The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (40 page)

43.

W
e make a discovery: there isn’t a lot you can do with children in the space of two hours, at six in the evening. There isn’t enough time for a movie, once you travel there and back. We would take them for something to eat if they didn’t always arrive just after their dinner. They’re too tired to do anything energetic. And, anyway, though it’s almost May, there’s still a chill in the air.

Staying in brings its own problems. It reminds us of what’s
happening
. Access visits. Conversations. Pressure to talk. We want to have fun for the time we’re together, to relax, enjoy ourselves and forget that we’ll be separating in two hours.

Soon, we find a solution. Rob invites visitors. Nobody said he can’t have guests while the access visits are taking place. First to come are my parents, who are so ecstatic to see the children that they almost suffocate them. Mum brings new stitching things for Rachel and gives her a tapestry lesson. Dad brings a few bits and pieces that need fixing. Wouldn’t surprise me if he broke them deliberately. The children finally manage to lose themselves for two hours.

Grace and the children visit next. So happy is Toby to see Shane and Jason that he calls them his cousins: ‘Look, my cousins are here.’

Within a week, we receive a call from Freda. She wants to make an appointment with the psychiatrist responsible for the Secti
on 4
7 Report. He wants to interview the two of us separately. We opt for the earliest possible date. The psychiatrist, a Dr Bowman, also wants to attend one of the access visits. We delay that by a week, hopi
ng th
at the children will be more comfortable with the visits by then. Rachel still has difficult moments.

There’s nothing fancy about Dr Bowman’s waiting room. Straight-back chairs line the walls. A table displays a few outdated magazines. The curtains are faded. Greg and I sit side by side. His appointment is first. The psychiatrist sticks his head around the door and calls Greg’s name. I squeeze his hand to wish him luck.

Alone in the waiting room, I switch off my phone. I pick up a magazine. I look at the pictures, nothing registering. I get up and walk to the window.

I tell the secretary I’m popping out for a few minutes.

I walk the length of the street, trying to prepare answers to imaginary questions. I vomit. In public. Again.

I’m back in the waiting room, standing by the window, when the door opens and Greg emerges. I can’t ask how it went, because Dr Bowman is right behind him. He introduces himself and leads me into his office.

Two armchairs face each other. There’s a notepad and pen resting on one. He offers me the other.

I sit. Then become aware of my arms. I unfold them in case he thinks me defensive.

‘This must be a difficult time for you,’ he says.

I nod.

‘Well, I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.’ He smiles.

I can’t seem to manage one. ‘Thank you.’

‘So, it must have been quite a shock when you realised that the children’s grandparents wanted custody?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you feel about it?’

‘Initially, I couldn’t believe it. I thought it must have been a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Greg’s an amazing father. He’d never do anything to hurt Rachel or Toby. Never. It seemed incredible that just because he had a medical condition, that gave them the right to take his children from him. I didn’t think something like that could happen in this country. Not today.’

‘So, he didn’t drive down the side of a mountain and put your lives in danger?’

I gather myself. ‘Yes, he did. I’m not denying that. But that happened before Greg was diagnosed, before he was on medication. That was almost two years ago. He takes his lithium. His condition is well-controlled now. We lead a normal, healthy life. He has never had a relapse. Not once. He is a good father, a great father.’

‘So, how do you think he ended up in this situation?’

Painless, my arse.
‘Greg wrote a book that he believed would help people. He spoke publicly about his experience to encourage others to get help and to stress how important it is to stay on
lithium
. He didn’t go on record as saying he was dangerous. He put it in context. He said, “This is what happened to me. And this is what I’m doing about it. And everything’s OK now.” He was open and honest about being bipolar, and some people are just too naturally fearful to try to understand what that means.’

‘Do you think that writing the book was a mistake?’

‘No. I don’t. It would be so easy to blame the book. But that book needed to be written. For so many reasons. So Greg could stop hiding, so he could move on and start writing again, so I cou
ld un
derstand. It wasn’t meant for publication. But I thought it would help other people. I thought it would ease the stigma of mental illness. Greg’s mother, who’d personally gained a lot from it, also urged him to publish it. He did it against his better judgement. He regrets it. I don’t. Writing that book was good for us, and I’m sure it was good for a lot of people who read it. We just should hav
e ex
plained to Ben and Ruth about Greg’s condition before it was published. That was our mistake.’

‘Do you think it would have made a difference?’

That makes me stop. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always assumed it would have. But maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe they’d never have understood.’

‘Do you think they’re narrow-minded?’

‘I’m not saying that. Just that they haven’t tried to understand. They could have called us up. We could have talked about it. Bu
t th
ey didn’t. They just came in, all guns blazing.’

‘But, surely, they must have a genuine belief that the children are in danger? What about Greg’s suicide plans?’

‘Plan, singular. One plan. No attempt. And now just a bad memory of a time before medication. Not a good enough reason to take his children from him.’

‘Did Greg tell you he was planning suicide?’

‘No.’

He writes something. I’m losing this. What can I say to convince him that the problem is with them, not Greg? ‘Look, Greg’s never been good enough for them, bipolar or not.’

‘I’m sorry?’ He looks up.

‘He’s never been good enough for Ben. He didn’t have the right background, didn’t go to the right school.’ I hesitate before saying, ‘They blame him for killing their daughter.’

‘Could you explain that last comment?’

‘Catherine, Greg’s wife, died when she was having Toby. They blame Greg for her becoming pregnant.’

‘They said that?’

‘Well, no.’
Shit.
‘But they can’t look him in the face. Rachel and Toby are their only link to their daughter, and nothing Greg does will ever be good enough for them.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘They have unrealistic expectations, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘I see.’

‘Greg would never do anything to hurt Rachel or Toby. If you knew him, you’d know that. He would never plan a suicide that would expose the children to it. When he was ten, his father killed himself. Greg found him. Believe me, there is no way he would do that to his children. No way. You have no idea how much he loves his kids.’

His pen is racing across the page. I wish I could take the words back, words that have just confirmed that he had suicidal tendencies despite witnessing his father’s suicide. I wish I hadn’t been included in that court order. In trying to save Greg, I’m sinking him.

‘Look. I know I’m making a mess of this. I don’t know what to say, here. Greg’s a great father. Being bipolar doesn’t change that. He loves his children, and they love him. He’s a better parent than I’ll ever be. You’re a psychiatrist. You know. It’s just an illness. Greg takes his medication. He is totally committed to staying healthy. He loves h
is fa
mily. The children mean everything to him. They lost their mother. Please, don’t let them lose their father.’
Oh God, don’t make me cry.

‘Would you like to stop for a while?’ he asks, offering me a hankie from a box on his desk.

‘I’m sorry. This is so hard, so stressful. I’m not myself.’

‘I understand,’ he says, but adds, ‘It must be difficult coping with bipolar disorder and children from another marriage.’

‘They might not be my children, but I love Rachel and Toby as if they were. You know,’ I say, my voice high, ‘everything was going so well. Everything had settled. We’d just become a proper family. Then this.’

I say nothing about Hilary. I can’t see how it would help. It would just sound like some mad conspiracy theory. And, anyway, talking about her would only make her more important. He might interview her. And who knows what she’d say?

Finally, the session ends. I feel like crawling out. But there’s no time for crawling – or anything else. We have to be at Rob’s in forty minutes. If we’re late, Ben could use it against us.

In the car, I let my head fall into my hands. ‘Oh, Greg. I’ve blown it. I was too honest.’

We go through what I said.

‘Lucy, that was fine. The only thing I wouldn’t have mentioned was Ben not liking me because of my background. His background and Ben’s are probably the same.’

I groan.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘No, you’re right. I sounded paranoid. When I told him they blame you for Catherine’s death, he asked me if they ever said anything. I had to say no.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up, Lucy. He has access to all my medical records. Whatever isn’t in the book or the recording of the radio interview is in the records. He has access to anything he wants. He knows everything anyway. If you’d wanted to hide anything, you couldn’t have.’

‘This is all my fault. I should never have encouraged you to write that stupid book.’

‘No.’ He puts a hand on my leg. ‘You loved me enough to get me to write it. And I wrote it out of love for you. It’s a pure thing. I’ve stopped blaming it. We’ll get Rachel and Toby back. We will. That’s all there is to it.’

44.

D
ays pass, but it feels like a whole season. Daisies, dandelions, buttercups and clover erupt from long, lush grass. The horse chestnut tree outside the house bursts into leaf as though someone has waved a magic wand. New ivy leaves on the back of the house are soft and glossy.

Grace calls round one evening and says to my husband, ‘I’m taking her out.’

‘Good,’ Greg says. ‘She could do with it.’

She takes my hand and pulls me away from the new game I’m stuffing into an envelope for Toby.

‘Greg, can you finish this, please?’ she asks.

‘Yep. Go. Go, go, go.’

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, in the car.

‘We’re going to have a chat. And a walk.’

She drives to Killiney Hill. The evening is stretching out, heralding long days ahead.

‘Right, let’s go,’ she says. ‘Nothing like a bit of fresh air to clear the cobwebs.’

‘Slow down. What’s your hurry?’

She stops and waits. ‘Sorry.’

We fall into step. Sunlight dapples the forest floor where ferns are beginning to unfurl. I love the way they tend this place, nurturing nature, taming it in places, but mostly letting it be. I breathe it in, logging the memory for later. I circle my shoulders, stretch my arms. Everything feels so stiff. But it’s good to be out.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, just stressed.’

‘You should eat, you know.’

‘No point. Nothing stays down.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. Stress? The slightest thing has me throwing up. This is killing us, Grace.’

‘Lucy, you shouldn’t be vomiting. No matter how stressed. Loss of appetite? Yes. Diarrhoea? Yes. But not vomiting. How long has this been going on?’

‘Since the court case.’

‘But that’s, what, three weeks ago? You must be exhausted.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘You’re out of breath. Do you want to sit down?’

‘Yeah.’ We’ve reached a bench on the side of the hill where the trees fall away below us, down to the sea. The water sparkles and th
e w
aves roll onto Killiney Beach.

‘When was your last period?’ she asks.

‘Do you have to be so direct?’

‘Yes. So, when?’

‘I don’t know. It hasn’t exactly been top of my agenda.’

‘Think back.’

I sigh. Shrug. All I know is that it hasn’t been another thing to worry about since this all began. Then, I look at her, with sudden realisation. ‘It’s been over six weeks.’

‘You’re pregnant, Lucy.’

‘You can tell by looking at me, can you?’ I don’t need this. Not now. Not in the middle of a custody battle. ‘Stress can make your periods stop, can’t it? Weight loss can. I’m about as stressed as a person can be, and I’ve lost tons of weight. I’m not pregnant.’

‘What’s the big deal if you are?’

‘Are you kidding? It would be disastrous. To announce that a baby’s on the way, now of all times, when Greg’s children have been taken from us. What would they think? That we’re replacing them? That we planned it? That we’re getting on with life without the
m? I
mean, having a baby at any time would be difficult, given that it would be our first child together and Rachel and Toby might feel left out. And it’s not just the children. It’s Greg. Childbirth killed
Catherine
. Like he’d really want to hear I was pregnant now. It would be a disaster. You’re wrong, Grace. I’m not pregnant. I’m stressed.’

‘Stress doesn’t lead to vomiting. And look at you, you’re as white as a sheet.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘You’re probably anaemic.’

As usual, Grace is right. After a week of denial, I finally take the test she insisted on buying in a late-night pharmacy on the way home from Killiney. I should be happy. I should be ecstatic. A new life. A little person Greg and I have created together. Instead, I’m
terrified
. I can’t tell him. Not now. When I place my palm against my stomach it feels the same. I’ll take another test.

Dr Bowman arrives at Rob’s before the children. We offer tea, coffee. He declines. I’m about to comment on the weather, but everyone knows I couldn’t care less. He asks Greg where he gets the plots for his Cooper books.

The doorbell rings. Greg and I both jump up. I laugh and go to sit back down, but Greg takes my hand, and we go to the door together.

On his way in, Toby trips. He comes down hard on his knees and starts to cry. We rush to comfort him. He wants Rachel.

Dr Bowman has come into the hall. He’s standing quietly, observing the scene.

Rob and I go in search of plasters. Good old Rob, making his presence felt, careful to ensure that his role as supervisor can’t be questioned.

The incident sets the tone for the visit: Toby sniffling, bad form; Rachel comforting; Greg and I trying too hard to distract Toby. We sound unnatural, on edge. So much depends on this. Everything.

‘Where are Joe and Eileen?’ asks Toby. My parents.

‘They couldn’t come today because Dr Bowman’s here.’

Toby frowns at Dr Bowman.

‘What about Shane and Jase?’ Toby asks me.

‘Not today, Tobes. Tomorrow, OK?’

‘Who’s he looking for?’ Dr Bowman quietly asks Greg.

‘Lucy’s family. They’re close.’

He nods. Says nothing. Then he asks, ‘Do you often have other people attend the access visits?’

Shit.

‘Just Lucy’s parents, her sister and her kids, occasionally. The distraction helps Rachel and Toby relax and forget that they’ll have to go back in two hours.’

Dr Bowman takes notes.

I imagine them: ‘Parents uncomfortable being alone with
children
.’

The weeks crawl by. Finally, there are only days to go. And still there’s no sign of the report.

‘It
is
unusual,’ Freda admits when I call her. ‘I’ll contact his office.’

It turns out that Dr Bowman is off sick. And has been for two weeks.

‘Oh God. They’re not going to postpone it again, are they?’ I ask.

‘His secretary insists that the report will be ready on time.’

‘But what if she’s wrong?’

‘Let’s sit tight for now.’

On the eve of the court date, we’re still ‘sitting tight’. I’m in Get Smart trying to distract myself with work. It’s no good. I go in to Fint. He hands me
another
granola bar, the only thing I seem to be able to keep down.

‘If you lose any more weight, I’ll have to start force feeding
you.’

I smile. ‘You already are.’

He grows serious. ‘How’s Greg holding up?’

‘Honestly? I’m afraid to look at him.’

He points at me. ‘If that psychiatrist says anything other than that Rachel and Toby should come home, he’s the one who needs his head examined.’

I circle his office chewing my fingers instead of granola.

He opens his box of juggling balls. ‘Here. Have these.’

‘I can’t juggle.’

‘Learn.’

And then it’s tomorrow and we’re heading into court. Knowing that it’s going to be postponed. Twenty minutes into the drive, Greg has to stop as, once again, I make my mark on the streets of Dublin.

‘Lucy, you need a doctor. This can’t go on. You have to get this checked out.’

‘I’m fine. It’s just nerves. Have we time to stop for mints?’

‘Of course, but maybe a pharmacy—’

‘I’m going to call Freda.’

‘OK.’

Freda is also en route. ‘I’m expecting it to arrive by courier at the courthouse,’ she says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her sounding frazzled.

Does this, albeit sick, man know what he’s doing to us?

Outside the courtroom, our barrister, Jonathan Keane, looks impatiently at Freda.

She shakes her head. ‘I thought it would be here.’

‘Feck,’ he says.

All I can think is,
What will we tell the children?

And then we have to go in. Our case is almost up.

I sit beside Greg on a hard, wooden bench, trying not to look at Ben and Ruth with their raised chins and stiff upper lips. Instead,
I fo
cus on the judge who sits up there, day after day, deciding people’s lives. He does it without blinking, without – apparently –
feeling
. And that is probably the only way to do it without losing your sanity.