Another Night, Another Day

  The more her mother offloads, the lighter Karen feels; she’s like a helium balloon, floating up and away.

  ‘I appreciate you could do with a hand with the children, so maybe you were hoping I might move in? I hope you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘No, no, not at all!’ Oops, Karen thinks. Mustn’t sound too gleeful. ‘You must do what’s right for you,’ she says soberly. ‘And of course you’re welcome to spend as much time with the kids as you like.’

  ‘Well, I do enjoy that, as you know.’

  ‘So do they.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve kept you – we’ve been chatting longer than you had time for. Forgive me. But I wanted you to understand where I’m coming from and not be terribly disappointed. You’re not, are you, darling?’

  No, thinks Karen. It means I can do what everyone’s been urging: focus on healing myself.

  46

  ‘Hi,’ says Abby, opening the door. It’s strange to find her husband on the front step, after he’s let himself in for so many years.

  ‘Hi.’ Glenn seems awkward, possibly even nervous. ‘So, you OK to go for a coffee, like we said?’

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ Abby pops her head round the living-room door to check Callum is settled with Eva. She’s surprised when Glenn steps behind her and into the lounge.

  ‘Hello, Callum. It’s Daddy.’ Callum is focused on wheeling a toy car to and fro on the floor, so Glenn goes round and ducks his head in front of his son to make sure he sees him.

  ‘Say “Hello, Daddy”.’ Eva waves at Glenn.

  ‘Aaee.’ Callum flaps his hand.

  That’s new, thinks Abby. When he lived here Glenn would rarely bother to address our son directly unless he needed to.

  ‘You look really well,’ says Glenn, as they head down the road.

  ‘You mean fat.’ Abby smiles to show she’s not offended.

  ‘You’ll never be fat,’ says Glenn.

  ‘Women all know “well” is a euphemism for putting on weight,’ she tells him. And it’s true she has gone up a dress size – possibly it’s a side effect of her medication, though it could also be because she’s no longer so wired. She’s pleased, regardless. Over the last couple of years she’d been feeling scrawny and unfeminine; now she’s beginning to perceive herself as an attractive woman once more. Ironic, given I’ve not had sex in ages, she thinks, and my soon-to-be ex is still sleeping with someone else.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ asks Glenn. He’s being quite the gentleman, Abby notices. Perhaps he feels guilty. Then she reminds herself not to think the worst of him. Maybe he’s simply being nice.

  Either way, it’s a beautiful day and she is keen to be outside. ‘Why don’t we get a takeaway coffee and sit on the lawn in Montpelier Terrace?’ she suggests. There’s a crescent of green space not far from the cafe which serves the best local coffee.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  She glances at Glenn as they wait at the counter. He looks tired, she thinks. Perhaps it’s all that sex with Cara. Then again, commuting never did anyone’s complexion any favours and he’s always worked hard. And lately he’s had to look after Callum much more.

  ‘How are you doing?’ asks Glenn, once they’re settled on the grass far enough from other people to speak privately.

  ‘Better.’ She stops to consider. ‘Yeah, much better. I’ve been feeling less wobbly, overall. Though I had a bad dip a few weeks ago—’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  Abby brushes off his concern. ‘I’m back on a more even keel now. It was mainly because one of the other patients who I’d got really close to . . . um . . . died—’

  ‘You mean Lillie Laybourne?’

  ‘Er . . .’ There’s been enough speculation and prurience in the press; to add to the gossip seems tasteless, disrespectful. ‘Anyway,’ Abby sidesteps, ‘I’ve talked about that a lot in my one-to-one sessions, and I’m finding it easier to separate myself from other people’s issues.’ She catches Glenn’s eye and he looks away. He knows what I’m implying, she thinks. Good. She’s acclimatized to the knowledge of his affair, but still isn’t ready to forgive and forget.

  I was treated badly, she argues to herself. He lied to me for months. Then again, how we deal with emotions is often influenced by our family, and neither of us had the kind of upbringing where we talked much about how we felt.

  Now she seems to be coming out the other side, Abby is almost glad she had a breakdown. To be losing so much in one hit, that was what triggered it, she can see that now. And whilst it was sheer hell to live through – she hopes not to repeat the experience, ever – it has fine-tuned her self-awareness.

  Only the day before Beth had asked, ‘Do you think your panic attacks were your unconscious crying out for help, saying you couldn’t manage?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I got admitted to hospital so Glenn had to step up to the mark?’

  Beth had nodded. ‘Not deliberately, but indirectly, maybe.’

  ‘I suppose deep down I have been furious about his absenteeism from fatherhood,’ Abby had agreed. ‘Mm . . . It is possible some of that anger came out as anxiety.’

  ‘Yes, and perhaps your sadness emerged that way too.’

  She’d nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Having Callum wasn’t the version of motherhood I envisaged.’ A lump had come to her throat.

  ‘Sometimes the process of letting go is long and difficult,’ Beth had said gently.

  ‘I suppose seeing himself as Callum’s dad has been hard for Glenn, too.’

  ‘Yet from what you’ve told me, in many ways Glenn has risen to the challenge posed by your absence. After all, he could have not done as much as he has; he could have put Callum into temporary care.’

  ‘You mean run off with Cara and left him?’ Abby had recoiled at the suggestion.

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first parent to let a child down.’

  Now, as Abby looks at Glenn sprawled on the grass, limbs floppy, skin drawn and eyes red with exhaustion, she can see that Beth was right, and, in spite of all her resentments, has a rush of affection for him. ‘I’m grateful you took so much time off work to look after Callum,’ she says.

  ‘That’s OK.’ He plucks at the lawn.

  Abby tilts back her head, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her cheeks for a moment, then says, ‘And I also wanted to thank you for helping me get this treatment at Moreland’s.’

  Glenn is still picking at the grass. Now it’s his turn to be evasive, she thinks. My praise has disarmed him. I’ve berated him so much over the years, perhaps it’s no wonder.

  ‘Seriously, I was in a right state when I checked in – I’d never have got there on my own, and, well—’ she leans forward, ‘ – I think I’ve learned a lot as a result.’ So has Glenn, she thinks, and adds, ‘I’m pleased you seem to have connected with Callum, too.’

  There’s a long silence, but Glenn doesn’t appear awkward. He stops plucking the grass and looks into the distance.

  ‘It’s funny, but it’s like your being away has given all three of us a new beginning,’ he says eventually.

  At once Abby feels compelled to touch him. She reaches over and gives his hand a squeeze. It’s a gesture that reminds her of Karen; a sign of friendship, because Abby has saved her most fulsome thanks till last. She still can’t quite believe it’s true. She takes a deep breath and ventures, ‘My solicitor said you might be willing to let us stay in the house . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Well . . . I would like some money from it, somehow. Maybe you could remortgage or something, to give me a bit . . . ? But . . . er . . . I’ve been thinking I could move in with Cara . . .’ Abby can tell he is apprehensive about mentioning his girlfriend’s name. ‘If you’re OK with that?’ She’s taken aback he’s even asking her – Glenn reads her bewilderment. ‘It’s only I’d like to have Callum there, you know, at weekends, and you’re his mum so you need to be happy with it.’

  No, I
didn’t know you’d like to have him, thinks Abby. But it’s great to hear. She can’t quite believe this either. ‘How’s Cara about that?’ Having another woman’s child in your home is challenging enough, she thinks, let alone Callum.

  Glenn shrugs. ‘She says she’s up for it.’

  ‘Saying and doing aren’t quite the same.’

  ‘No.’ Glenn frowns. ‘But she knows it’s important to me.’

  Well, well, thinks Abby, this is a turnaround. Glenn wasn’t exaggerating when he talked of a new beginning.

  ‘I was thinking if Callum and I do stay, I could take in a lodger,’ says Abby. ‘To help financially.’

  ‘Sounds a good idea.’ Glenn nods. ‘Why don’t we see if we can thrash out the rudiments of an agreement between the two of us? Going through lawyers will cost an arm and a leg.’

  Abby smiles to herself. Always has been slow to part with money, Glenn. Even so, it makes sense to her, too.

  We can stay in the house, she thinks, at last allowing herself to accept it. My beloved home. I won’t have to look at any more dispiriting flats in unsuitable locations; I won’t have to put locks on all the cupboards somewhere new; I won’t have to sell off half our furniture. I’ll still be able to enjoy my view over the city, I’ll still be near the Co-op and the decent cafe. I’ll still have Karen as a neighbour.

  It’s not as if life will be without its challenges, and as Callum grows and becomes physically stronger, Abby knows that many issues will get worse. Nonetheless, here, now, she is grateful; more grateful than she can possibly express.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says softly.

  ‘No, thank you,’ says Glenn. ‘You did a lot when I should have been doing more. I really am sorry about that.’

  Why couldn’t he have said that before? thinks Abby. His apology has come too late to save their marriage, but nonetheless she is glad of it.

  They’ve finished their coffees; Abby senses their conversation coming to a close. Sure enough, Glenn says he ought to go, gets to his feet and dusts the grass off his trousers.

  As she watches him walk away, her heart is full of sorrow.

  I miss the way we balanced and complemented each other, she thinks. I miss the man I loved, the times we shared. I miss his sleeping form in bed beside me. I’m sad we couldn’t pull through and be there for our son together, and that it took my breakdown for us to have this breakthrough. But who knows? At least apart we’ll each have some respite from caring, so maybe we’ll do better for Callum now that we’re separated than we did as a couple. No one is perfect, myself included.

  The time for recrimination is past.

  47

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Michael.

  Leona leans over his shoulder and reads the handwritten letter on the table.

  ‘Nice one,’ she says when she’s finished. ‘Didn’t gather you knew her.’

  ‘We were in Moreland’s at the same time,’ Michael explains. ‘So we met there, did some groups together, that’s all.’

  ‘Still, you probably got to know her better than a lot of people,’ says Leona. ‘Those groups can be very intimate.’

  ‘I suppose so. But it’s more the timing of when she . . .’ Michael stops. He doesn’t wish to get drawn back into that experience – not when he’s trying to share something positive. ‘I realize, what happened to her, er . . . well, it could have been me.’

  Leona nods. ‘But it wasn’t.’ She pauses. ‘I hope you’re glad?’ She looks at him quizzically, pompom tilted.

  Michael nods. He’s still not comfortable gushing. ‘I’ve no idea why she did it – she seemed so happy when I met her, and that wasn’t long before she died.’

  ‘We can never be inside someone else’s head, no matter how much we try. Often it’s hard to recall what it was like inside our own minds when we look back with hindsight. Bet you find it tricky to remember how dire you felt a couple of months ago. Well, I hope you do.’ She grins.

  Leona is someone whose smile never seems to irritate me, thinks Michael. And she’s right. The darkness of that particular night is gradually fading.

  Then Leona’s face falls. ‘You know, I come across suicide more than I’d like to in my line of work. Often I find it hard to understand, same as everyone else left behind. Frequently people preach about the selfishness of suicide, but it’s a choice we all have. And who are we to judge? Lillie may have wanted that release more than she wanted to carry on living – no one has the right to say that was wrong of her.’ She stands up fully and stretches. ‘But I like to believe that sometimes we can make more sense of someone’s death if we see it in the context of what that person contributed to others. Even a short life can have a huge impact.’

  ‘That’s a good way to look at it,’ says Michael. He recalls Lillie, the way she welcomed new arrivals at the clinic, the way she was prepared to face the responsibility of checking-in first, the way she identified with others and made everyone laugh. Not forgetting the way she moved; her enthusiasm, her energy. He’ll never forget the evening they all danced together. If it hadn’t been for Lillie, he’d have stayed sitting on the sofa, excluded by self-consciousness. She drew him in, encouraged him to be part of things. ‘Yeah. I reckon she’d have liked that. And perhaps she’d given all she could.’

  ‘And now you’re helping others.’ Leona taps the letter. ‘I bet you’d never have done anything like this prior to your stroll into the sea, would you?’

  ‘Probably not.’ Michael frowns. ‘Although I’ve a lot more time on my hands these days.’

  ‘Oh, it’s more than that, surely? It’s as though losing everything has given you the opportunity to explore possibilities you’d never have thought yourself capable of before.’

  Michael squirms. She’s crediting me with more than I deserve, he thinks. ‘It’s only a bloody letter,’ he mutters.

  ‘A letter, my arse – it’s an idea. Fingers crossed her sister agrees. Do you want me to drop it off? I drive past those flats en route to my next patient.’

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ says Michael. ‘I was heading into Brighton myself.’

  * * *

  ‘So, I guess today is the day we say goodbye,’ says Karen. It’s hard to imagine this will be the last time she’ll sit in a chair at the clinic with Johnnie opposite her – eight more weeks have passed since she left day care; now she’s finishing one-to-one therapy too.

  Johnnie nods. ‘Yes.’

  Karen looks at him, with his floppy fringe and boyish face. It’s hard to believe he’s helped her so much but, along with the groups, the sessions they’ve shared have made a real difference. She’s glad she held off on taking antidepressants, because in the end it was talking – connecting with others who were also vulnerable – that she, personally, needed. So she no longer cries several times a day, she no longer feels bone-tired, she no longer worries quite so much, or wonders why she bothers with everything. She’s even starting to remember the good times with her father again, regaining a sense of the man he was, just as her mother seems to be doing, too. Nonetheless, this is hard.

  ‘I hate goodbyes,’ she admits.

  Johnnie crosses and uncrosses his legs. She senses he’s uncomfortable too.

  ‘Though at least I now know why.’ She doesn’t have to explain: they’re both aware of the reasons.

  ‘There’s a kind of shattering that happens with death – we often lose our sense of who we are and what our lives are about, and reconstruction is needed. But first we need to accept that a part of us is broken,’ says Johnnie.

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Every time we brush up against our own mortality it does remind us to take life seriously.’

  ‘I’ve had more than the odd brush,’ she reminds him, then laughs. ‘Feels more like I’ve been gone through with a nit comb. Golly, I remember my mother having to do that when I was a girl. With hair like this, it was agony.’

  Johnnie nods and smiles. ‘It might help to remember that every loss brings w
ith it the opportunity for a new beginning.’

  ‘Still, I’d like a break from dealing with death so head-on for a bit.’ Karen leans back and looks at the ceiling. ‘Hear that, God, if you’re up there?’

  * * *

  ‘Well I never! It is you!’ Ali comes to the door of his shop to watch as Michael chains his bicycle to a nearby lamp post. ‘When you got off that thing, I said to myself, it looks like my friend Michael, and then I thought, no way can that be so. My friend does not ride a bicycle.’

  Michael removes his helmet and runs his fingers across the crown of his head. Hat hair doesn’t look good on anyone. ‘I do now,’ he says.

  ‘My, you are looking very fit and trim.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Michael doesn’t confess it’s because he’s had to relinquish his car. ‘I’m on a bit of a health kick, trying to exercise more.’ Regular exercise is part of the programme he’s been doing with Leona.

  ‘That is not a “bit” – it is a lot. It is many miles from Rottingdean to here.’

  ‘Only six,’ says Michael.

  ‘I could not bicycle six miles for all the money in Rajasthan,’ says Ali. ‘I blame Mrs A., feeding me too much.’ He pats his tummy.

  Michael laughs. ‘So how is Mrs A.?’

  ‘Oh, she is good, good,’ Ali grins. ‘A man must not complain when he has a fine lady wife and after so many years that we are still, you know—’ he checks left and right to ensure there is no one else in earshot, ‘ – doing the rumpy pumpy.’

  Michael chuckles. Until recently he was so self-conscious about his own lack of libido that he would have changed the subject as fast as possible, but he seems to be getting his mojo back – if last night with Chrissie was anything to go by – and he’d forgotten how much Ali’s humour tickles him.