Another Night, Another Day

  ‘You said they take weeks to work—’

  Leona holds up a hand. ‘I know it feels an eternity when you’re in a bad place. Nothing lasts forever and the pain you’re in will pass. But I understand you can’t ignore it just now, so I’ve a suggestion I hope will make that time less excruciating for you.’

  ‘You going to remove my head?’

  Leona guffaws. Her laugh is like she is – an unrestrained hoot. She shakes her head at Chrissie. ‘Like it. We’ll pop it in the freezer. But seriously, thought we’d try these in the interim.’ She removes a second box from the bag. ‘Diazepam – commonly known as Valium. Addictive, so not a long-term solution, but they should help you relax and sleep while we wait for the antidepressants to take effect.’

  Michael eyes the two packets. ‘I can’t believe those are going to sort me out on their own.’

  ‘They’re not.’ Leona’s dark eyes flash. ‘You do any therapy in Moreland’s?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ says Michael. Not that he can remember much of it.

  ‘Well, the other thing we’re going to do – you and me, but mainly you – is work on changing what goes on in here.’ She taps the side of her head. ‘Did you talk about that?’

  ‘Yeah, kind of . . .’

  ‘Great. So, here’s how I reckon you see where you are at the moment: I’m on another planet, and no one understands what I’m going through. Is that more or less right?’

  Michael can’t help but nod.

  ‘Whereas actually, truth is, they do. I do. OK, so I don’t get every nuance and horrible thought, but I get the gist. You don’t think I do, because your only reference point is yourself. Tell me, is this the first big depression you’ve had?’

  Michael struggles to work it out. It’s hard to remember, but he can’t recall feeling this bad in the past. Certainly he’s not tried to kill himself before. He’d not forget that.

  ‘It seems to me it is,’ interrupts Chrissie. ‘We’ve been together for years and I’ve never seen him like this till recently.’ She looks at Michael. ‘It’s ever since your business went under, isn’t it, love?’

  Mention of his bankruptcy makes Michael want to hurl back the bedcovers, jump out of bed and run away.

  ‘Figures,’ says Leona. ‘Can’t tell you how often I see people – not being sexist here, but it tends to be fellas, quite often older men too – whose self-esteem is so bound up with their work that when the job goes – BOOM – so does their self-esteem.’

  ‘Really?’ says Chrissie. ‘I find that kind of comforting.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Leona jerks her head towards Michael. ‘We’ve just got to help our Michael here see that.’ She gives him a wink. ‘I know it’s a lot to take in. And it’s even worse if you’ve never felt this way before, because the shock of the descent into depression is so traumatic. You are in a dark, dark land—’

  That’s right, thinks Michael. That’s exactly where I am. Hell on earth.

  ‘ – with a population of millions.’

  Really? wonders Michael. I thought there was no one here but me.

  ‘I doubt if you’ll believe me, but others have been where you are right now, and they’ve got out the other side,’ Leona continues, ‘a few of them with my help. I’d like to try and show you the way forward. Though I can’t do it on my own, so you’ll have to at least try to trust me.’

  Michael is suspicious. The idea that someone – anyone – might lead him through the wilderness is hard to believe. After all, he’s been wandering for months, and he’s met other people – some of whom have endeavoured to guide him – yet he’s still lost.

  ‘It’s up to you how you choose to react to what I’m saying to you. You can tell yourself the next few weeks are going to be just as dire as the last however-long-it’s-been. Or, instead of that, you could begin to consider the possibility you might have been through the worst.’

  ‘Ri-ight . . .’ Michael’s brain is hurting again.

  ‘Which means that from here on – although sometimes you’ll go one step forward, two steps back – you’ll gradually get better.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You should listen to Leona, Mickey,’ ventures Chrissie.

  Once again Michael recalls Gillian’s words. It’s just a thought, and thoughts can be changed . . . But this time, instead of silencing her voice, he takes heed, and, if only for a few moments, gleans comfort. It’s as though he’s glimpsed a tiny, tiny spark of hope after it’s been totally eclipsed for months on end, and something has shifted.

  There is a glimmer of light in his world once more.

  43

  ‘Budge up, Dad,’ says Ryan, dropping onto the brown velour sofa with a boof that makes the springs creak.

  Michael shifts along. He’s half watching the local TV news, but his head is so woolly with diazepam that he has the volume muted to allow himself to drift off. Suddenly, a face he recognizes flashes across the screen.

  It’s Lillie. Immediately he sits upright.

  The camera cuts to a young woman with spiralled hair and honey-coloured skin. She is being interviewed by a reporter and, from her expression, is trying not to cry.

  Ryan reaches swiftly for the remote and flicks over to another channel.

  ‘Hey!’ says Michael. ‘I want to see that.’

  ‘Not sure it’s a good idea, Dad,’ says Ryan.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s only that TV presenter from Street Dance Live—’

  ‘Exactly. Turn it back now.’

  Reluctantly, Ryan does as he is bid.

  ‘Give it some volume,’ says Michael. ‘I want to hear.’

  ‘Why you so interested in her all of a sudden? You hate that show.’

  ‘Shut up, son, let’s listen.’

  ‘We’re having a small funeral for close friends and family,’ the woman who resembles Lillie is saying. ‘And although we really appreciate the public support we’ve been getting, my sister’s death was a dreadful shock.’

  ‘Funeral?’ says Michael. He turns to Ryan. His son is scarlet. ‘Lillie’s dead?’ He can’t take it in. Lillie was perfectly healthy when I saw her, he thinks. It doesn’t make sense.

  ‘They reckon she . . . er . . . killed herself,’ says Ryan hoarsely. ‘That’s, um, Tamara, her sister.’

  Michael refocuses on the screen. ‘I want to thank you all,’ Tamara is saying, and she looks straight into the camera. Michael feels she’s speaking directly to him – her features are so disconcertingly like Lillie’s. ‘Whilst I appreciate fans want to pay tribute, I live in this block of flats with my son—’ she glances up at the building behind her, ‘ – and so much attention is hard to bear. I’d like to ask, please, if people would allow us to grieve in peace.’

  The camera pans back to a white-fronted apartment block Michael knows is on the seafront overlooking Brighton Marina. He used to pass it every day on his journey to work. It must be less than three miles from where he and Ryan are sitting.

  Propped up against the wrought-iron railings and the steps to the front door, attached with ribbons to lamp posts and bollards, are hundreds of bunches of flowers. Michael can make out a few mixed blooms and single red roses, but mainly there are lilies – tiger lilies and stargazers, calla lilies and peace lilies, as well as cream, yellow, pink, orange and scarlet varieties he couldn’t name specifically. A couple of dozen young people – teenagers, mainly – are sitting amongst the floral tributes. One has ‘LILLIE’ daubed across his face in red, others are listening to music, a couple are weeping. To his dismay he too starts to cry.

  It takes several seconds for Ryan, riveted to the screen, to notice. ‘Oh dear, Dad . . . I said not to watch . . .’ Michael can sense his son is fazed.

  Just then there’s a bang of the front door and Chrissie, who’s been out for a while, blusters into the room. Straight away she zones in on what they’re watching.

  ‘It’s so sad. I read what happened in the paper.’ She turns to Michael. ‘I wasn??
?t sure about telling you—’ Then she sees his tears. ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry.’ She sits down next to him, hugging him close to her.

  ‘Have you got a hanky?’ Michael mutters.

  Chrissie fumbles in her handbag. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Michael blows his nose. He glances at Ryan, guilty and humiliated at once. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re all right.’ Ryan pats his knee. It feels weird for Michael to be comforted by his son; it’s always been the other way round. So far he and Ryan have hedged round the subject of his suicide attempt – he left it to Chrissie to explain.

  Michael hesitates. He’s unsure whether it’s OK to reveal he knew Lillie, but surely now it can’t matter? ‘She was at that clinic in Lewes, same time as me,’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘No way!’ Ryan leans forward. ‘Really, Dad?’

  ‘Moreland’s. Yeah.’

  ‘Wow. Jeezus.’ Ryan sits back. Michael can’t tell if he’s impressed, fascinated or horrified. ‘You mean you knew her?’

  ‘Kind of . . .’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael attempts to recall the details. If only his mind weren’t so fuzzy. ‘We were in group sessions together.’

  ‘Did you know she was so . . . um . . .’

  ‘. . . depressed?’ says Michael helpfully. It’s a relief to have the word in the open. ‘No.’ He can’t recollect Lillie being anything other than ebullient. ‘She didn’t come across that way. She’s—’ his voice catches, ‘ – she was – a nice girl. Friendly. Funny.’ Great tits, too, he recalls, but has the sense to keep this observation to himself. ‘Is that how she seemed on that programme you and your sister watch?’

  ‘Street Dance Live. Yeah, she was cool. But that was the telly. She might have been different when you met her.’

  Michael shakes his head. I thought she was happy, he thinks.

  ‘And the dances she did – they were hot.’

  Michael nods, recalling the disco night. Lillie was quite something to behold, but she was more, so much more, than a pretty face.

  ‘I don’t really understand this street dancing thing,’ says Chrissie. ‘It always looks a bit odd to me.’

  ‘The thing is, you often kind of teach yourself. Tricks ’n stuff.’ Ryan looks from his mum to his dad, and back again. ‘I could show you both a few moves if you like.’

  ‘Eh? You can do it?’ says Michael.

  ‘Kinda. Here. Let’s push this back. Up you get.’ Ryan rises, holds out a hand and yanks his father to his feet. Together they move back the sofa.

  ‘Careful of the carpet,’ says Chrissie.

  Ryan tugs down his sweatshirt, adjusts his tracksuit bottoms and checks the laces of his trainers. He glances from side to side, judging whether the space is adequate. Then, abruptly, he jumps in the air and lands on his hands, kicking high with his legs at right angles. He switches from one hand and the opposite foot and back again. The sequence, though jerky, demonstrates athleticism, balance and grace. There’s no doubt it takes more skill than pogoing.

  ‘It’s sort of more break-dancing, that move,’ says Ryan.

  ‘I never knew you could do that,’ says Michael.

  ‘Guess there’s quite a bit of stuff we don’t know about each other, Dad.’ Ryan yanks at his shirt again, awkward. ‘But I’m not that good, not like Lillie was.’ He flops down into the sofa, then turns to his mother. ‘Hey, Mum, sorry, I forgot to ask. How d’you get on at the pub?’

  Chrissie gives a broad smile. ‘I got it.’

  ‘Whoa, that’s great, Ma!’ Ryan slaps his knees.

  ‘Got what?’ asks Michael.

  ‘A job,’ says Chrissie.

  Michael can’t keep up. One moment he’s trying to grasp that someone he thought was happy was in fact as desperate as he’s been, and has taken her own life. The next he’s discovering his son’s hidden talents. And now it seems his wife has found herself work. Even more bizarre than this series of events is his own reaction – his emotions have lurched from shock to tears to pride to astonishment in a matter of minutes. But compared to a no-man’s-land where he couldn’t feel anything, it’s terra firma; he’s back on planet Earth.

  * * *

  ‘This whole thing with Lillie has really got to me,’ says Abby, reaching for yet another tissue.

  ‘That’s quite understandable,’ says Beth. ‘Suicide brings up a lot for those left behind.’

  Abby nods. ‘We’ve been talking about it all this week – no one had any idea that Lillie felt so bad.’

  ‘Perhaps your feelings are especially intense as Lillie doesn’t seem to have communicated her intention to anyone beforehand? When something like this happens, we can find ourselves being very self-critical or blaming of others. Sometimes it brings up anger or our own despair.’

  Abby casts her mind back. ‘We got on very well . . . I liked Lillie a lot. We had some good conversations . . .’ She recalls their heart-to-heart in the art room. ‘It probably seems silly, given we only met recently, but I really miss her.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem silly at all. Sometimes we can form bonds very fast, especially when we’re open and vulnerable.’

  I’d been missing close friendships, thinks Abby, and Lillie helped me realize their value again. ‘She looked after me when I arrived . . .’

  ‘Lillie was very kind and sweet that way.’ Beth sighs. She must be sad too, thinks Abby. Lillie contributed a lot to the whole clinic. This week’s groups have seemed eerily empty.

  ‘She told me about what happened to her . . . She’d coped with such a lot, yet she never seemed to grumble or get maudlin . . .’ But the pain must still have been there, Abby realizes, beneath the surface. Waiting to strike. ‘I’m worried I led her to revisit that trauma and perhaps it made her worse.’

  ‘From what I understand, the main thing that made her worse was probably stopping lithium,’ says Beth. ‘Might I ask, given you got close to her, if maybe you identified with Lillie a little? Sometimes we are drawn to others whose experiences seem to resonate in some way with our own.’

  Abby frowns. She’d not thought of this before. ‘I’ve never been suicidal. Even though you all reckoned I was when I came in here . . . But this . . . I don’t know . . . It has really made me think.’ She fumbles for the right words, then realizes how this might be construed. ‘Not that I want to kill myself or anything. Still, I have felt very anxious and wobbly again. It’s like, if Lillie wasn’t better, even though it seemed to us – and all of you, I gather – that she was, will I ever get properly well myself?’ She can feel panic rising with the admission. ‘Sometimes I think I’m a bit like her, my moods swing a lot – and I’ve been quite hedonistic sometimes . . .’ She recalls the effect Jake had on her all those years ago. ‘Yeah, I can be almost manic.’

  ‘Breathe out,’ says Beth.

  Abby exhales.

  ‘You were holding your breath.’ Beth smiles. ‘OK, before we go any further, I’d like you to close your eyes . . .’ Abby does so. ‘Now I’d like you to lay those thoughts and memories about Lillie aside, and bring yourself gently into the space you find here through your senses. Feel the carpet beneath your feet, your arms resting in your lap, your thighs and bottom being supported by the chair . . . Listen to the sounds about you, the ticking of the clock, the birds outside, that car revving its engine . . . What else can you hear?’

  ‘A lawnmower. Someone’s cutting the grass . . .’ Gradually Abby feels the whirring in her brain slow. Life goes on, she reminds herself, as she and Beth breathe in and out.

  ‘Next, when you’re ready, gently open your eyes, cast your gaze around the room, notice the pictures on the wall, the carpets, the ceiling, the coffee table . . . And me sitting opposite you . . .’ Beth’s expression is tender. ‘Better?’

  Abby nods. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ Beth sits back in her chair. ‘I wonder if you’ll allow me to tell you something of my own experience? When you said you’ve been feeling w
obbly, it reminded me.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, last weekend I was lucky enough to visit the lighthouse at Portland Bill. Do you know it?’

  ‘We studied Chesil Beach in geography at school,’ Abby recalls. ‘And my family are from the West Country.’

  ‘So you’ll know that the geology is fascinating – Portland is only connected to the mainland by a thin strip of land. Sometimes I find it refreshing to experience a different landscape, and the coast is much more bleak and rugged than round here. Anyway, I digress. In the early evening there I was, standing on the beach, watching the sun setting into the ocean, and the waves were coming one after another, crashing onto the shore a few feet away. As I was standing there, the lamp of the lighthouse on the clifftop was going on, then off, then on again. I was mesmerized – nearly an hour later, I was still in the same spot. I noticed that as night was falling, the waves were getting bigger and bigger, and I felt increasingly small and vulnerable. But then I turned my eyes to the lighthouse again. Its lamp was still flashing – as if the waves were no bigger at all, and everything was under control. I found this very comforting.

  ‘Afterwards, it struck me that life is like the ocean – there are calm times and stormy times, and there will always be waves crashing onto the shore. Yet no matter how big the waves get, there will always be the flash of a lighthouse. Sometimes we get so caught up in the frightening waves, we forget to turn and see something that secures us; that reminds us storms do pass.’

  ‘I had forgotten to do that. Thanks, that’s really helpful.’

  ‘I want you to remember that you’re not Lillie, Abby, even if you identified with her in some ways. You’re a separate person with your own thoughts, feelings and experiences. You said yourself you’ve never been suicidal; not only in this session but before – you were most insistent about that. You’ve done really well in the time that you’ve been here, and it’s completely natural that this has affected you – you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel rocked by it. I’ve been sad about what’s happened myself. . . .’ Beth gulps. ‘But just because you’ve felt shaken doesn’t mean you’re headed to the place you were before, or the place that Lillie was. It’s quite possible to have a dip that doesn’t last as long as the one that brought you in here so you bounce back quicker.’