There is a glimmer of light in his world once more.
‘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 wobbly, 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.’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘Next time you feel wobbly, I want you to try to remember that lighthouse. Picture it flashing on and off, and trust that you are safe, and the waves won’t carry you away.’
‘Ooh, Michael, good to see you getting some fresh air.’ It’s Leona, coming up the path.
‘I’m only taking out the rubbish,’ says Michael, dropping a black bag into the wheelie bin.