Addition (18 page)
It’s as if little Seamus is right there in front of me, standing to the left of the bed. I can see him now. He is four years old. He has brown hair and devoted eyes. I can see the cast on his right arm, and the shadow of a black eye from fighting. This boy risks everything to defend his sister. He was a rescuer before he met me.
Seamus falls asleep resting on my shoulder. My arm is around him, and I hold him a little tighter after hearing about his fall. When he was a small child, Nikola’s brother Dane was killed in an accident. A fall from a horse. Nikola always blamed himself and perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps he upset the horse, making him shy and rear. Nikola never recovered from his brother’s death. He always said Dane was the talented one, the exceptional one, and that he spent his whole life working to ease his parents’ loss.
Nikola’s new project was to become the pinnacle of his life. He bought farmland on Long Island and named it Wardenclyffe. He commissioned an architect to design an enormous octagonal wood and brick tower almost 200 feet tall, with a roof like a giant copper cap 100 feet across. The projected cost was astronomical, but Nikola wasn’t fazed. He had Morgan’s money, and his patronage. Nothing could go wrong.
When my lids grow heavy I roll Seamus on to his side and snuggle up behind him. As I fall asleep I dream of all the empty parts of my body. I dream of the chambers of my heart between pulses and my bladder and my throat and the hollows of my ears and my nose. The tiny empty bubbles of my lungs. I dream that these join together with my empty uterus and fill all of me, so that 4 millimetres under my skin I am entirely hollow. In my dream I have always been hollow but I didn’t realise it until now.
Nothing can go wrong with my therapy. The professor and Francine are trying so hard it would be churlish of me not to change.
After a few days on the medication I develop the weirdest sensation of having two brains—one in charge of abstract thoughts and concepts and the other in charge of my body. If I want to walk or scratch my nose, my two brains have to sit down together in the crimson-upholstered room that is my actual brain and discuss it. They sit facing each other across a large walnut desk. The abstract brain, who is very polite, asks the practical brain if she would very much mind moving my leg. And the physical brain, similarly charming and eager to please, is delighted to assist. Luckily they are fast talkers, so my leg can do its thing in a fraction of a second. No one even knows about the delay except us three.
And the medication is working. I don’t feel like counting. I can barely find any numbers in the crimson-upholstered room, either on the desk or around the chairs. Unless there are cupboards in there, hidden behind the upholstery. If my two brains know where the numbers are, they aren’t telling.
Francine takes cognitive behavioural therapy too. The day of my first session I have a splitting headache like my two brains have decided they never really liked each other after all and have dropped any semblance of politeness and instead begun attacking each other and the crimson-upholstered room with chainsaws. I think the fight is about who is more abstract and who is more practical. What a pair of juvenile half-brains.
Francine speaks like a children’s television host, her soggy hair ebbing as her head flops with sympathy. I half expect a glove puppet to pop up beside her, calling her Miss Francine and suggesting she read us a story. I had been forewarned about cognitive behavioural therapy. A few days before Gemma had pulled me aside and told me about her first individual session in hushed tones, how she was shepherded to the clinic toilet and forced to watch Francine dip an apple in the toilet bowl and then eat it.
The Germphobics have two theories about Francine. The first is that anyone who eats dinner at her house is making a grave error. The second is that, because Francine has obviously done this before with similar groups of right-thinking, clean-living people, she has built up immunity to toilet-bowl germs over time. Francine indulged in apple
à la toilette
for nothing; the Germphobics remain convinced that this little experiment would kill a normal person.
My behavioural therapy is more challenging. In my personal equivalent of apple dunking, Francine puts me in circumstances where it’s almost impossible not to count. She deals playing cards in front of me, face up. She arranges coins and buttons and matchsticks in piles and pyramids. She asks me to bring in my Cuisenaire rods and she spreads them in front of me and together we make little patterns. She is vigilant in checking for any tapping of foot or clicking of tongue or moving of lip, but truthfully I’m not in the mood.
Francine says that, when I’m ready, I should throw the rods away. They devised this, Francine and Professor Professor together, as a symbol of my new non-counting state because it’s so much harder to control my thoughts than the Germphobics’ behaviours.
So just like that, one Wednesday a few weeks after my sessions began, I stand up from behind Francine’s desk. I walk to the wastepaper bin in the corner. I drop them in. I could have done something more flamboyant. I’m sure, the way I used to think, I could have organised a ceremonial burning or discarded one rod a day to signify my healthy staircase. But in the end it seems childish to have held on to that tired plastic box with its wooden sticks. They were so old, the box even had a crack down one side. The rods were faded and the paint was thinning on the edges. After I bin them I go home and watch TV.
Eventually it will all have to go, they say: the numbers written on my cupboards and drawers, my notebook, the clocks. Removing these things will prove that I finally understand the harm numbers did me. That they are the source of my distress. Then Francine will help me get a part-time job.
Seamus stays over often, and I love it. He’s earning that spot on the top of my support list. He even reminds me to take my medication. One weekend Seamus and I wear our oldest clothes (although I can’t tell the difference because he still wears faded jeans and a polo shirt), move all the furniture, cover everything with drop cloths and paint out the numbers on the walls. We paint everything plain white. He chose it. I couldn’t be bothered picking a colour. I don’t count the brush strokes. As we paint the brains chat with Seamus.
Seamus:
Where are your rods?
Brain One:
My what?
Seamus:
Your Cuisenaire rods. They’re usually right here on the bedside table.
Brain Two:
What did happen to those?
Brain One:
I threw them out.
Seamus:
Really? You threw them out? You’ve had them since you were, what, eight?
Brain Two:
Ish.
Brain One:
Or thereabouts.
Seamus:
Why on earth did you throw them out?
Brain Two:
Yes, why?
Brain One:
Francine told me to. Plus, I was over them.
Seamus:
God, they made you do that? That’s a bit rough.
Brain Two
: You’re telling me. We’re going to regret losing them for the rest of our life.
Brain One
: Speak for yourself. Onward and upward, I say. Take no prisoners.
Seamus
: You’ve been working so hard on this, Grace. I know it’s not easy, these early stages. I know you’re tired and you have trouble concentrating, but you need to be patient. We both do. Tell you what, when you finish the therapy, let’s take a holiday.
Brain Two:
A holiday? That would be terrific.
Brain One:
Terrific, terrific. Where would we go?
Seamus:
Anywhere you want. Just lie on a beach if you want. Or somewhere more exciting.
Brain One:
Lie on a beach! Lie on a beach!
Brain Two:
Somewhere more exciting! Somewhere more exciting!
Brain One:
We’ll give it some thought.
Seamus:
We?
Brain One:
You. And me.
This is exactly the life I want. I want to take holidays and be with Seamus and live a normal life. I don’t mind the loss of these pointless things: ink on paper and walls, bits of wood. I am enormously improved and delighted with my two brains. It is infinitely more sensible having two. Perhaps, a few short weeks ago at the beginning of my therapy, I was possibly a bit harsh towards the professor and Francine and the Germphobics. Possibly I’ve been a tad unkind towards people in general, but now my brains and I are suffused with a gentler, live-and-let-live philosophy. I begin to have longer conversations with my mother, and she totally fails to irritate me.
One Sunday night she rings me as usual. I’m not exactly sure what time it is.
Mother:
So how are you, dear?
Brain One:
You answer.
Brain Two:
No, you answer.
Brain One:
Fine. Thanks.
Mother:
Jill says you have a boyfriend.
Brain One:
Yes. He’s Irish.
Mother:
That’s wonderful, dear. He’s not in that IRA, is he? I’ve seen them on Sixty Minutes. They seem nice boys but they’re not. Is he a comedian?
Brain One:
Is who a comedian? Who is she talking about?
Brain Two:
She’s talking about Seamus.
Brain One:
Oh! No, he’s not a comedian. He’s not in the IRA either.
Mother:
Because it seems that every second comedian on television these days is Irish. How do they all get visas, do you think? Imagine how much funnier they would be if you could work out what they were actually saying. They’re absolutely incoherent, but very funny. Very funny people, the Irish. Except the IRA of course. They’re not funny at all. Why are there no Russian comedians, do you think?
Now that my mother is making sense it’s much easier to have a conversation with her. I wonder if she’s on medication. If she is, it’s a blessing. Straight after mother hangs up, Jill phones. She’s also a lot less irritable. Perhaps she’s feeling more relaxed. It must be stressful having children.
Jill:
Hello, Gracie. How are you feeling?
Brain One:
Good.
Brain Two:
Fine.
Jill:
I’m calling about the patchwork quilt.
Brain Two:
What’s a patchwork quilt?
Brain One:
I know, I know! Let me handle this.
Jill:
Grace? Grace, are you there?
Brain One:
Yes. I’m here. I know about the patchwork quilt.
Jill:
How could you possibly know? I only found out myself today.
Brain One:
You only found out today? They’ve been making them for years. What happens is, all the left over little bits of material after you make a dress, instead of throwing them away…
Jill:
Grace, please. You are very amusing but I have a million things to do today and…I’m calling about the raffle.
Brain Two:
I know, I know! Let me answer. You stuffed up the quilt answer.
Brain One:
Unkind and unfair. I told you I’m handling this. Will you please sit us down? Our legs are tired. Now, what raffle?
Jill:
The raffle you bought the tickets in when you went to the recital last month.
Brain One:
Tickets?
Brain Two:
Recital?
Brain One:
I don’t think I went to a receptacle last month.
Jill:
Recital! It was a recital, and Hilary was playing the violin! When Harry and I were in China. And you did go, you and Seamus and…Oh for heaven’s sake. You’ve won first prize: a patchwork quilt. Do you want it or not?
Brain Two:
Say yes! Say yes! I want a quill! I want a quill!
Brain One:
Yes. Thank you.
Jill:
Right. I’ll drop it over on my way home from pilates.
Which astonishes me because I didn’t realise she was taking flying lessons. Still, she’s so busy and she does such a wonderful job raising those adorable children, surely she’s allowed to do anything she wants in her spare time. She’s always been such a wonderful sister to me.
In fact, the next day she drops around for a visit and gives me this fabulous bedspread made up of heaps of beautiful little squares of material sewn together. By hand. And it isn’t even my birthday.
The only problem is that, since I’ve been taking the pills, I’m not entirely sure exactly how long it’s been now, Seamus and I haven’t been making love. As often. Or at all. It’s not that I don’t want to, but I haven’t been in the mood. He’s been wonderful, absolutely wonderful. He holds me and says he understands and it’s because my chemistry is having a shake-up. Brain One is incredibly relieved, but Brain Two is a bit shitty. Which is unreasonable because it’s all Brain Two’s fault. When he touches me it takes a while for Brain Two to tell Brain One that he’s touched me. For instance, when Seamus puts his hand on my left breast, Brain Two feels it. Brain Two then says to Brain One: He’s put his hand on our left breast. Brain One says: Really? Are you sure? Brain Two says: Almost positive. Brain One then says: Great! I really like it when he does that. So there’s a delay while they chat about it. There’s a lot of pressure. And there’s one other teeny problem. I can’t orgasm anymore.
I used to be very good at orgasms. Fast and efficient since my adolescence because at any moment my mother could walk into my room without knocking. But now it’s like I’m hiking towards a mountain in the distance and I can see it very clearly, its trees and crevices and snow-capped peak, but no matter how fast I walk the mountain always seems a little bit farther away and I walk faster but now it’s even farther away and I start running but it never comes any closer until I get bored and I stop. And then I have a chocolate biscuit. Luckily Seamus doesn’t seem to mind. At all. In fact, we hardly ever go to bed at the same time any more. Most nights he stays up late and watches TV. I don’t even hear him come to bed.
This little problem would be the ideal thing to discuss in group session, but I can’t bring myself to raise it. It’s the Germphobics. I feel so bad for them, the poor things. They don’t like sex at all because it’s so disgusting, and the more I hear them talk, the more I realise they have a point. I mean, the absurdity of what you need to stick where. And the noises, etc.