  He is about to drink the water when Glenn catches his arms. ‘Hey, mate, can’t you stop being autistic, just for a bit?’ He spins Callum round to face him.

  This is the kind of remark that Abby would often resent, yet this afternoon she laughs. Perhaps being at Moreland’s is helping her understand where Glenn is coming from. Usually she is so caught up with her son she can’t see the world without Callum in it. She is constantly vigilant, alert to where he is, what he’s doing. The last couple of days she’s had time to focus on herself for a change, even enjoy herself again, just a little.

  ‘I think it’s really helping me being here,’ she says, as Glenn picks up the scattered blooms.

  She’d like to add that it’s been good to be around vases of flowers without fearing the water will be drunk, or the contents shredded. She’d like to tell Glenn what a luxury it was to have a bath the night before and be able to wallow in it. Above all she’d like to explain what a relief it is to talk to other adults. I can crack a joke! she wants to say. She’s been hanging out with Lillie and Colin, watching te
lly and playing cards. But she fears Glenn will hear whatever she says as a criticism – he doesn’t look after Callum enough, he makes Abby unhappy, that’s why she’s ended up here.

  ‘You seem brighter,’ he says.

  ‘I am.’ Though I’m a long way from better, she thinks. ‘It’ll still be a few weeks before the antidepressants kick in.’

  ‘They’ve put you on medication? Is that a good idea after last week?’

  ‘I told you on the phone, I didn’t take an overdose.’ Abby can hear the testiness in her voice. She’d prefer to be more measured, but she’s distracted by Callum playing with the remote control, flicking the TV on and off. She fights to control her tone. ‘I spoke to Dr Kasdan, the psychiatrist here, about antidepressants yesterday. He thought they would help me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’d have liked to go with you to see him.’

  ‘I didn’t think I had to ask your permission about what medication I’m on.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to ask my permission.’

  ‘Good. It wouldn’t be appropriate, would it, given we’re splitting up?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Abby.’

  And there I was a few minutes ago believing we were beginning to understand one another, she thinks.

  ‘Well, I am paying for this place,’ Glenn mutters.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be here,’ says Glenn.

  ‘That’s not what you said.’

  ‘OK, I apologize, I phrased it badly. I’m not paying personally, obviously.’

  ‘No, your work insurance is coughing up. And in case it had escaped your notice, it’s been pretty hard for me to work the last few years. Otherwise I might have had my own policy.’ He’s lucky to be able to work, thinks Abby. She can feel her attitude hardening.

  ‘I know.’

  Don’t get into this now, Abby reminds herself. Callum may be wearing ear defenders, but who knows what he picks up?

  ‘Come here, honey,’ she says to her son, but he continues playing with the remote, his back turned.

  Then, in a whoosh, the anxiety returns. She has to gasp for air; it’s as if she can’t get any oxygen into her lungs.