Another Night, Another Day

  ‘I wondered if you’ve thought about what we discussed – in particular your feelings about your father?’

  Ouch. Karen had hoped to avoid the subject for a bit. ‘Yes.’ She stares at the curtains, trying to gauge where she’s up to, but merely finds herself thinking it’s a shame they need to have nets when they block so much light.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I can see being sad might have become a bit of a pattern for me. Thoughts related to my husband do come up again and again . . .’ In a flash she pictures Simon. He’s stepped out of the shower, hair damp, skin beaded with droplets of water . . . ‘I find it very hard not to think of him.’ She gulps. ‘Though I’m not sure I’d want to stop. It would feel like I’d forgotten him.’

  Now Simon is rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

  ‘The last thing I’m suggesting is that you squash those feelings,’ says Johnnie. ‘But maybe we can get you to a place where you can remember both Simon and your father without the depression.’

  Just then, so unexpectedly it’s as if Simon himself has planted the thought in her mind, Karen makes a connection. ‘You know, I’ve been seeing the two situations as totally different because Dad was so much older and had been ill for a long time, but there are similarities in the circumstances of how they died . . . Both happened in February.’ She glances back at the window. Through the nets she can discern it’s a bright, sunny day. The morning of Simon’s heart attack was anything but. Immediately she’s on the train once more: there’s a blast of cold air as the doors open at Preston Park; she sees passengers shaking rain from their umbrellas before boarding.

  ‘Many people seem to find February a difficult time of year.’

  ‘I never minded it particularly before, but I do now. This spring was particularly vile, wasn’t it?’ She stops to consider. ‘As well as the timing, both events were such a shock. With Simon it’s obvious why, but actually my dad’s death was sudden too, because he had a stroke and never regained consciousness.’ With a shudder she recalls the race across the downs in her tired old car.

  ‘Yet, before, you said you expected your father to die.’

  ‘I’ve blamed myself for not dealing with it better because I thought I knew it was coming, but I didn’t. Alzheimer’s often drifts on and on, and there weren’t any specific warning signs.’ Again she hesitates. ‘Just like there weren’t any for Simon.’ It’s too much: tears start to fall. I wish there had been some way of knowing, she thinks, reaching for a tissue. ‘I never got to say goodbye to either of them . . .’ she says in a small voice.

  ‘If you’ll allow me to suggest something,’ says Johnnie gently, ‘I wonder if perhaps your father’s death could be triggering what are called sensory memories of experiences you’ve had before.’

  Karen blows her nose. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Normally, we’re not aware of sensory memories because they’re connected to our senses and occur in a split second. But sometimes you can have another experience where those memories are triggered.’ He leans forward, eager to explain. ‘Have you ever had a particular scent suddenly remind you of something that happened years ago?’

  She thinks of the deckchairs in the garden shed that still smell of Simon and another wave of grief hits her. ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘The thing about sensory memories is they’re totally outside our conscious control. So you can’t plan for them, but they’re there, deeply embedded. And maybe with you, when you experienced another death at the same time of year, it set them off.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Karen sits back in her chair. ‘I suppose that’s possible. But what can I do about them?’

  Johnnie runs his fingers through his fringe. ‘The belief is that until the person works out that’s what’s going on, and the link, they get scared, or panicked, or whatever the emotion that comes up – again and again. But by making the connections conscious, we can begin to process some of these thoughts and feelings.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And you might find that simply having the insight helps.’

  ‘Thank you. I believe it might.’ Karen reaches over for the jug of water, pours herself a plastic cup and reflects while she takes a sip. ‘There were differences in the experiences, though. Going back to what we were saying in this morning’s group about support, when Simon died, in the immediate aftermath, everyone rallied round – I didn’t even have to ask.’ Realizations come fast, as if a series of lights is being switched on, one after the other. ‘Like my childminder, Tracy. She offered to have the kids pretty much round the clock. Yet when Dad died, it wasn’t the same. Not at all.’

  ‘Did you ask Tracy to help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Given he’d been ill for so long, I guess I thought it would seem over the top. After all, I’d had years to get used to the idea. Whereas before, I had my mum and my friends – Anna, in particular, and my other friend, Lou – everyone was really helpful.’

  ‘And that’s not been the case recently?’

  ‘No . . .’ Karen considers. ‘It’s not just I haven’t asked for support because I’m bad at it, it’s also that their situations have changed. Mum, obviously, she’s lost my dad, and I feel I should be looking after her, not the other way round. Then there’s Lou – she’s been relishing her new baby. I didn’t feel it was right to offload onto her.’ Lou has had her share of difficulties, Karen thinks. This is a special time and she deserves to be happy.

  ‘And your other friend, Anna?’

  ‘Anna’s been great, she’s the reason I ended up coming here. Although . . .’ Karen pictures her friend with her new partner, Rod. How the tables have turned. She and Simon used to worry about Anna living with an alcoholic; now she’s half a contented couple . . .

  Whoa, Karen realizes, I’m jealous. So it’s pride that’s stopped me confiding too. I’ve not wanted my friends to pity me.

  She falls quiet. After a while Johnnie says, ‘Do you think that having less support might have contributed to your depression? Might there be a connection between you looking after others, and not caring for yourself? Sometimes we become caregivers because we’re avoiding our own issues.’

  He’s so spot-on she has an urge to applaud.

  I wonder if that’s why he chose to become a therapist, she speculates. Johnnie’s not perfect, either. Buoyed by what she’s piecing together, she decides to voice her misgiving. ‘I did feel you pushed me a bit hard this morning, though I didn’t say so.’

  ‘Yet it would have been fine for you to protest. It would have been establishing a boundary – the very thing we were talking about.’

  ‘Whereas actually Abby got angry for me.’

  ‘Sometimes the things in therapy that provoke the biggest response are the things we could do with looking at most closely. We’re back to triggers again.’

  Johnnie’s grin indicates he’s not offended, Karen gleans. Perhaps I don’t need to hold back after all. ‘So the subject of boundaries triggered both me and Abby. How revealing . . .’

  ‘You’re keen to protect other people, but it’s important to remember that you are a separate person from your friends – and your family, come to that – and you need to be cared for too.’

  ‘I see.’ Karen nods. But she fears it’s not in her nature to be this way. It was different when Simon was around, as then he was the one who cared for me, she thinks. Learning to look after myself is going to be hard.

  30

  ‘Crikey, I could do with a drink,’ says Elaine, flopping onto a sofa. ‘Bloody hell, what a day.’

  Abby knows where Elaine is coming from. The heated exchange in group that morning, the conversation with Lillie: it’s been full-on for her, too. Supper is served early at Moreland’s, and she’s joined several other inpatients in the lounge. The evening stretches out before them.

  Colin looks up from the book he is reading. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘Step 4,’ says Lansky, with a shudder.

 
Karl nods. ‘Always a tough one.’

  Abby is intrigued. The addiction therapy programme is based on twelve steps, and from what she’s gathered, each step sounds tougher than the last. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I had to make a “searching and fearless moral inventory of myself”,’ says Elaine, indicating quote marks in the air. ‘Which basically means I had to list all my faults.’

  ‘Yikes,’ says Colin, glancing at his tummy. ‘Glad we don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Imagine having to write them down,’ says Elaine. She unzips her high-heeled boots and kicks them off onto the floor.

  ‘I tell you, it’s tougher being a Bad than a Sad,’ says Karl.

  ‘A whole week without alcohol,’ says Elaine, yawning. ‘I don’t think I’ve gone that long since I was about fourteen.’

  ‘This is exactly the time I’d reach for a beer,’ says Lansky, glancing at the clock.

  ‘Don’t!’ Karl shakes his Mohican. ‘You’ll have me wanting to rack out a line.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want . . .’ says Colin provocatively.

  ‘A fag?’ Elaine hurriedly sits up. ‘Yes! I’ll join you on the balcony.’

  ‘A snog with Beth, more like,’ interrupts Lillie, and smirks at Colin.

  Colin grabs a cushion from the sofa and throws it at her.

  Lillie ducks. ‘Ha! Missed!’

  Before Abby has time to work out what’s going on, Lansky and Colin are chasing Lillie round the room, keen for a pillow fight. Karl leaps over the coffee table – his Mohican narrowly avoids getting caught in the light-fitting – and soon the three lads have Lillie cornered. As they pummel her with cushions, she giggles and falls onto the nearest sofa.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she says, but Karl merely swings his cushion above his head with even more energy and brings it down with a thump.

  ‘No, no!’ Lillie cries. She’s laughing, but Abby detects there’s something about her laughter that is verging on the hysterical.

  Perhaps this isn’t a good idea, she realizes, remembering the story Lillie confided earlier. By now Lillie is coughing and spluttering: whether in amusement or alarm, it’s hard to tell.

  ‘Hey, guys, lay off,’ says Abby, and runs to grab Lansky’s T-shirt in a bid to waylay him. The T-shirt stretches where she has hold of it, revealing pale skin and an array of colourful tattoos.

  Colin seems to grasp the situation – he pauses – but Lansky and Karl are enjoying themselves too much to take heed. Maybe it’s the adrenalin that used to fuel their addiction, thinks Abby.

  It’s at this point that Michael, who’s been sitting quietly in an armchair focusing on the telly, gets to his feet. ‘Oi. Maybe cool it?’ His tone is serious.

  At once Lansky and Karl stand away. Lillie stops coughing and laughing, sweeps back her hair and jumps up from the sofa.

  Maybe I overreacted, thinks Abby, as Lillie adjusts her clothing and Michael returns to his seat in front of the television, but then Lillie catches her eye and gives Abby a tiny smile, and Abby detects she is grateful. Of course Lillie’s good at keeping it together, Abby thinks. I’ve never watched her Street Dance programme, so it’s easy to forget that she’s a professional who has to handle the pressures of live TV.

  Then, as if she’s keen to show there are no hard feelings, Lillie claps her hands and grins at everyone.

  ‘Never mind all this,’ she says, hurling the cushions back into place on the sofa and reaching for the television remote control.

  ‘Hey—’ protests Michael as she presses the off button.

  ‘Come on, Michael, you can live without Channel 4 News. It’s way too depressing. And you—’ she grabs Colin’s shoulder as he’s reaching for his cigarettes, ‘ – don’t need any more fags today. You know it’s only a safety behaviour.’

  Colin pouts. ‘But I need my coping mechanisms!’

  ‘You don’t say. Seriously. I’ve got a better idea. Back in a sec—’ And she’s off. Just like when she went to track down those stickers for Callum, thinks Abby. Sometimes Lillie’s energy levels are astounding.

  Lillie soon bounds back into the room, clutching her iPod and a pair of mini speakers. ‘Right.’ She plugs in the speakers and scrolls down the iPod screen. ‘We’re gonna dance.’

  ‘Oh no, I haven’t got the energy for your sort of dancing. One of my faults was laziness, don’t you know?’ Elaine yawns again and stretches back on the sofa.

  ‘Nah, not my sort of dancing, if you don’t want. Any sort,’ says Lillie. ‘Come on, everyone. Let’s disco!’ She clambers up on the back of the sofa behind Elaine so she can reach to lower the blinds. Elaine recoils as Lillie wobbles precariously, then the beat of Earth, Wind & Fire’s ‘Let’s Groove Tonight’ fills the room.

  ‘You’re too knackered to dance, do the lights then,’ commands Lillie as she springs down again. She hurries to the switch by the door to demonstrate how Elaine should flick them on and off.

  Wearily, Elaine stands up and does as she’s told.

  ‘We need more volume!’ says Colin. He bops over to the iPod and whacks up the sound, singing along with the vocals.

  Abby smiles, watching his ponytail sway from side to side in time to the music. Well, if Colin’s prepared to give it a go, I will, she decides. He must be pretty unfit after so many months stuck in here. She kicks off her pumps. In seconds she and Colin are banging hips with each other, Seventies style.

  Colin twirls and turns to face Abby, chanting the lyrics that declare how great she is looking, and as he wags his finger and blows her a kiss, Abby feels laughter bubbling up. At that moment she loves Colin for his sheer enthusiasm. He might be overweight and ten years her junior, but it makes her feel attractive, somehow, being in touch with her physicality like this.

  I do love dancing, she thinks. I used to go clubbing in Manchester a lot, when I was Colin’s age. And I was dancing at a party when I met Glenn . . . She has a pang of nostalgia, but the track soon lifts her up again.

  Men are usually slower to take to the dance floor, Abby recalls, and Karl’s Mohican and Lansky’s tattoos suggest Seventies disco might not be their first choice of music. However, Lillie only has to crook her finger in their direction and they both get up to join her, one on each side.

  Next up is Donna Summer.

  ‘It’s my own mix.’ Lillie raises her voice so she can be heard over the rapid synth. ‘Isn’t it epic?’

  There are only a few words to ‘I Feel Love’, so they’re all able to mouth along. And as Abby swoops and twirls, she senses the carpet under her bare feet, the breeze from the open window in her hair and she can’t stop smiling. Lillie is incredible, the way she can wiggle her torso like that, she observes. But who cares if she’s better at shaking her booty than the rest of us? I’d forgotten how much fun this is. Everyone’s worries seem to have vanished.

  Only Michael is still sitting on the sofa.

  Lillie gyrates over to him and holds out a hand. ‘Join us,’ she urges.

  ‘It’s not really my thing,’ mutters Michael.

  ‘Aw, don’t be boring,’ yells Abby. ‘This is brilliant!’

  Michael shakes his head. ‘You’re OK.’

  ‘So what sort of stuff do you like?’ asks Abby when the track finishes.

  ‘Well, I was a punk.’ Michael sounds defensive.

  ‘You weren’t!’ says Lillie.

  ‘I was,’ says Michael. Abby senses it wouldn’t be wise to mock him.

  ‘Good man.’ Karl gives him a playful punch.

  ‘Come on, Michael—’ Colin boings over to Michael like a jack-in-the-box. ‘It’s not my era, but I can manage the pogo.’

  Colin looks so comical, jumping up and down with such ferocity that sweat pours from his brow, that laughter bubbles up in Abby again. And he’s still in his slippers, she realizes, even after all that pillow fighting. Her cheeks are beginning to ache from grinning so hard.

  ‘How about this one?’ Lillie grabs her iPod and shuffles through the tracks.
Within seconds she’s hit play. Abby recognizes it within a couple of bars: ‘Rock the Casbah’. Reluctantly Michael gets to his feet. ‘I can manage this one, I suppose.’

  He starts to dance, slowly at first, then gathering momentum. Elaine flicks the lights on and off at greater speed; by now she too is shimmying and waving her free arm, and when the chorus breaks out, Michael lets rip completely.

  They continue for several more tracks. Wiggling and jigging or hopping and twirling, jiving and diving or strutting and swaying, every one of us has our own style, thinks Abby. And who’d have guessed Michael was such a good mover?

  Suddenly there’s a loud rap on the door.

  ‘Oh shit,’ says Lillie, and hurries to turn down the music.

  Like children caught having a midnight feast, they scamper to sit down on the sofas, giggling and crashing into one another. Only Michael remains on his feet. The door opens.

  It’s Phil, the office manager.

  They look up at him, wide-eyed and innocent.

  ‘I don’t want to spoil the party,’ Phil says sternly, stepping into the centre of the room. ‘But we’re trying to have a staff meeting downstairs. Do you think you could keep it down a little?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Lillie, poker-faced. ‘We didn’t mean to—’ Then she stops speaking and stares.

  Abby follows her gaze. Michael is standing behind Phil, his face deadly serious. But above Phil’s head he’s cocking two fingers, and wiggling them like rabbit ears.

  31

  Abby is just putting down her knife and fork when Sangeeta waves from the door of the dining room.

  ‘Your taxi’s here.’ The nurse has to raise her voice to make herself heard over the chatter. ‘And Lillie, I saw your sister parking up outside, so I guess she’s here to collect you too?’