If I Never Went Home (11 page)

‘Thanks for seeing me today,’ said Bea, fidgeting to fit her fragile frame comfortably in the overstuffed armchair.

‘This worked out well,’ he replied. ‘Tell me what’s been happening.’

Bea didn’t answer.

‘Has it been difficult adjusting to the big bad world?’ he asked.

She could not stop the tears from leaking down her cheeks. She finally managed to find her voice. ‘I was doing okay. Really I was.’

He nodded.

‘Then out of nowhere it got worse again. I can’t sleep. I can’t leave the apartment. This is the first place I’ve gone to in over a week.’

‘But you did it. You got yourself here.’

‘I suppose.’

Dr. Payne slumped lower into the chair, interlocked his fingers and waited.

‘My heart felt like it was going a million miles an hour and I was soaked in sweat and my jaws hurt. Think I’ve been grinding my teeth.’

‘When you were first at St. Anthony’s you had a couple of panic attacks like that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but this is the first time I’ve felt like this since I came out of hospital,’ Bea said, drying her eyes.

‘It’s tough when you first get back out there and you don’t have much support. At least, none you will accept.’

‘Maybe I should be back at St. Anthony’s.’

He sighed. ‘No. We can always keep it as an option, but right now you need to try getting into life gently. You can do this. I truly believe this is a temporary setback that we can overcome.’

Bea said nothing.

‘Have you been eating? You look like you’ve lost weight.’

‘Not much,’ she mumbled.

‘You have to eat with the meds you’re taking, or you’re not going to get better, and you can even get worse.’

Bea stared at the wall to the left of his head.

‘Why don’t we try having you come in twice a week for now, so this kind of low feeling isn’t allowed to fester?’

‘Okay,’ she said meekly and took her coat off the arm of the chair.

‘What are you doing this evening?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Try to get out of the apartment at least once a day, even if it’s to walk to the end of the street and back.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Okay, so I’ll see you in two days’ time. I’ll get my assistant to phone you with an exact time. She’s left for the day already.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Bea, you will get better. You have to believe that.’

She wanted to believe, but today it didn’t feel possible.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Summer was Bea’s favourite season. This July was perfect, with none of the unpredictability of June and still some way from the fiery August heat. Her mind drifted to her father. She wondered if he’d enjoy this clear Boston sky reflected in the Charles River.

Alan Clark had travelled some – Barbados, St. Vincent, New York, Toronto, and even London. But he had never expressed an interest in visiting Boston, nor had Bea pressed him. After any trip abroad he would say there wasn’t anything as lovely as the clear blue sky at home. Trinidad was crowned by a canopy of purest blue, uncluttered except for a few apologetic wisps of stray clouds.

What was he doing now, she wondered? At four in the afternoon there was a good chance he would be sitting in a battered plastic garden chair under the shade of the ancient chenette tree. Taking the breeze. Perhaps he would be checking the latest political intrigue in the Express
and chain-smoking his Marlboros. Always chain-smoking.

Home and work had merged after the divorce, when he returned to live in his childhood house, keeping his lonely mother company. They had always lived above the small family hardware store that Alan managed. For him, the arrangement had the dual advantage of minimal responsibility and minimal costs. As a bonus there was his doting mother, Granny Gwen, tending to his every whim, cooking his favourite stew chicken with peas and rice, even making his bed and picking his dirty clothes off the bathroom floor. His older brother Robin, who also worked in the business, was so efficient that Alan’s role was almost ceremonial, certainly marginal. Granny Gwen was determined never to let this favourite son leave home again. No woman had ever – could ever – look after him, love him, honour him like she did. That Indian bitch Mira, whom he had erroneously married, was confirmation enough if any was needed. But that was all thankfully in the past. Mother and son were reunited and would remain so for ever, at peace under one roof.

Did he still have a relationship with the woman Bea met last year on her annual summer visit? Alan’s women came and went with slippery ease, their phone calls unanswered if they dared state needs of their own. He lived on his own terms, asking little of others, or indeed of himself. Disappointment, regret, anxiety were all rare occurrences. For as long as he still had his good looks and the stamina to play mas in a Carnival band, and could afford a few weeks holiday abroad, life was sweet.

And Bea’s mother, where was she this balmy July afternoon? Intelligence and complete dedication had driven her rise through the ranks of the finance ministry to become one of the most senior career civil servants. Wednesdays, unless stopped by thunderstorms, she and a group of ladies walked the perimeter of the Savannah, Port of Spain’s main park. Then Mira would head home and potter around in her little garden, tending her exotic but temperamental orchids or coaxing pigeon peas, tomatoes, okra and melongene into ripeness. She had not remarried either. A couple of serious relationships after Alan, with the attendant emotional battering as each failed, had left her determined to be self-sufficient. Anyone who would listen knew that she was a woman with her own house and her own car and didn’t need a man confusing her head. Though in quieter moments, Mira had confessed to missing the companionship and intimacy that transformed a house into a home, a less lonely place to be.

When Bea left Trinidad on a scholarship that took her to a colder place, her relationship with both parents – never close to begin with – had deteriorated rapidly. Communication was hampered by her father’s dislike of computers, though Bea doubted that this would have changed anything between them. They settled on a rhythm of twice-yearly contact, acknowledging Christmas and birthdays. Alan’s preference was for oversized cards with long flowery verses executed in cursive script. The instant Bea received a card headlined ‘To A Darling Daughter At Christmas’ or ‘For A Special Daughter Overseas’ she knew Alan, rather than practical Mira, had sent it. Beyond signing the card ‘Your loving father’ he did not inquire into her world or offer details of his own. By last summer’s visit it was sadly evident that father and daughter related to each other as strangers.

Mira had made an effort to stay in touch with Bea, but it was not reciprocated. Occasionally her frustration at Bea’s silence spilled over into an angry phone call or email.

‘If you was living by your father growing up, you think you would end up teaching in a university? You think so?’ she screeched down the telephone. ‘Let me tell you something, you ungrateful wretch. You would’ve end up like all the rest of them no-good Clarks. You wanted to spend your life selling sandpaper and paint? Is because of me you get where you is, and now you can’t even pick up the phone to give your mother a call once in a blue moon. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I do wrong in this life to deserve a child like you.’

Each of Mira’s outbursts worsened the strained relationship and led to further estrangement between mother and daughter. Bea knew her unexplained absence this summer was hurtful to both parents, a sign that the little contact they had was no longer sacred. Perhaps she should visit at Christmas. With goodwill and rum flowing, fruit cake almost a food group of its own, and a soundtrack of sweet parang music in the air, rapprochement was a possibility. It was worth considering.

In a session with Dr Payne, Bea asked if she should go to Trinidad for Christmas.

He seemed excited about the idea. ‘Excellent. Great chance to see your family. And when it’s freezing cold here you’ll be enjoying the Caribbean sunshine. I’m envious already.’

‘Growing up I just assumed I’d live there for ever. The beauty of driving through the mountains to Maracas Bay. It takes your breath away. When I was little, every summer we would stuff our tiny Vauxhall full of clothes and food and set off to Mayaro beach for a holiday. They say you don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone.’

‘They are called clichés for a reason.’

Bea laughed. ‘But there’s no point in longing for those days. They’re not coming back. They don’t belong to me any more, or I don’t belong any more. Don’t know which. Maybe it’ll feel homey at Christmas. Trinidadians go all out then. Even if you haven’t seen someone all year, and you pop by for a visit, they’ll welcome you and insist you have fresh sorrel juice and a pastel to eat. That’s how Trini people operate. Food and drink everywhere you go.’

‘Sounds delightful.’

‘But it doesn’t last. And if you make the mistake of believing that you belong, you’re screwed.’

Bea looked suddenly agitated, wringing her hands.

‘You seem anxious.’

She looked away, still wringing her hands.

‘Bea, because your parents weren’t able to give you the sense of belonging you needed, doesn’t mean you can’t create it for yourself now.’

She smiled shyly. ‘You’re trying to tell me to grow up?’

His eyes smiled. ‘I’m saying that the isolation you feel is in part a choice. There are other choices you can make.’

‘Fine.’ She looked down and mumbled, ‘Can we talk about something else? Please.’

Dr. Payne rocked back in his chair and took a deep, audible breath. ‘Just an observation, but whenever I mention your parents, you become a different person.’

She did not answer and after a few moments he continued, ‘So what’s been happening otherwise? Going into the office?’

She looked up in relief. ‘Yup. Getting ready for next semester. Luckily I’m not teaching any new courses. Only updating ones I’ve taught before.’

‘Take it slowly,’ he urged. ‘When does the new semester start?’

‘End of August. I’ve got a bit more time.’

‘I’m sorry, I know you’ve told me before,’ he said scratching his head. ‘What sort of history do you teach?’

‘I teach courses with a transnational approach to history. So I do a course on comparative approaches to anti-colonial politics and ideologies, comparing colonial India with, say, nationalism in Vietnam. And I also teach more theoretical courses that consider major themes in world history like colonialism, imperialism and post-colonialism.’

He leaned forward. ‘I can see you’re passionate about this.’

 ‘Yup.’ She nodded, pulling her shoulders back in pride. It felt good, talking about something other than tweaking the antidepressants to mitigate side effects such as her perpetually dry mouth or the feeling of constant, low-level sedation.  ‘Wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.’

‘Few people can say that.’

‘Guess I’m lucky.’ She paused for a second then blurted out, ‘Do you like what you do?’

‘Sure. Especially when you see someone go from being really quite ill to functioning in society.’ He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘I definitely have a rescue fantasy.’

A shaft of sunlight burst through the window, warming her, giving her a sense of comfort with the conversation. ‘I don’t want you to break any confidences,’ she said, biting her bottom lip. ‘But do you have a case that makes you specially happy?’

He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, maybe the ones where the patient is desperate to be free of emotional pain and can’t see a way out except through suicide. When you prevent that and help the patient back to health. Yes, those are the ones I feel good about.’

It was only a snippet of his life, but she clamped down on that information and stored it in her memory. Rescue fantasy.

He can rescue me any time
.

He pulled her out of her thoughts. ‘That’s enough about me. What about the guy you’ve been seeing? Michael?’

Bea blushed. ‘Don’t know why, but he comes by every week. Not sure what he’s getting out of it.’

‘He would not still be seeing you if he did not find you a bright, interesting woman.’

‘Maybe I’m his charity case.’

‘Don’t put yourself down. Now, what about your colleagues? How’ve they reacted to you being back?’

‘Everyone’s kind. At least to my face.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe behind my back they’re calling me a nutcase.’

‘No one’s calling you a nutcase.’

‘I guess. It feels genuine enough. But I still hide in my office. It’s easier to deal with people by email rather than face to face.’

‘You understand that you still have to work toward increasing proper human contact. We can’t let this social phobia get out of control.’

She sighed. ‘That’s tough.’

‘It’s a goal, not something you have to do today,’ he said. ‘And physically, how’re you feeling?’

‘Sleeping better. Most nights I get around seven hours. The meds make me drowsy. And I’m eating better.’

‘Good.’

He looked at her in a curious way. ‘I know this is unprofessional, but I still can’t get accustomed to this very short hair of yours. You look completely different from when we first met.’

She touched the sides of her hair. ‘Good different or bad different?’

‘The contrast is stark. Much tougher than your old style.’

‘Well, I like it, and for a girl I don’t have to blow dry it. Wash and wear. Just like a man.’

He nodded. ‘You do seem to be doing a lot better.’

‘I am. Even bought enough food for a week. Really shocked the grocery lady. She made her sidekick, Ed, wheel it to my place in a trolley.’

‘That’s fantastic.’ He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, staring her straight in the eyes. ‘This doesn’t mean you stop taking the medication. I want you to stay at this dose for a while. We’ll review it of course, but let’s get a good period of stability going before even thinking of reducing it.’

Bea folded her arms around her body. ‘Okay.’

‘It’s important you understand that feeling better for a couple of weeks is not enough. When you start teaching again, you’ll be facing another set of challenges.’

‘I’ve been teaching for a while, you know.’

‘Yes, but these are early days of your recovery. In an ideal world I’d give you another month off before full-time work.’

‘I can cope.’

‘And you will cope. Just don’t fall into the trap of underestimating what you’ve been through and how fragile you still are.’ He wagged his finger in mock accusation. ‘Don’t start self-medicating. I’m the doctor.’

‘Promise. I won’t,’ she said in an exaggeratedly meek voice.

‘I don’t mean to sound like you’re on the naughty step. You’re doing great and we want to keep it that way.’

‘Yes, Doctor Payne.’

He pulled a face at her, rolling his eyes. ‘The things we doctors have to put up with.’

He was dressed in a casual blazer and was not wearing a tie. Bea liked the informality. It made him more accessible – like a real man she could have rather than a distant doctor.

‘Bea?’

‘Sorry, yes. You were asking?’

‘Are you going to the group therapy sessions?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Isn’t there one today?’

‘Yeah. I guess I should go. By bedtime I’ll be up to my eyeballs in analysis.’

‘Before you go I need to tell you about the next few weeks. I’ll be away for three weeks. There is another doctor if you need to see someone.’

‘Who is it? Anyone from St. Anthony’s?’

‘No. His name’s Dr. Wise. Josh Wise. Hopefully you won’t need to see him, and I’ll be back right after your semester starts. We can take it from there.’