Drop (32 page)

The streetlights click off and another day begins.

But not for me.

I stare up at the sky with its brewing clouds. I see the drop. The first drop of the rainfall. I see it linger for a second on the edge of the world, and then fall, fall, fall to meet me. Dark crushes in on every side. Blackness shrinks my vision to a pinpoint of light, a single drop, and the world ends.

I’m floating in black nothing.

Am I dead? No, if I’m thinking, I can’t be. Am I dreaming?

Out of nothing comes
something
.

A man.

Colours seep in, an unfinished sketch.

A desk.

I know what to say.

I ask him if he thinks I’m crazy. He asks me, “Do
you
think you’re crazy?” Instinctively I assume that no, I’m not. But I’m here, after all. By force or not, something brought me here, to this room, to this point in time where everything converges to a single point. At this moment, I’m being urged to describe in no small detail every relevant and irrelevant moment of my existence thus far. All there is in the universe is this room where I have to explain myself. And the only words I can summon are not my own, but the ravings of some lunatic I’ve morphed into, and all I can think about is where I can get an impressive
chaise longue
for my room like this one I’m lying on.

I feel powerfully unknown.

So today, who shall I be for the doctor? Shall I be a tree, a goat, a burlesque dancer, a cabbie, a sock? The invisible girl?
Someone?
Shall I tell him about the brothers? The butterflies? The sodium?

“Are you unhappy?” he throws at me.

“No, I’m happy.”

“Are you happy because you’re happy, or happy because the stereotype says you should be?”

“What stereotype is that?”

“Young, healthy, able to feed and clothe yourself, a warm bed to sleep in at night.”
Dull, dull, dull.

“I’m not too pleased about some things.”

“So you’re unhappy.”

“No. Yes. About some things.”

“What things make you feel this way?” Now, the ceiling begins to crack, splitting from cornice to cornice and widening like clamped ribs, prepped for surgery. Snow begins to fall through the gap, pouring in and settling gently on the oversized, file-scattered desk, the worn green leather chair and the couch where I’m lying. I have a good view from here. I extend my tongue to catch a flake, but it doesn’t taste like snow. It’s salt dusting this room. Sodium.

“Don’t ask me that…”

“Shall we explore this further?” His voice booms louder.

“Am I dead? Am I dreaming? Am I crazy?”

“Shall we explore this further? Hmmm?” Again and again, louder and louder. He looks over his half-moon glasses and stares, wide-eyed and menacing. “Shall we explore this further? Shall we explore this further? Shall we explore this further?”

“Answer me!” I yell.

I cry into the steady streams of white flakes. And then they come. Drawn to the salt. “Oh no,” the psychiatrist continues, “now this is not good, no, no indeed, very interesting, very interesting…” He starts to scribble intently in his notepad. He shakes his head, tuts and continues to mutter to himself. I can no longer hear what he’s saying and I no longer care. The butterflies swoop and dart and scratch, so many that collectively they are able to lift me, twirl me.
So many butterflies.
They’ve got me.

I’m not scared.

I’m not scared.

I’m not scared.

They drop me.

Am I really schizing out?

Then nothing. Darkness snares me again. Loneliness hooks me.

Whirr

Flutter

Whirr

Flutter

Gently, gracefully, a butterfly floats down and comes to rest on my stomach. The Queen of the Butterflies. The largest in the world, a wingspan of thirty centimetres. Green and yellow and red, she’s magnificent. She’s
perfect
. I can hear her in my head. I’m Doctor fucking Dolittle.

“My God, Carla. Look at you,” she says. I try to speak but no sound comes out. I’m paralyzed. “What have you done to yourself?”

An Adonis Blue, with brilliant sapphire wings, flies in from the darkness, swooping and darting before landing on my hand. “Carla, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

I can’t. I want to but I can’t.

“I’m going to get a coffee.”

The Adonis Blue flies out of sight.

I hear crying.

“It’s Mum. Can you hear me?”

I can hear you,
I say in my head, the words unable to escape to the audible world.

“I’m sorry. Look at you.” The butterfly tickles my forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s OK, Mum.
The words echo, unreleased.

“I’ve really screwed things up for you.”

No, I screwed things up for me.

“I failed Biology,” I croak. “And Psychology.”

“Oh, Carla. Thank God.” She wraps her arms around me. I can hardly move; my eyes feel full of sand. I try to open them. Through the blur I see Mum, a smudge of pale pink and brown, her diamond earrings white and twinkling.

“She’s awake. Nurse! She’s awake!” she calls.

Time is ticking again. Hour follows hour. Minute follows minute. Thought follows thought. My thoughts are no longer crazy. I’m not drugged-up, I’m just me. No DVD extras.

I walk to Bus Stop E. Tower blocks gaze lazily at the September sun. Sugary golden rays, like fingertips, massage their concrete skin. He’s waiting for me. He’s early. I feel a pang of excitement. Not an epic drum solo, more a short sharp tap on the snare. It’s life-piercing. I haven’t seen him since I came out of hospital.

He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that says,
I quite like music
. His hair flaps like a black flag, an unintentional Eighties throw-back.

“Loving the George Michael Wham-era look,” I say.

“Accidental, I promise.” He hugs me tight.

I wave my hand and the red bus crawls to a halt. We climb to the top deck.

The trees zoom past. They’re about to start losing their leaves. The houses rush past, and then the skyscrapers.

Twenty silent minutes go by, not a peep from either of us. Nothing said, but so much hanging there between us.

Stop. Stop. Stop. Fourth stop. A hand grasps the yellow pole at the top of the stairs and pulls a cracked face and weathered body upwards. She’s wearing a poncho and a fishing hat. The hands, though, are what fascinate me. Not because I like to draw hands, or because her nails are long and bright red with paint, which they are, but because they are wrapped in those cloudy, thin plastic bags used for packing loose fruit and veg at the supermarket. Carrots. Mushrooms. Auber-fucking-gines.

If it’s a plastic fetish, surely she could get some Marigolds? Penchant for gloves, sweaty hands? Old lady bag hands: she’s a fruitcake. I could have been her. That might have been my future.

“Look, I’m—” I begin to say to Isaac.

“Don’t say anything.” He looks me in the eye. “Not yet. Let’s just enjoy the ride.”

This is becoming one ride I want to stay on.

At Trafalgar Square, we jump off the bus, heading for the gallery on Pall Mall, but Isaac stops when we get to the steps just past the fountain on the Square. He sits me down on a step and kneels in front of me. “Bit soon for proposals,” I say, remembering when he gave me the butterfly necklace.

“I thought you were going to do a Heath Ledger on me,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to… It wasn’t intentional or anything.”

Isaac furrows his brow, and then relaxes into a smile.

“Textbook cry for help! You do Psychology!”

“Yes, I
do
Psychology. Note that? I failed and so I still
do
Psychology. I’m resitting in January.”

“If only you’d known you were going to go loco. Would’ve made a great coursework topic.”

“This has all been an elaborate AS-level Psychology experiment. Didn’t you know?” I joke. “You know I didn’t do it. Violet crushed a load of those blue pills into my drink.”

I think about all that’s gone on, and wonder if it wasn’t the first time I’d been set up…

“I know. I’m sorry about the stuff I said. I was really harsh on you. I flipped. I should’ve trusted you,” Isaac says.

“I’m sorry, too. I said some weird stuff when I was out of it.”

“I’m just… It’s good to see you… I’m glad you’re all right.”

“So am I.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Inside out. But on the mend. I’m seeing someone, a counsellor. Thought it might help.’’

“That’s great. Good idea.”

“Oh, no, I don’t mean seeing him professionally. He’s just great in bed.”

“Oh, yeah?” He smiles.

“I’m kidding.” I shrug. But he already knew that.

“Want to share some uberly overpriced but totally delicious brownie?”

“Yeah. I really do.”

We amble to the gallery, the red-brick building among all the white stone, and inside, Boogie-Barnet greets us with that practised smile. Isaac doesn’t reach for my hand, but somehow, knowing he’s only a few inches away is more exciting, and holding back is … right, for now.

We do one of those unnecessarily slow gallery walks, stopping at each piece and pretending to look interested.

“So, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Isaac asks.

“Oh, druggie, whore, general trashbag, the usual,” I reply.

“Excellent career opportunities there.”

“Yeah, I thought so. That, or plumbing. I hear women plumbers make a mint.” We pause to muse on a sculpture of a stuffed mouse moving electronically around a maze. I roll my eyes.

“I think you should stick to what you know. You could be the next great artist. All you need is some flaming paper plates, right? A dirty glass or two?”

“It’s not art! But thanks. You can be my muse. I’ll be a regular little Edie Sedgwick, Mr Warhol. Or would that make you Sedgwick?”

A familiar figure approaches.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask.

Havelock, in his brown shoes, jeans and a red-and-white chequered shirt, glides over, propelled by his own calm breeze, one smooth continuous movement. He blows a dark lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Hello,” he says.

“Um, hi.”

“What are yo—?”

“Have you seen the gallery guide?”

“No, missed them at the door.”

He hands me a glossy brochure. “Have a look.”

Flicking the pages, I scan the text.

Ohmygod
. Bottom of page 2.
Me
.

“How did…? When did this happen? Did you do this?” I scan Havelock’s face for answers.

“I can’t take credit, I’m afraid. It was Mr Masterson here. He told me you’d agreed to let him collect your sculpture, and I let him have it. He called me yesterday and told me he’d entered it in this competition and now here we are. Carla Carroll, prizewinner.”

Isaac’s grinning cheekily.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You said you weren’t interested in submitting. I thought you could win. What was the harm?”

“No, it’s great, thank you. But … I just can’t believe I
won
.”

“I told you, you have talent.” The corners of Havelock’s mouth turn upwards. “You’re good at this, Carla. Why not pursue it? You have the skills. Now you’ve got the tools.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Retakes in January, though.” He snaps back into teacher mode.

“I know,” I say, nodding.

Havelock raises his eyebrows in a distinctly dad-like fashion, then turns to continue walking around the exhibition.

“Shall we go bask in the glory of your success?” Isaac asks. “It’s on display. Prime position, on a very fetching plinth … next to some flaming paper plates.”

“Are you joking?”

“Yeah, about the plates anyway.”

“You mean the sculpture is here? In public? For people to see?”

“Yeah, you’re practically famous.”

We walk to the opposite end of the gallery, and there she is, glinting in a shaft of gold under a skylight: MY BUTTERFLY!