The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (27 page)

28.

I
n the morning, on my way downstairs, I notice Rachel’s bedroom door open, a rare occurrence that allows a glimpse of the bombsite within. Her pretty room is overflowing with clothes, glasses, cups, books and dirty plates, scattered in random heaps. It’s partly my fault. I should be able to say no when she heads upstairs with her self-made dinners, lunches and breakfasts. I should be able to say no to a lot of things. But I’ve a problem getting the word out with Rachel. Her dad’s in hospital. I’m not her mum. She’s a landmine and I am a foot. But there’s no sign of her now so I pop in to rescue uneaten food at the pre-fungal stage.

From across the corridor, I hear the toilet flush and the door open. A heap of clothes under one arm, a stack of plates in one hand and four glasses in the other, I turn. She’s standing at the door looking like she’s ready to blow.

‘Get out of my room.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you dea
f
? I said, get out.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that, Rachel.’

‘Then don’t go into my room. It’s my room. You can’t just go in whenever you want.’

‘I was just bringing down your dirty plates and the clothes that needed washing.’

‘Did I ask you to?’

‘No. But if you don’t want me to come into your room, then please keep it tidy so I don’t have to.’

‘I’ll do what I like in my own room. It’s my room.’ The tilt of her head and hips say more than the words.

‘Rachel, honestly,’ I say, in what I hope is a reasonable tone.
‘How do you expect your clothes to get clean lying here on th
e floor?’

‘I’ll clean them. At least I
can
, without ruining everything.’

‘Fine, Rachel. Clean your own clothes. And leave your room whatever way you want. Just keep the door closed so I don’t have to look at it.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ she shouts. ‘You’re not my mother. You can’t make me do anything.’

‘I wish you could hear yourself, Rachel.’

‘I can. You’re the one who’s deaf.’

Now I know why Hansel and Gretel’s stepmother left them in the forest. I count to ten. In French.

‘Why won’t you just go away?’ she says, when I get to six.

‘And why won’t you be fair?’ My arms and fingers are aching. If I don’t put something down, it’ll all slip from my grip. I rest the glasses on my forearm. ‘All I was trying to do was help. All l’ve ever tried to do is help. And you’ve been nothing but ungrateful. You won’t eat my food. You insult my clothes. You complain about the mess the house is in, but never lift a finger to help.’

‘Look, nobody asked you to do anything.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. Your father asked me to look after you while he’s in hospital. If I had a choice, by God, I wouldn’t. Once upon a time, Rachel, I had a life. I don’t need this from you, day in, day out . . .’

‘So go.’

As soon as we arrive at this point, I realise it was her intended destination all along. I’ve just given her what she wanted, an admission that I don’t want to be here. Despite knowing that it’s too late, I try again. ‘Why can’t we be friends? Why can’t we get on? I only want what’s best for you and Toby.’

‘You just said you didn’t want us.’ She looks triumphant.

‘Rachel, what I meant to say was that it’s hard to enjoy looking after you when you’re being deliberately difficult. That’s all I meant to say. Actually, I didn’t even mean to say that.’

She doesn’t budge, standing there, arms firmly folded.

‘OK, you win,’ I exhale. ‘I’m going.’

I struggle down the stairs, my mind racing. How could I have said that? Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? She’s a child. Remember that, Lucy. A child. Remind yourself every time she scowls at you, every time she pushes your buttons. Or just face facts: you’re not cut out to be a parent – of any kind.

In the hall, Toby has the phone in his hand and is pressing the buttons. It melts my heart. I go to him, put down the glasses and plates, and let the clothes fall to the floor.

‘You all right, Tobes?’

He’s been chewing his sleeves. The cuffs are wet. Little holes have started to form, as if a family of moths has been on a picnic.

‘What’s Dad’s number?’

‘It’s a little early to ring the hospital, pet.’ And Greg’s worst time of day. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and help me make . . . a Slush Puppie.’ He loves Slush Puppies.

‘Can you
make
Slush Puppies?’

‘We can
try
.’

When Grace learned that no one at the hospital would tell me what was going on, she asked Karl to call and check on the patient’s
progress
.

‘It mightn’t be the most ethical route in the world,’ she said. ‘But fuck that.’

Now she arrives with news, the boys and lunch. Shane runs uninhibited into the house. Jason, on hands and knees, isn’t far behind. I catch Rachel looking down from the landing. Toby comes out from the kitchen.

‘Hi, guys!’

‘Hi, Toby,’ everyone replies, in various stages of language
development
.

‘Hey, Rachel, you coming down?’ calls Grace.

‘Yep,’ she says, all smiles.

‘Do you want to take Jase and Shane out the back to the swings?’ Grace asks her.

‘Sure.’ She picks up the baby. He looks at her, grins, then yanks her hair. She laughs. ‘OK, everyone, follow me.’

Grace and I watch them from the kitchen.

‘Remind me to ask you over more often,’ I say.

‘I invited myself, remember?’

‘Well, do it more often, then.’

We smile.

‘So,’ she says, all business suddenly. ‘As I expected, they’ve started him on lithium and an antidepressant.’

‘Oh, God. Hang on. Let me sit down for this.’

‘Sorry. Will I make tea?’

‘No, no. I’m fine now. Sorry.’

‘Right, well, you know that lithium stabilises mood?’

‘You told me.’

‘And it’s the standard treatment for bipolar disorder?’

I nod.

‘Right, OK. Well, they’ve also started him on an antidepressant, for the moment.’

‘How soon will it start working?’

‘It’ll take a week or two to build up in his system. They’re also going to try and involve him in group therapy. So far, they haven’t had much luck there.’

‘I’m not surprised. He won’t even talk to me.’

‘These would be general conversations, you know, like what’s in the newspapers.’

‘What good would that do?’

‘Get him out of his own head. But never mind that. They seem to be having some success on a one-to-one level. He’s been allocated one nurse as a main point of contact. Someone called Betty. He seems to be opening up to her. Hopefully, in time, she’ll be able to convince him to go along to psychotherapy – you know, group therapy, art therapy . . .’

‘Art therapy?’

‘Expressing yourself through art.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘At this stage, Lucy, Greg probably couldn’t care less. Hopefully, once the drugs kick in, and once he begins to trust Betty, he’ll get more involved.’

At that, the children burst into the kitchen looking for juice. Grace gets lidded beakers for her boys. Rachel takes over from there. We wait till they’ve gone. It takes a while; Rachel’s making a picnic.

‘When can he come off the drugs?’ I ask, when the door closes behind them.

‘Once he’s out of the depression, they’ll probably try weaning him off the antidepressant. The lithium is for life, Lucy.’

‘Life.’ Like a prison sentence.

‘For most people, yes.’

‘What’s most?’

‘Fifty to seventy per cent.’

‘What about the others?’

‘The lucky few who don’t relapse? They might try weaning them off after, say, five years. But I don’t want you to get your hopes up. For your own sake, you need to assume that Greg will be on it for life. But let’s not think about that now. At the moment, he’s in a very, very dark place. If he says anything hurtful, tell yourself that it’s the illness talking. Try not to take it personally.’

‘Easy to say.’

‘All the more reason for you to have your own life outside this. Your job. Your interests.’

‘Interests!’ I laugh.

‘I’m here, Lucy. You know that.’ She takes both my hands in hers. ‘You’ll get through this.’

I said something similar to Greg. Did he feel as hopeless,
hearing
it?

‘This doesn’t have to spell disaster. Lots of people lead fulfilled and happy lives with bipolar disorder.’

Happy and fulfilled. Not normal, though. Not normal.

Art therapy is my chance to get involved. Or so I think. When I suggest it to Betty, she has a different view.

‘Lucy, with all due respect, while Greg needs your support, he doesn’t need your involvement in his care. You’re not a therapist.’

‘I need to help.’

‘I understand that. But Greg has to be allowed to regain his strength at his own pace. If he had a broken leg, you wouldn’t rush him to hop out of bed and run around. Think of this in the same way. Greg’s in competent hands. You should be concentrating on your own health now. You need to keep your strength up – get plenty of sleep, fresh air and good food. Have you thought of joining a support group?’

‘So, there’s nothing I can actually do?’

‘Have you read those leaflets I gave you?’

‘Well, ah . . . Not yet.’

‘It would help you understand some of what Greg’s going through and why this takes time.’

And so it seems that everyone’s telling me the same thing – I have to let Greg fight his fight alone until he’s ready for me to join him. I’ll do it, then. But it doesn’t feel right.

On my way back from the hospital, I call in to see my parents.

Dad’s in the front garden.

‘Hi, Dad, is Mum in?’ I ask, walking past him.

He looks surprised. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah, fine. Is she inside?’

‘Kitchen,’ he says, trowel suspended mid-air.

In I go, a woman on a mission.

She’s at the sink, her back to me.

I lean against the worktop. ‘Mum?’

She turns, her rubber-gloved hands lifting out of the water. ‘Lucy! Is everything all right?’

Is it so weird I want to talk to my mother? ‘Everything’s fine, Mum . . . Can we sit down?’

Looking concerned, she starts to peel off the gloves. She sits at the table, looking at me with such an intense look of expectation, I have to smile.

‘I just wanted to say thanks for everything.’

She looks confused.

‘Everything you’ve ever done for me, every meal you’ve ever cooked, every pair of jeans you’ve ever washed. I mean it, thank you, Mum.’

Her face relaxes into a smile. ‘What’s brought this on? Did you have a bad day with the kids?’

I think of Rachel. ‘Was I
very
difficult?’

‘No, Lucy.’

‘I was, though, wasn’t I?’ I remember years of arguments.

‘No more than any other teenager, myself included.’ She smiles.

I can’t imagine her as a teenager. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’

‘How did you do it?’

‘Not perfectly, that’s for certain. I’ve made my mistakes, Lucy.
I pu
shed you too hard. So hard, I pushed you away.’