Another Night, Another Day

She sits down. No, that’s worse. She can feel her heart thumping in her chest – BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM . . . She stands up. That makes her giddy. Perhaps walking? She paces across the kitchen, down the hall, and back again.

  She tries to pluck out a single thought, make it form a line of logic, but her head is a jumble: Glenn’s-been-havingsex-with-someone/who?/in-my-bed/our-bed/how-longhas-this-been-going-on?/just-when-I-thought-we-weremaking-progress/was-it-a-one-off?/is-he-having-anaffair?/I-hope-to-God-he’s-not-in-love-with-her/I-couldn’tbear-that/I-know-it’s-over-between-us-but-ouch-it-hurts/all-those-late-nights-at-the-office/I-should-have-known/how-could-he?/the-wanker!/was-Callum-in-the-house?/what-about-Eva?/the-other-carers?/I-feel-so-stupid/thehumiliation/I’ll-never-get-better-now/the-sheets-ugh!/I-must-wash-them/he’s-still-my-husband/we’re-not-even-formally-separated/why-here?/couldn’t-he-go-somewhere-else?/is-he-trying-to-send-me-crazy?/I-am-mad/I-need-to-go-backto-Moreland’s/but-what-about-Callum?/I-can’t-leavemy-son-here-now/he’s-not-safe/I’m-not-safe/I-can’tcope/I-need-help/my-heart’s-going-to-burst/someoneshould-take-me-to-hospital/who-can-I-possibly-ask?

  * * *

  How strange, Karen frowns. I wouldn’t have expected Abby to ring me yet; she knows I’m in Moreland’s all afternoon. Perhaps she dialled me by accident. But then she sees there’s a voice message.

  ‘Karen, I’m really sorry to ring you but I didn’t know who else to call. Something horrible has happened and I could really do with talking to someone . . .’

  She presses call return and Abby picks up straight away.

  ‘Oh Karen, thank you,’ she says, and bursts into tears.

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Karen steps rapidly down the corridor in search of a room where she can talk privately. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you before – I was in with Dr Kasdan.’

  ‘So you were.’ Abby is breathless, gulping back sobs. ‘Sorry. Did I interrupt your session?’

  Karen sees the little lounge is free. ‘It’s fine, we’re finished,’ she says, taking a seat. ‘What’s happened?’

  Out it pours in a garbled mess; nonetheless Karen gets the gist. I could murder this Glenn, she thinks, though it won’t help to say so.

  ‘Maybe I should come back to Moreland’s,’ says Abby when she’s reached the end. Her voice is barely audible.

  Karen pauses for a second. ‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,’ she says slowly. ‘It sounds like you’re panicking, and we know from the group sessions that it’s not the time to make a decision. I worry that if you come here without sticking it out at home at all, you’ll go right back to where you’ve been, and you’ve come such a long way.’

  ‘But I don’t think I can cope.’ Abby is still breathless.

  Karen calculates fast. She’d been planning on staying for Relaxation, so she’s not due to collect Molly and Luke from the childminder for another two hours. ‘What number house are you?’ She already knows which street Abby lives on.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘I’ll come round, we’ll chat then.’

  ‘But Glenn will be here at 4.30 with Callum and I’m not sure I can face him. Not yet.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Karen is already heading out of the building. ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour. So I’ll scoop you up and you can come back to ours.’

  Abby is silent. Karen can hear her gasps coming short and shallow down the line.

  ‘Abby, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I was just thinking . . .’

  ‘Don’t think,’ Karen orders. ‘Say yes. We can work out what to do next over a cup of tea.’

  More silence, then Abby says, ‘A cup of tea. That would be nice.’

  ‘I’ve got some cake . . .’

  ‘SOME COW DRANK OUT OF MY FAVOURITE CUP!’

  Karen winces. ‘You can bring the cup and smash it against my garden wall if you like.’

  Abby sniffs. ‘I might just do that.’

  ‘Good. Have you unpacked?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, don’t bother,’ says Karen. ‘Bring your case to mine. You can always stay over if need be.’

  ‘What about Callum?’

  Oh, crikey, yes. Glenn should look after him, thinks Karen. With luck he will. ‘We can always have him here later on tonight too,’ she says recklessly. Though she worries how he’ll interact with Molly and Luke, this is not the time to be precious. ‘Let’s see how we go once we’ve smashed a few cups and saucers, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ says Abby. Karen can hear that her breathing has slowed to a more normal level. ‘And Karen, thank you.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Karen waves the air as if Abby can see her. ‘I’ll be with you in a bit.’

  Not until she’s speeding along the A27 does she pause to consider: Here I go, looking after someone else again.

  * * *

  Abby strips the bed with an efficiency fuelled by rage. She bundles the sheets into her arms, grabs the offending mug and hurries down the stairs. She’s sorely tempted to smash it as Karen suggested and leave the pieces on the kitchen table as a message to Glenn, but worries that Callum might get to the broken china first and hurt himself. Instead she scrawls a hasty note:

  Came home early but gone to a friend’s. Thanks for leaving the house in such a tip. I’ll be in touch re Callum later.

  She doesn’t bother to sign it, simply props it up on the lipsticked mug in the middle of the table so Glenn can’t be in any doubt that she’s aware what’s been going on in her absence. Then she charges back upstairs, picks up her bag again – it seems lighter now she’s so enraged – and carries it back outside.

  She locks the front door and goes to sit on the garden wall between the yew tree and the holly bush so she can see Karen’s car coming down the road. Shouldn’t be long now.

  33

  As the taxi pulls up at Sunnyvale House, Chrissie comes hurrying over to greet Michael. ‘I’ll walk and meet you there,’ she’d said when he’d phoned with the news he was being discharged and ferried to the hospital. ‘It’s only a mile or so and I could do with a bit of fresh air.’ Michael knew she was being diplomatic; she had no choice but to come on foot or by bus since their car was surrendered to the creditors.

  She opens the door of the taxi. ‘Hello, love.’

  Michael slides himself out of the back seat and almost falls into his wife’s embrace. His nerves were far too jangled to stay for the afternoon group at Moreland’s; that would have involved saying goodbye to people he’d grown to like. Instead he went to his room to pack, and less than an hour later he’s here, though he’s no more able to process the transition than he was in Phil’s office.

  He glances up at the building over Chrissie’s shoulder. The walls are not in fact white but pale grey; the windows are tiny and appear not to open, and high netting encloses the surrounding lawns. It looks more like a prison than a hospital.

  The young man who comes out to welcome them seems far from warden-like, however. He introduces himself as Akono with a giant smile. Michael’s got used to being beamed at lately; at least Akono seems to be expressing genuine warmth. ‘Let me show you to Seaview,’ he says, then seeing Michael’s confused expression, adds, ‘That’s what we call the general men’s ward. I’m afraid I’ll have to take you through Meadows to get there. We’d not normally have to go this way, but we’re doing work on the main entrance.’ He leads Michael and Chrissie round to the side of the building.

  Meadows, Michael gathers as Akono unlocks a series of doors, is a euphemism for the secure unit.

  ‘You’re a filthy lesbian!’ someone shouts as they make their way down a corridor. Michael sees a wiry young man in pyjamas heading towards them. ‘She’s a filthy lesbian!’ As they cross paths, the young man leers at Chrissie.

  But she’s holding my hand, thinks Michael.

  Akono remains calm. ‘Just ignore Jez and follow me. Calls me a nigger all the time at the moment, but it’s only because he’s unwell.’

  Nice, thinks Michael. Then he recalls Tash with
her Tourette’s. Perhaps Jez is similar and can’t help it.

  They pass a big metal door with a grille through which Michael glimpses wall-to-wall grey foam. In the middle of the space the foam is raised into a platform to form a sort of bed.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks.

  ‘Seclusion,’ says Akono.

  Padded cell, in other words, thinks Michael. Chrissie squeezes his hand.

  ‘I’ll show you your room first,’ says Akono. ‘Then you can leave your case before I take you to the lounge.’

  ‘This isn’t so bad,’ says Chrissie as they step into a newly painted room with colour-coordinated shelving, drawers and a single bed. ‘I thought you’d have to share. It’s good you don’t, isn’t it, Mickey?’

  ‘I like these blue rooms best,’ says Akono.

  ‘There are other colours?’ asks Chrissie.

  ‘Red and yellow and green, depending on the ward. This is the most relaxing, I think.’

  I’m supposed to be grateful, thinks Michael, but the room reeks of disinfectant. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

  ‘The unit’s down the hall,’ says Akono.

  Unit, thinks Michael. Previously he had an en-suite with a bath and shower.

  He drops his suitcase and it lands with a thud; the floor is covered in lino, not carpet. Fleetingly he can hear Gillian’s voice. ‘Don’t get caught up in negative thinking, Michael.’ He can imagine her persuading him he doesn’t need fresh flowers and his own TV to get better. I’m trying my best to be positive, he argues, but this seems like a bad dream.

  He moves around the space in an effort to adjust, goes to the window, looks out. Directly below is a ping-pong table; a couple of men are playing, he wouldn’t mind a go at that. And there’s a group of patients standing smoking – he’s used to this from Moreland’s. ‘The Bads smoke way more than the Mads,’ he remembers Lillie pointing out.

  ‘OK,’ he says to Akono. ‘Perhaps you could show me the lounge?’

  Michael is braced for minimalism, and sure enough, a CD player, television and stack of dog-eared board games appear to be the only niceties. True, in the corner is a kitchen area, but the counter is covered in used teabags, plastic spoons and spilled sugar, and the vinyl floor makes everything echo so that even their footsteps sound loud. The room is large but there are only a handful of men taking advantage of the space. Two of them are silently absorbed in a game of Scrabble, nearby a young lad about Ryan’s age is scratching his arms and muttering something that sounds like ‘Ugh! Dalmatians under my skin,’ and an elderly man with hair like cobwebs has a wooden chair pulled right up close to the TV. He is watching the horse racing, and is the only one to acknowledge their presence with a nod of his head towards them.

  It’s hard to believe that a short while ago I was eating lunch with people I was beginning to see as friends, thinks Michael.

  ‘So what happens next?’ asks Chrissie as they step back into the corridor.

  ‘You will be assessed by the ward doctor,’ Akono says to Michael, flashing another enormous smile, but Michael can’t process what’s happening right then, let alone later, so says nothing. Akono turns to Chrissie. ‘Now, we tend to find it best if patients are given the chance to settle in by themselves.’

  You’re telling my wife to leave, thinks Michael. If that’s what you mean, why don’t you say so? The prospect of being left alone makes him shudder.

  ‘OK.’ Chrissie nods. She’s always been more compliant than I have, thinks Michael. Nonetheless as she leans in to give him a farewell hug, she mutters into his ear, ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can, I promise.’

  So she thinks it’s as awful as I do in spite of Akono’s cheeriness, he deduces. That makes it worse – it confirms his perception isn’t warped. As Chrissie and Akono turn to head back through the locked ward, Michael is left with a Hobson’s choice: to return to the bleakness of his bedroom or face the strangers in the lounge. With a lurch of fear he opts for the latter, feeling as if he’s about to jump off a cliff.

  * * *

  ‘Nice house you have here,’ says Abby, looking round the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Karen. ‘It’s badly in need of decorating. In here especially.’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’ Abby was more struck by the children’s paintings displayed on the fridge, the shelves chock-full of spices and herbs, the half-drunk bottle of red wine next to the tea and coffee caddies. I wish I could leave stuff out like this, she thinks, instead of locking everything away.

  ‘So, cake.’ Karen stands on tiptoe to retrieve a large tin. ‘Have to keep it out of the kids’ reach,’ she explains, sliding a chocolate gateau onto a plate.

  Tell me about it, thinks Abby.

  ‘Say when to stop,’ says Karen, moving a knife slowly round like the hand of a clock.

  Abby bites her lip, apologetic. ‘I’m not sure I can manage to eat.’

  ‘Ah yes. Weren’t you one of those who said in group you lose your appetite when you’re stressed? I’m the opposite. I eat too much when I’m happy and I eat even more when I’m sad.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘Now I feel guilty.’

  ‘You mustn’t.’

  ‘I’ve put on weight since Simon died . . .’

  ‘You look great just as you are.’ The combination of Karen’s chestnut hair and green eyes is striking, thinks Abby, and she oozes warmth and generosity. ‘OK, give me a small slice,’ she concedes, realizing it will give Karen permission.

  ‘Right. We’ve got an hour till I have to collect the children. Although you’re welcome to stay longer if you want.’

  Abby lets out a sigh of relief. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how to thank you, helping me out like this.’

  Karen scoops a generous forkful of gateau into her mouth. ‘You know, I met one of my really good friends, Lou, the day Simon died. The whole thing was so awful, but she was absolutely brilliant. I’d never have got through it without her, so I see it as karmic payback, if you like.’

  That’s such a positive way of looking at the world, reflects Abby. She’s noticed Karen seems more upbeat than when she started at Moreland’s. It’s astonishing to think that only two weeks ago she couldn’t stop crying. I was doing well too, she thinks. Till this afternoon . . . Once more she feels anxiety rising. She grips the side of the table.

  ‘You OK?’ Karen looks at her, concerned.

  ‘I had a rush of panic,’ she says after she’s done some deep breathing. ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. I realized that’s what was going on. I’m here for you, whatever.’ Karen reaches over and gives Abby’s hand a squeeze.

  ‘Thanks.’ Abby knows she’s overdoing the gratitude but doesn’t know what else to say. She’s aware they’ve both fallen silent, but how can she explain that she’s terrified of losing a sense of who she is again?

  ‘Tell me what’s on your mind,’ says Karen gently.

  Abby considers. Perhaps she could share these worries, and Karen won’t judge her. She reaches for her fork, helps herself to a wodge of cake and – yum – is astonished to find it tastes delicious.

  ‘You know, no one in my family ever talked to one another, not properly . . .’ She glances up – Karen’s eyes are wide, encouraging her to continue. ‘We didn’t articulate our feelings, not at all. And guess what I’ve also realized? Somehow I’ve ended up with a son who doesn’t respond to me, and a husband who doesn’t either. I must be doing something wrong.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ says Karen. ‘You didn’t make your son autistic.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And from what you’ve said before now about your husband, it’s not your fault the relationship has broken down, either.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Abby hasn’t the energy to stop herself from crying. ‘I’ve spent so much time care-giving over the last few years, it’s no wonder our marriage couldn’t take the strain.’

  Karen goes to tear
off a couple of pieces of kitchen roll which she hands to Abby. ‘Strikes me Glenn didn’t leave you much choice. You did what many decent people would do: you took over where he left gaps.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Abby. Honestly. I don’t know Glenn, obviously. I haven’t heard his side of the story. But I know from groups and stuff that you’ve done a huge amount of beating yourself up already. We all do it, don’t we, those of us at Moreland’s? It’s one of the reasons so many of us end up with depression or anxiety. What makes me really cross is that probably Glenn’s the one who should be having therapy, not you.’

  Karen’s cheeks are flushed, Abby notices. She seems angry on my behalf. It’s funny how we identify with one another.

  Suddenly, through all her whirling thoughts and upset, she has a moment of clarity.

  ‘I knew he was having an affair,’ she says.

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I don’t mean I really knew,’ Abby explains. ‘I mean I suspected deep down, though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. Glenn withdrew from me ages ago. I don’t think we’ve had sex since last autumn some time, and I’ve no idea how long it’s been going on, but there’ve been signs . . . Like his staying late at the office . . . being so defensive . . . never mind demanding that we split the house 50/50 when I do the lion’s share of caring for our son. He probably wants somewhere bigger so he can continue seeing her, whoever she is.’ Strangely, as she says this, Abby can sense her anxiety lifting a little – she’d expected the opposite. She stops to check if the relief lasts; it seems to. Then she says, ‘Do you know what? I think that might be where some of my panic has been coming from.’

  ‘Really?’ Karen’s eyes open even wider.

  ‘It’s as if I was blocking myself from admitting it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first person to do that.’

  ‘No . . .’ Still, Abby feels a fool. ‘It’s been staring me in the face.’

  ‘There you go again – don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Karen reminds her. ‘If he has been seeing someone, he’s the one who’s been in the wrong, not you.’

  Abby recalls conversations at the clinic. ‘They say anxiety is often unexpressed emotion, don’t they?’