A Voice in the Distance (11 page)

'What are the other people like?' Jennah cuts in, an
edge to her voice. I notice she doesn't use the word
patients
. Clever Jennah. For a moment there you almost
made me forget I was locked up in a mental institution.

'Round the bend, just like me,' I reply. 'I'm in
excellent company. We'll be swapping suicide tips in no
time at all!' I give a harsh laugh.

There is a silence.

'Flynn, I'm going to go.'

My heart skips a beat. 'Jennah – wait – don't—'

Silence.

'Jennah?' I shout without meaning to. My voice
catches in my throat.

'I'm here.'

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the wall.
I can't speak.

'You're such a silly,' she says.

I hold my breath and press my hand against my eyes.

'I miss you so much, you know.'

I sink my teeth into the side of my thumb.

'Flynn, are you still there?'

'Mm.'

'Describe your surroundings to me,' she says. 'I want
to be able to close my eyes and see you.'

I cannot reply.

'Flynn?' she says softly. 'I'm looking at the moon. Can
you see it too?'

I drag my sleeve over my cheeks and heave for
breath.

'Oh, Flynn,' Jennah says.

There is another long silence during which I try
unsuccessfully to stem the tears.

'D'you want to call me back later?' Jennah asks.

'No,' I gasp.

'OK. Well then, shall I tell you about my day?'

''Kay.'

Jennah launches into a description of her train
journey up to Manchester, complete with wrong
platforms and missing tickets. I don't know if she is
elaborating just for my benefit, but I am grateful. I sit
there, the phone glued to my ear, clawing at my cheeks,
trying to pull myself together, a task not made any easier
by the sound of her voice.

'Jennah?' I say eventually.

'Yes?'

'Are you going to come and see me?'

'Of course I am. I'm going back to the flat on
Saturday night, and so I'll pack up some of your stuff
and take the train down on Sunday.'

Sunday is six days away. I won't survive.

'Jennah?'

'Yes?'

'I'm really sorry!'

'You don't need to be sorry. Just concentrate on
getting better. That's all I want, Flynn. Try your hardest,
my love, just try.'

* * *

Back in my bedroom, I turn off the light and lie on the
bed, staring up at my small barred window. If I close one
eye slightly, I think I can make out the moon.

My mother is doing my head in. I crumbled as soon as I
saw her and ended up telling her all about Flynn and
the bipolar disorder on our way back in the car. When
we got home, Alan went out to give us some space, and
Mum and I had dinner together and talked well into the
night. For once she just listened. I could see the shock
growing in her eyes, as well as the look of hurt that I had
kept so much from her. We went to bed in the small
hours of the morning and I slept for a very long time.
When I awoke, it was three in the afternoon and almost
dark again. But Mum looked as if she hadn't been to
bed at all. 'Just tell me one thing,' she said to me, her
voice low and scared. 'Has he ever been violent?'

I wasn't sure how to answer that question. I didn't
know if she meant violent towards me or just violent in
general. My hesitation was a big mistake.

She hasn't left the topic alone since. 'Bipolar disorder
is a very serious illness,' she informs me the
following morning as she sits in front of the computer
in her little makeshift office at the end of the kitchen.
'It says here that bipolar disorder tends to run in
families, and there is strong evidence that it is
inherited.'

God, she is so transparent.

'I'm not exactly trying to get pregnant,' I point out
acidly, pouring cereal into a bowl.

'And it says here that people with bipolar disorder
will spend as much as a quarter of their adult lives in
hospital, and a quarter of their adult lives disabled,'
Mum continues, ignoring me. 'Have you done any
research on the Internet? Some of these facts are really
quite sobering.'

I say nothing and pour milk forcefully into my bowl,
sloshing some onto the table.

'And did you know that one in five patients with
bipolar disorder actually succeeds in committing
suicide?' Mum asks, in a voice that would be more suited
to describing the weather.

'Oh for God's sake!' I slap my spoon down onto the
table.

Mum looks over at me, all bewildered and surprised.
'I just thought you might be interested to know, Jennah.
There seem to be an awful lot of websites about it. Shall
I print some of this out for you?'

'No!' I exclaim. 'God, what's the matter with you?'

She gives me a hurt look. 'I just want you to be
aware
.
For example, did you know that children of a parent
with bipolar have a thirty per cent chance of inheriting
the disorder?'

'Fine!' I snap. 'What are you trying to say? That I
should just break up with him?'

Mum gives me another of her pained looks, making
me feel like the unreasonable child that I am. 'No,' she
says quietly. 'I just want you to know what you're letting
yourself in for.'

'Well, thank you very much, now I know,' I retort.
'Can we talk about something else?'

'Of course we can. But, Jennah, I really think you
should do some research into this. There are a lot of
very good sites. This one here has a question and answer
section. Shall I print it out for you?'

'Mum, no!'

'Look, this is interesting,' she goes on as if she hasn't
heard me. 'It says here that lithium has a response rate
of only forty to fifty per cent.'

I take a deep breath to counteract the urge to
scream. 'Mum, please! Just stop it!'

'Jennah, I just—'

'Yes, yes, I know.' I cut her off at the pass. 'You just
want me to be aware. Well, guess what, I
am
aware! I do
have the Internet at home, you know!'

'Yes, but have you really thought about it? Have you
really thought about how this could affect the whole of
your future, the rest of your life?'

'Mum, as far as I know, Flynn hasn't proposed!'

'Yes, but can't you see the path you're on? You're
living
together now; it's not just some piddly school
thing. And the longer you're in this relationship, the
harder it's going to be to extract yourself, especially if he
has suicidal tendencies—'

'Oh my God!' I want to tear out my hair. I've tried
shouting, I wonder if crying would help. 'So what do you
want me to do?'

'I just want you to think!'

'I
have
thought!' I shout. 'I've thought and thought.
Basically, what it boils down to is that I have only two
options. To stay with him or to break up with him. Do
you agree?'

'Jennah, you really—'

'Can you see a third option?' I shout. 'What's the
third option then? Tell me, tell me!'

'Jennah, stop being so belligerent.' Mum is pulling
her downtrodden-mother act now. I want to hit her.

I try to lower my voice a fraction. 'Mum, really, I
would love to hear a third option. Please tell me what it
is.'

'Well, I don't really think there is one.'

'Thank you,' I say angrily. 'So out of the two available
options – stay with him or break up with him – which
one do you think I should choose?'

'Well, if you put it like that' – Mum refuses to be
mollified – 'I suppose I would say you have to think of
yourself, of your future, of what you want. If someday
you might want a family—'

'So basically you're saying I should break up with
him.'

'Well, not necessarily.' She tries to back out.

'So you're saying I should stay with him then?' I goad
her.

'No!' she exclaims vehemently. 'Not unless you're
prepared to live like this – with suicide attempts and
hospitalizations and the risk of having children with the
same illness and going through the whole cycle again
with them.'

I knead my head in exasperation. 'Mum, stop beating
about the bush. You're basically saying I should break
up with him, aren't you?'

Mum gives me a long look. 'I just want my daughter
to be happy,' she says quietly. 'I want her to have a
partner who is stable and able to hold down a job
and provide her with the emotional security and
companionship that I never had.'

I drop my head onto my folded arms. In her own
infuriating way, she has given me her answer.

On Saturday I take the train back to London, armed
with a sheaf of Internet printouts, courtesy of my
mother. I figured it was easier to just take them than to
argue. When I get back to the flat and unpack my rucksack,
I stuff the wad of pages into a drawer without even
glancing at them. It's not as if I haven't looked up this
stuff already. But I refuse to reduce my relationship with
Flynn to a list of statistics and start playing devil's
advocate. We just don't know what is going to happen in
the future, no matter what the statisticians have to say.

I grab a holdall from the top of the wardrobe and
start gathering some of Flynn's things together. I can't
find any clean jeans so I put a wash on. I find myself
packing the bag with the care of a mother sending her
child to holiday camp. I look around the flat to see what
else he might need. Some books, his iPod, his mobile
phone charger, the Rachmaninov score he is working
on at the moment. Rami has already been by to pick up
the laptop and the keyboard. I feel as if I should bake –
something homemade, something personal. Only
problem is, I'm not much of a cook. I pick up the phone
and dial Harry's number to ask if he's got a recipe. He
says he'll drive round and bring me his cookbook. While
I am waiting for him to arrive, I pop out to the supermarket
and do a quick shop.

Harry arrives while I am putting the food away. He
gives me a hug and says, 'Happy New Year.'

'Well, it can only get better,' I say with a wry smile.

I leaf through Harry's cookbook and choose a recipe
for brownies that doesn't look too labour-intensive.
Harry tells me about his Christmas with Kate and her
family while I crack eggs into a bowl. He then asks me
more about Flynn's hospitalization and I fill him in. He
looks grave. 'So I guess the lithium's just not working for
him any more.'

'Well, according to my mother, lithium only works for
forty per cent of sufferers,' I reply.

Harry winces. 'You told her?'

'Had to.'

'What was the reaction?'

'Not good. She's as worried as hell. Tried to scare me
off with the hundred and one most depressing facts
about bipolar disorder. I think she's terrified he's going
to turn out to be a violent bastard like my father was.'

Harry gives me a look. 'And what do you think?'

'I don't know.' For a moment I am at a loss. 'I don't
want to break up with him. I love him. It seems so
stupid, to finally find someone who you really care
about, only to let them go.' I look at him. 'Would you
break up with Kate if she had a mental illness?'

Harry hesitates. 'I would like to think not,' he says.
'But the reality – the reality could be different. I mean,
living with the illness on a day-to-day basis . . .' He tapers
off. 'But God, Jen, if you broke up with him—' He stops
suddenly.

'What?' I demand, sifting flour into a bowl.

Harry looks uneasy. 'He would – well, it would be
hard on him, that's all.'

'It would be hard on me too,' I point out.

'Yeah, but Flynn's – you know – artistic temperament
and all that.'

'I'm not going to break up with him,' I say. 'I don't
want to break up with him. I love him. That's all that
really matters.'

Harry looks relieved. 'Yeah. You two will find a way
through all this, I'm sure.'

The following afternoon, after an hour's train ride and
a fifteen-minute taxi ride, I arrive outside the huge
white-pillared hospital and walk up the gravel driveway.
At the reception desk I am asked to sign in, then I'm
given a sticky label to wear. I sit on a posh upholstered
sofa in a pleasant waiting room overlooking the lawns.
The receptionist makes a phone call, and a few minutes
later a middle-aged guy with a goatee and an earring
comes in.

'Hi, I'm Ash,' he says. 'You're here to see Flynn
Laukonen?'

'Yes.' I stand up quickly.

'OK, well, I can take you up, although I should warn
you that Flynn's not very well at the moment.'

I stare at him. What the hell does he mean?

'Can I see him?' I ask, my heart beginning to pound.

'Of course,' Ash replies. He turns and leads me up
several staircases and along various corridors. The doors
at the end of each corridor are thick and heavy and
opened with a swipe card.

At the end of a particularly noisy corridor, Ash stops
in a doorway. 'Flynn, your friend is here to see you.' He
has to shout to make himself heard. The sound of the
television, music and laughter erupt from within. Ash
steps back. 'Go on through,' he says to me. 'I'll be in the
nurses' station at the end of the corridor if you need to
have a word.'

Ash departs and I enter the room. It is a small
common room with low-slung chairs, a coffee table, a
threadbare brown carpet and a television. Half a dozen
people are sitting around, some on the chairs, others on
the floor. One woman is a punk, with heavily tattooed
arms and piercings on various parts of her face. One guy
has acne-ridden skin and gazes out from behind a
curtain of greasy hair. Flynn is sitting on the arm of the
sofa, strumming a guitar. I stand in shock.

'Hey!' The greasy-haired boy is the first to notice me.
'Are you an agency nurse? What's your name?'

Flynn looks up and practically drops his guitar. 'Holy
shit!' he exclaims loudly.

I can feel my heart.

'What? What's going on? Who the hell is she?' Punk
Lady asks, turning from the television.

Flynn throws down the guitar and leaps up. 'Hey,
look, everyone, this is Jennah! The wonderful, beautiful,
incredibly talented Jennah!' He grabs me by the waist
and swings me around. 'I told you she'd come, didn't I?
Didn't I? You didn't believe me, Stu, you arsehole.' He
lets go of me abruptly and starts to pummel the boy with
the hair.

I stumble back, my face hot with embarrassment.

'Hey, you weren't lying, Piano Boy!' someone shouts.
'She
is
pretty!'

I feel like I'm going to pass out. I try and back out of
the door but Flynn grabs me by the arm. 'Jennah,
Jennah, meet Stu and Nina and Roz and Naz and
Dino!'

'Hi.' I give them a quick smile and try to drag Flynn
out into the corridor after me, but he resists, strongly.
'Wait, wait, where are you going? We want to show you
what we're doing! Can you guess what we're doing? Can
you? Can you?' The colour is high in his cheeks. His eyes
are alight.

'Flynn,' I whisper desperately. 'Let's just go somewhere
quiet where we can talk . . .'

He ignores me and drags me back into the room by
my arm. 'OK, Jennah, sit down, sit down. Stu, get off
that bloody chair, you oaf, and let her sit down.' He
grabs the guitar. 'OK. Ready? Ready? Naz, are you
paying attention?' He clicks his fingers repeatedly in
front of the poor girl's face, then begins to strum the
guitar. There are a few embarrassed titters from
the others, but Flynn stares them down and counts them
in. People start singing. Oh, dear God. Someone is playing
the recorder. Another has some kind of African
drum. Long Hair and Punk Lady are doing a two-part
harmony in diminished fifths. I feel like I'm in some
kind of shock. I am gripped by a frantic desire to burst
into wild fits of laughter.

'Noooo!' Flynn suddenly throws down the guitar,
making everyone jump. 'Nina, you were meant to go up
a third on that last chord – and then, Dino, you come in
with
ta-da-da-da
on the second beat of the last bar! Never
mind – now Jennah's here we can have a real soprano
for the middle section.'

I get up. 'That was really cool, guys. Thanks for the
entertainment.' I smile politely and walk rapidly out of
the room.

I head along the corridor looking for the nurses'
station, my heart racing. I hear a door crash open
behind me and the sound of running footsteps charging
up behind, and I instinctively shrink against the wall to
let the person past. But it's Flynn, grabbing me by the
shoulders, whirling me round to face him. 'Jen! Jen!
You've gotta come back, we need you for the three-part
harmony!' He is flushed and sweaty and his eyes are
wild.