I can’t see her getting hot and sweaty in a mosh pit, or going to a traders’ market at the crack of sparrow’s fart, he thinks. If I
have
to see a therapist, why
couldn’t I have had Beth, or whatever her name was? And to top it all, I’ve had to miss Relaxation. I could have done with a kip.
‘I take it you don’t feel like talking,’ says Gillian after a few more minutes.
What is there to talk about, Michael thinks. Everything’s gone tits up, end of. How’s she going to help – bankroll me? I’d have been better off going to the
Citizens’ Advice.
Gillian catches his eye and gives Michael a tiny smile.
I suppose that’s meant to encourage me, he thinks. If she knew how many smiles I’ve had today, she wouldn’t bother.
‘We’ve been yakking all day,’ he mutters. Then he looks down and picks at his cuticles, avoiding her gaze.
‘In the group sessions, I appreciate maybe you and the other patients have, but it’s only us now. You might find it helps a wee bit to put your own feelings into words.’
‘I don’t get why everyone is so keen on talking.’ Michael tugs at a particularly dry bit of skin.
‘Do you mind if I ask you if you think keeping your problems to yourself will make them disappear?’
What does she know about my situation? wonders Michael. She has a file on her knee: bet it’s full of all sorts. ‘What’s in there?’
‘It’s a letter from your GP,’ says Gillian. ‘You can see it if you want?’
‘No thanks.’ My doctor told me I’m clinically depressed, thinks Michael. Not sure what the difference between ‘clinically’ and plain old depressed is, but
that’s what got me admitted – apparently I was severely at risk. The notion of such personal information being down there in black and white makes Michael edgy, but to demand to see it
might seem aggressive.
‘I’ll make a few notes as we talk, if you don’t mind,’ Gillian continues.
Michael shifts in his chair. He can’t think what to say. Knowing she’s going to write it all down is off-putting. ‘I’m not into all this expressing myself,’ he
mumbles, finally. ‘It’s not me, you see. I know it’s very trendy and stuff . . .’ He falters, and is surprised when Gillian chuckles.
‘Do I look trendy to you, Michael?’ She fingers her paisley shawl.
He can’t stop himself snorting. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘The idea that putting our feelings into words can help us isn’t particularly modern. It’s actually ancient wisdom to suggest that if someone is sad or angry about a situation
and we can get them to chat about it, it will probably release some emotions and make them feel better.’
She must be referring to the shop going under, thinks Michael. How else would she know I lose my temper, unless someone’s told her? He has an urge to grab the file after all and check
she’s telling the truth about what’s in there.
‘More than two and a half thousand years ago Buddha talked about the benefits of labelling our experiences.’
Bloody hell, Buddhism, he thinks. If that isn’t trendy, what is? She might be a Scot, but I bet she lives in Brighton, on Muesli Mountain, no doubt. Well, these sessions might work for
some people, but I’m getting nothing out of it. Again he glances at the clock.
‘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.
‘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 opens 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.’