Another Night, Another Day (23 page)

Michael shakes his head, confused.

‘I mean, you didn’t smash up the house, which would have upset Chrissie and your children much more, or the car, which some folk might have been tempted to do, to stop the receivers
having it.’

‘I suppose.’

‘So the person who was going to suffer most as a result of your actions wasn’t someone you owed money to, or even ultimately your family, was it?’

It was me, thinks Michael. I hadn’t seen it like that. He nods slowly.

‘Yeah . . . Chrissie was quite understanding about it, considering. Of course she was upset, but I’d have expected her to go completely mad.’ He laughs. ‘Guess she left
that one to me.’

Abby taps on the door of the nurses’ office.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she says to Sangeeta, who’s busy on a computer. ‘I was wondering if you’ve seen Lillie?’

‘She’s in the art room.’

Sure enough, Lillie is sitting at the large table in the studio, painting.

‘Can I have a word?’

Lillie lifts her brush from the canvas and turns to Abby. Her make-up has been repaired – expertly applied eyeliner and mascara mask the obvious signs, but her cheeks are still swollen and
blotchy. She has obviously been crying for a while, thinks Abby, filled with remorse.

‘I’m really sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Abby holds her breath, fearing her apology is inadequate.

Lillie smiles. ‘It’s OK. You weren’t to know you’d hit a nerve. And I was being out of order, or from your point of view it must have seemed that way. I’m just so
keen for people to value themselves properly. Gillian would say I was “projecting”—’ she mimics the therapist’s Scottish accent, ‘ – and my real issue is
valuing myself.’

Lillie resumes painting, and although Abby is curious to know what sparked her tears, she assumes it’s not her place to ask. Still, she doesn’t feel like leaving yet. She looks
around the room. Works of art line the walls – patients have contributed everything from childlike daubs to painstakingly stitched samplers. Boxes of crayons, coloured pencils, felt tips and
tubes of paint are piled on top of a large chest of drawers; the drawers themselves, according to the labels, contain sewing materials, wool, paper and plasticine. In the corner are a couple of
easels. It reminds me of primary school, thinks Abby. Except for a large sign that says
NO SCISSORS –
even children would be trusted with those.

She turns her attention to Lillie’s painting. In the centre is a large black hole, surrounded by circles which lighten gradually through maroon to a bright, blood red. Lillie is focused on
adding what looks to be a bird to the top left corner.

‘Do you mind if I watch?’ asks Abby.

‘Not at all.’

She pulls up a chair, taking care not to knock over the plastic cup of water Lillie is using to dilute her paints.

‘Are those acrylics?’ Abby peers at the chipped china plate being used as a palette. Round the outside are freshly squeezed blobs of red, yellow, blue and white; in the centre is a
large swirl of scarlet.

‘Yup. I’m not that good at this—’ Lillie nods at her sheet of paper, ‘ – but I enjoy it.’

‘Oh, I think it’s lovely,’ says Abby, and whilst the abstract picture is not something she would want hanging in her home, she means it, if for no other reason than that it
seems to be giving Lillie pleasure. As Abby watches Lillie dab tiny dots of white with seemingly little forethought, she has a hankering to give it a go. I can’t remember when I last allowed
my imagination to roam like that, she muses. Photojournalism was a long way removed from such free creative expression, but years ago, when I was doing my degree, I used to paint all the time.

They sit in companionable silence, save for the occasional swish of Lillie cleaning her brush in water, until Lillie says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t explain earlier – I
didn’t feel up to sharing it in group, and I guess I’ve been trying to move on, to put it behind me. It’s not something I’ve told that many people here. But you know I was
admitted before?’

Abby nods.

Lillie drops her brush into the cup and turns to face her. ‘I had trauma therapy.’ She takes a deep breath of air into her lungs and lets it out slowly, exactly as they’ve been
taught, to help calm herself. ‘I know I’ve been in a few times, but when I came in here initially, they just got me back, stable, then let me go again. I say “just”, but
that was a big enough job – I was in a bad way. I wasn’t sleeping at all and I was completely manic – drinking, not eating. I blew five grand in a single day in Churchill
Square.’

Abby is agog. She’d find it hard to spend a tenth of that in one trip to the shopping centre.

Lillie continues, ‘I didn’t really let any of the staff here in then. But the second time, maybe it’s because I trusted them more or maybe I was so desperate I was willing to
try anything. Certainly I was terrified, as it was the second psychotic episode I’d had in less than a year. Anyway, as luck would have it, Gillian was allocated to be my therapist from the
outset – she’s the only one here qualified to do trauma therapy. So I ended up doing some really deep work with her, because we realized there was still loads of stuff that was fucked
up in here.’ She taps the side of her head.

Abby nods. I’ve an idea how that feels, she thinks. Though I’ve never been as bad as Lillie. ‘I gather trauma therapy is very intense,’ she says.

‘You’re telling me – you have to re-look at past events, so it’s horrible . . .’ Another deep breath. ‘I find it hard to talk about even now . . . But when I
was small, right from the age of about seven through to when I left home, I was abused by my stepfather and two of his friends. My mum worked shifts, and they used to come to the house when she was
out.’

Abby is so shocked she can’t think what to say. Eventually she blurts, ‘How awful,’ but the words seem hopelessly inadequate.

‘I don’t want to go into detail, but so you understand, what triggered me in the group was what you said about having kids. Because what finally brought everything to a stop was that
I got pregnant.’

Abby flushes with guilt. ‘Oh God, I really am so sorry.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ repeats Lillie.

‘No, but . . . I should have been more sensitive. What’s that saying –
until we’ve walked a mile in someone else’s shoes
? I can’t remember exactly,
but it’s about not judging others, and I did. I assumed you were being preachy. I get a lot of it, what with Callum, and people who think they know all about autism . . .’ This
isn’t about you, Abby, she reminds herself. ‘Anyway, I can’t apologize enough.’

Lillie shrugs. ‘As I said, it’s OK.’

‘So can I ask, did you . . . er—’ Abby hesitates, choosing her words carefully, ‘ – terminate the pregnancy?’ Lillie’s made no mention of having a
child.

‘I didn’t, no. Even though my stepfather wanted me to. Even though I had no idea who the father was . . .’ Yet another exhalation. ‘I lost the baby. Maybe it was my
body’s way of saying I couldn’t be a mum to this particular child . . .’ Her eyes well up.

‘Maybe,’ Abby nods. ‘Miscarriages happen for all sorts of reasons.’

‘No . . .’ Lillie’s voice is small. ‘The pregnancy ran full term. Everything seemed to be OK. Then the baby was stillborn. So you see, I do have experience of having
children, in a way . . .’ She brushes away tears with the back of her hand.

Abby feels herself welling up too. This is even worse than I realized, she thinks. Poor Lillie. How I wish I could rewind the last few minutes of the morning’s session.

‘I was trying to express my feelings in this picture. It’s something Beth suggested in group – you know how into creative outlets she is – and I do find it
helps.’

Abby examines the painting again.

‘That’s my baby girl, there,’ says Lillie, regaining her composure. She points at what Abby had assumed was a bird. The trail of dots in its wake suggests it has emerged from
the dark core.

‘She looks like an angel,’ observes Abby.

They are both silent, staring, absorbing. After a while Abby asks, ‘Do you think your bipolar illness could be connected to everything you’ve been through? Though,
please—’ she holds up a hand, ‘ – you don’t have to answer if you don’t want.’

Once more Lillie shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea. My sister, Tamara – she was abused too, and she’s fine . . . Well, not fine, obviously, but she’s not bipolar. Who knows?
Different people react differently to similar events, Gillian says. Although she did tell me damage from emotional trauma can result in actual physical changes inside the brain which can affect
someone’s response to stress and stuff. There was probably something in me, something chemical, that was misaligned already . . . But yes, maybe without all that
shit
—’
she spits the word, ‘ – I might not have been so bad.’

‘You’re doing really well,’ says Abby. She hesitates, then adds, ‘I admire you. To be honest, I did already, but this only makes me even more.’

Lillie starts. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. And actually, the way that Callum responded to your stickers
is
unusual. I’ve never seen him engage that way with a complete stranger around. He doesn’t react
enthusiastically that often even with me.’

‘Oh,’ says Lillie. ‘That must be hard for you.’

‘Some days it is.’ Abby hesitates. She doesn’t want to sound too effusive; nonetheless it seems Lillie’s not grasped what she’s trying to convey. ‘You have a
gift, you know, Lillie. The way you connect with people, it’s rare, and you take time to be welcoming and kind to everyone. I don’t think I’d have got through my first few days
without you.’

‘Aw, Abby. Stop – you’ll set me off again.’ Lillie’s bottom lip quivers. ‘But thank you.’ She hesitates. ‘Can we have a hug?’

‘Sure.’ And as they embrace, Abby breathes in the sweet apricot of Lillie’s scent.

‘So how are you?’ asks Johnnie, once Karen has settled into a chair opposite.

‘Is Lillie OK? I feel really bad about what happened in group.’

Johnnie shifts in his seat. ‘If you’re concerned, perhaps have a word with her? I’m not at liberty to discuss Lillie’s situation, I’m sorry.’ He looks as if
he wishes there was another way. ‘Plus we’re here to talk about you, Karen, and how you’ve been since our session last week.’

I’m doing it again, aren’t I? she realizes. Focusing on other people.

She glances round the room. It’s an exercise in neutrality. There’s nothing to distract her; doubtless that’s the point. ‘I’ve been a bit up and down,’ she
says, then becomes aware that sounds as noncommittal as the decor. ‘Though it’s been good to come here and have somewhere to talk.’ Other than this morning, she adds to herself.
That made me uncomfortable. But she refrains from saying so. It might come across as criticism and instinctively she wants to shield Johnnie.

‘I wondered if you’ve thought about what we discussed – in particular your feelings about your father?’

Ouch. Karen had hoped to avoid the subject for a bit. ‘Yes.’ She stares at the curtains, trying to gauge where she’s up to, but merely finds herself thinking it’s a shame
they need to have nets when they block so much light.

‘And?’

‘I can see being sad might have become a bit of a pattern for me. Thoughts related to my husband do come up again and again . . .’ In a flash she pictures Simon. He’s stepped
out of the shower, hair damp, skin beaded with droplets of water . . . ‘I find it very hard not to think of him.’ She gulps. ‘Though I’m not sure I’d want to stop. It
would feel like I’d forgotten him.’

Now Simon is rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

‘The last thing I’m suggesting is that you squash those feelings,’ says Johnnie. ‘But maybe we can get you to a place where you can remember both Simon and your father
without the depression.’

Just then, so unexpectedly it’s as if Simon himself has planted the thought in her mind, Karen makes a connection. ‘You know, I’ve been seeing the two situations as totally
different because Dad was so much older and had been ill for a long time, but there are similarities in the circumstances of how they died . . . Both happened in February.’ She glances back
at the window. Through the nets she can discern it’s a bright, sunny day. The morning of Simon’s heart attack was anything but. Immediately she’s on the train once more:
there’s a blast of cold air as the doors open at Preston Park; she sees passengers shaking rain from their umbrellas before boarding.

‘Many people seem to find February a difficult time of year.’

‘I never minded it particularly before, but I do now. This spring was particularly vile, wasn’t it?’ She stops to consider. ‘As well as the timing, both events were such
a shock. With Simon it’s obvious why, but actually my dad’s death was sudden too, because he had a stroke and never regained consciousness.’ With a shudder she recalls the race
across the downs in her tired old car.

‘Yet, before, you said you expected your father to die.’

‘I’ve blamed myself for not dealing with it better because I thought I knew it was coming, but I didn’t. Alzheimer’s often drifts on and on, and there weren’t any
specific warning signs.’ Again she hesitates. ‘Just like there weren’t any for Simon.’ It’s too much: tears start to fall. I
wish
there had been some way of
knowing, she thinks, reaching for a tissue. ‘I never got to say goodbye to either of them . . .’ she says in a small voice.

‘If you’ll allow me to suggest something,’ says Johnnie gently, ‘I wonder if perhaps your father’s death could be triggering what are called
sensory
memories of experiences you’ve had before.’

Karen blows her nose. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Normally, we’re not aware of sensory memories because they’re connected to our senses and occur in a split second. But sometimes you can have another experience where those
memories are triggered.’ He leans forward, eager to explain. ‘Have you ever had a particular scent suddenly remind you of something that happened years ago?’

She thinks of the deckchairs in the garden shed that still smell of Simon and another wave of grief hits her. ‘Yes . . .’