Another Night, Another Day (17 page)

‘Takes two to tango,’ he says, then cringes at himself for using such a naff expression. It’s not even in the right context, he thinks. To his consternation Abby turns to walk
beside him down the corridor.

‘I’m along here too,’ she says. ‘What room are you in?’

‘This one,’ he says, as they arrive at his door.

‘Small world.’ She opens the door opposite. ‘This is me.’ He’s expecting her to turn and leave him, when she pauses on the threshold. ‘How did you find today,
then?’

The question stumps him. If he says he’s loathed it, she might be insulted, given she’s been part of it. But he can hardly say he’s enjoyed himself; other than for a few
minutes at lunch and in the session with Beth, he hasn’t. ‘Bit tricky . . .’ he says eventually.

She nods. ‘Let’s hope it gets better, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Anyway, sleep well.’

‘Fat chance,’ he says, then fears this sounds rude, so adds, ‘I haven’t slept properly for weeks.’

‘No, me neither.’

Michael senses she’s waiting for him to say something else, but he’s at a loss. They both stand there, hovering. After a while he ventures, ‘It doesn’t help, the way they
keep checking up on me all the time.’

‘They do that to you too?’ Abby lowers her voice and glances up and down the corridor. ‘Still, at least they’ve stopped following me round. That was horrible.’

‘I can imagine . . .’ His voice trails off.

‘Well, I hope you have a better night tonight.’

‘Thank you.’

She gives a wry smile, and says, ‘After all, tomorrow is another day,’ before closing her bedroom door.

Abby peers through the glass door into reception. Glenn and Callum are already waiting so Danni buzzes her through at once.

‘The little lounge upstairs is free,’ says Danni, checking her file. ‘Why don’t you three use that?’

‘Follow me,’ Abby says, but Callum starts to keen in distress. He’s not used to seeing me in this strange environment, she concludes, and when Glenn asks Callum to take his
hand, Callum makes a bid to get away. It’s only by working together that they finally cajole him into the room.

Funny to imagine that only forty-eight hours ago I was here with Sangeeta, Abby thinks, closing the door. I feel much calmer already – now my child is the wired one.

‘Hey, hey,’ says Abby, as Glenn sets Callum down. She crouches to her son’s level. In a giant pair of ear defenders, his elfin features seem especially tiny; the overall effect
is both comical and heart-wrenching. ‘It’s Mummy. Mummm . . . meeeee . . . Remember me?’

God, she thinks, it’s been less than a week but how I’ve missed you. She rests on her haunches and waits, hoping, yet she can’t get him to so much as touch her, let alone give
her the hug she craves. But at least he hasn’t had a complete meltdown, and before too long he stops wailing and goes to clamber on one of the sofas.

Glenn sits down on the settee opposite. There’s still something swashbuckling about my husband, she observes, seeing him afresh after being apart. He’s so tall and dark, whereas
Callum’s so slight and fair. But there
is
an echo of Glenn’s face in our son’s if you look carefully – the dimple in his chin, the curl of his lips.

‘So, is it going OK in here?’ asks Glenn. No sooner has he said this than Callum reaches up and grabs a small vase from the window ledge behind the sofa. Then he picks out the
flowers and throws them on the floor.

‘Oh, Callum.’ Abby leaps to retrieve them. But Callum pays no heed. He tips up the vase and – ‘NO!’

He is about to drink the water when Glenn catches his arms. ‘Hey, mate, can’t you stop being autistic, just for a bit?’ He spins Callum round to face him.

This is the kind of remark that Abby would often resent, yet this afternoon she laughs. Perhaps being at Moreland’s is helping her understand where Glenn is coming from. Usually she is so
caught up with her son she can’t see the world without Callum in it. She is constantly vigilant, alert to where he is, what he’s doing. The last couple of days she’s had time to
focus on herself for a change, even enjoy herself again, just a little.

‘I think it’s really helping me being here,’ she says, as Glenn picks up the scattered blooms.

She’d like to add that it’s been good to be around vases of flowers without fearing the water will be drunk, or the contents shredded. She’d like to tell Glenn what a luxury it
was to have a bath the night before and be able to wallow in it. Above all she’d like to explain what a relief it is to talk to other adults.
I can crack a joke!
she wants to say.
She’s been hanging out with Lillie and Colin, watching telly and playing cards. But she fears Glenn will hear whatever she says as a criticism – he doesn’t look after Callum
enough, he makes Abby unhappy, that’s why she’s ended up here.

‘You seem brighter,’ he says.

‘I am.’ Though I’m a long way from better, she thinks. ‘It’ll still be a few weeks before the antidepressants kick in.’

‘They’ve put you on medication? Is that a good idea after last week?’

‘I told you on the phone, I didn’t take an overdose.’ Abby can hear the testiness in her voice. She’d prefer to be more measured, but she’s distracted by Callum
playing with the remote control, flicking the TV on and off. She fights to control her tone. ‘I spoke to Dr Kasdan, the psychiatrist here, about antidepressants yesterday. He thought they
would help me.’

‘Oh.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’d have liked to go with you to see him.’

‘I didn’t think I had to ask your permission about what medication I’m on.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you to ask my permission.’

‘Good. It wouldn’t be appropriate, would it, given we’re splitting up?’

‘That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Abby.’

And there I was a few minutes ago believing we were beginning to understand one another, she thinks.

‘Well, I am paying for this place,’ Glenn mutters.

‘
I beg your pardon?
’

‘I said, if it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be here,’ says Glenn.

‘That’s not what you said.’

‘OK, I apologize, I phrased it badly. I’m not paying personally, obviously.’

‘No, your work insurance is coughing up. And in case it had escaped your notice, it’s been pretty hard for me to work the last few years. Otherwise I might have had my own
policy.’ He’s lucky to be
able
to work, thinks Abby. She can feel her attitude hardening.

‘I know.’

Don’t get into this now, Abby reminds herself. Callum may be wearing ear defenders, but who knows what he picks up?

‘Come here, honey,’ she says to her son, but he continues playing with the remote, his back turned.

Then, in a
whoosh
, the anxiety returns. She has to gasp for air; it’s as if she can’t get any oxygen into her lungs.

‘You OK?’ says Glenn. ‘Your breathing’s gone a bit weird . . .’

She gulps and nods, struggling to soothe herself as best she can even though she feels she is suffocating.
Be calm, be calm. It’s only a physical reaction. ‘See your thoughts as
mental events that come and go like clouds across a sky,’
she reminds herself, but she’s quaking from head to toe.

‘Hey,’ says Glenn. ‘Callum, mate, careful. Let your mum have a bit of space, eh?’

Abby’s vaguely aware she’s batting her arms in distress. Glenn rises to his feet and guides her to the sofa. She wants to run away, scream, pray, take another diazepam –
anything to stop this terrifying spiral.

Get me out of this crazy head of mine, she begs silently. Please,
please
, give me some peace.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Karen and her children are with Anna at the allotment, as arranged. The danger of frost has passed and the two women are keen to plant peas and beans. But
the warmer weather means that brambles and dandelions are also beginning to take hold, so Shirley has driven over from Goring to help tackle them.

‘Grandma,’ says Molly, looking up from the small trenches she and Luke have been tasked with digging for mangetout, ‘why haven’t we ever been to your flat?’

Shirley raises her head from weeding to address her granddaughter. ‘Ah well, Molly, it’s not that I don’t
want
you to come, it’s only a bit small to have you
round, that’s all.’

‘Grandma is renting her flat in Goring,’ explains Karen, unsure if Molly will understand quite what this means. ‘But maybe one day she’ll have a place of her
own.’

‘Oh,’ says Molly. She is silent a while, contemplating, then says, ‘If it’s too small inside, couldn’t we sit in your garden?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a garden.’

‘You had a big garden in Portugal,’ observes Luke.

‘I know,’ says Shirley. She looks wistful for a second, then smiles at her grandson. ‘That’s why I like coming here and helping you.’

‘We’ve got a garden
and
an allotment,’ Luke boasts.

‘Ours isn’t a very big garden, it’s more of a patio,’ says Karen, trying to soften her children’s remarks. Poor Mum, she thinks.

‘Why don’t you come and live with us?’ says Molly. ‘Then you could help us all the time.’

‘Er . . .’ Shirley looks nonplussed. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Molly, but I don’t really think you’ve got room . . .’ She glances nervously at
Karen.

Karen flushes, too taken aback to work out what to say.

A while later Anna comes to join Karen planting runner beans.

‘That was a bit awkward,’ she murmurs.

‘Sorry?’

‘When Molly asked your mum about moving in.’

‘I know.’ Karen glances to check that Shirley and the children aren’t listening. They are immersed in conversation a distance away. ‘It’s funny how kids pick these
things up. I’ve been wondering if I ought to ask what her plans are.’

Anna stops midway through making a small hole with her trowel to look at Karen. Her expression is one of concern. ‘I hope you’re not seriously planning on her coming to live with
you?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re both still grieving over the death of your dad.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’m not sure you’re thinking that straight yet. Either of you.’

‘Maybe . . .’

‘My dear friend, do I have to spell it out for you? You’re already looking after two children on your own, on a limited income. I know you’re getting stuff out of this
Moreland’s programme; I’m just afraid – I hope you don’t mind my being frank – that it’s a bit too soon.’

Karen smiles. ‘If I minded you being frank I’d have dumped you long ago.’

‘You’ve managed brilliantly since Simon died – Lord knows, I couldn’t have coped half as well as you.’

‘Thanks,’ says Karen. Anna’s not normally one for compliments; she’s surprised.

‘And you’re a fantastic mum to Molly and Luke.’

‘I’ve only done what any mother would.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true, but anyway. You’ve said to me yourself you’ve been really walloped by your dad’s death. I’m worried about you. For
goodness’ sake –
you’ve
been worried about you. You’re being treated for depression. The last thing you need is to take on something else.’

‘But my mother isn’t some
thing
, she’s my mum—’

Karen recalls an anecdote Johnnie shared with the group at the end of his session on Monday. He’d been talking about motivation, and explaining how prioritizing one’s own needs has a
crucial part to play in meeting one’s goals.

‘Have you noticed when flight attendants run through the safety procedure before the take-off of a plane, they say something along the lines of:
If you’re an adult accompanied by
children, make sure you put on your own oxygen mask first, before you see to them
?’ he’d said.

Everyone had nodded except Karen. She’d commented, ‘I’ve always thought that was utterly counter-intuitive. I’d be desperate to sort my kids.’

‘Yet the point is that if the plane is going down and oxygen is running out, then you’ll
need
to have your mask on, in order to sort your children,’ Johnnie had said.
‘Can you see what this illustrates?’

Karen hadn’t understood fully at the time, and it had taken Rita to interject: ‘Until we look after ourselves, we can’t properly look after anyone else?’

‘I think I get what you’re driving at,’ Karen says slowly to Anna now. Still, she thinks, I don’t wholeheartedly agree. From what I’ve seen, I get on much better
with my mother than most grown-up daughters.

She pauses to listen to the animated exchange taking place on the far side of the allotment. She can’t make out precisely what Molly and Luke are saying, but the contrast of their
high-pitched and eager voices with her mother’s more measured tone is reflective of the generations that separate them. They love being together so much, and that they are able to enjoy one
another is a blessing, she thinks. If Mum wants to move in with us and Molly and Luke want her there, who am I to say no?

In spite of Abby’s good wishes, Michael doesn’t sleep well, not just on Monday, but every night that week. The days become easier as his routine grows more
familiar, but still he prefers to keep himself to himself, and when he finds he is alone with Troy in the lounge on Friday morning, they sit in strained silence waiting for the group to start.
Eventually the tension is broken by the arrival of Karen, back for the first time since Monday.

‘Hello again,’ she says, smiling at both of them and taking a seat. There’s a short pause while she gets her file and pen out of a large cloth bag, then she turns to Troy.
‘It’s your last day today, right?’

Troy nods, and grimaces.

She’s got a good memory, Michael observes, feeling bad for not asking this himself. Rather Troy than me, he thinks. It’s the first time Michael has seen his own life as the better
option than someone else’s in a long while.

Karen continues, ‘Do you mind if I ask how you ended up here in England?’

‘Not at all,’ says Troy. ‘My unit is based in Italy, so it costs less to fly us to the UK for treatment than send us back to the US. Your clinics are way less
expensive.’