Lies Like Love (28 page)

‘Wheee!’ I cried, putting my hands above my head, flying into the sunset, up, up and away.

But my brother’s strength began to wane; after all he was only a child, small and human and scared, and he slowed, rolling me gently forward to the end of the pier. He paused by the railings, panting and laughing.

‘You should have let me go,’ I said, ‘let me keep flying.’ I craned my neck to look at him; he was still catching his breath.

‘No way, Aud,’ he panted. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Not ever.’

And then we waited for Mum to catch up with us, red-faced, shouting about the danger and the stupidity and how I was lucky I hadn’t fallen out or in. She couldn’t steal our smiles though, and Peter held my hand all the way back to the car, just like when he was little and I knew he still needed me. And I needed him too.

‘We think we’d like Audrey to come in,’ Mr McGuiness said, steepling his fingers, staring at me with his bright, clear eyes. ‘We’d like to admit her to the adolescent mental-health unit, as soon as possible.’

I looked at Mum. She nodded, opened her mouth to speak, but the doctor ignored her. ‘I think you need twenty-four-hour care now, Audrey. I don’t think these sessions are enough; we’re not making progress.’

‘It’s not your fault, doctor,’ Mum said. ‘You’ve tried your best, but, yes, I agree, we need more help; I’ve been saying so all along.’

McGuiness didn’t answer her. He kept his eyes on me.

‘Audrey, why won’t you get up? Out of that chair?’

‘I can’t,’ I said, like Mum had told me. Only it was almost true now. I didn’t have the energy. There was no point.

‘Why can’t you?’ he repeated. I screwed my eyes shut.

‘The Thing won’t let me. It told me not to,’ I said, low, angry.

‘The Thing. You say it lives in the Grange.’ He tapped his pen on his desk. ‘You know it won’t be there when you’re on the unit? You’ll be able to walk then, won’t you? And to eat properly? And talk to us?’

I opened my eyes and looked at Mum. I wasn’t sure.

Mum took my hand, but I didn’t squeeze back. I didn’t like the sound of this unit. Other girls, blank-eyed, pale-faced, their voices like grated metal. Looking at me, shouting things, following me around.

‘I’m not going,’ I said. I wasn’t leaving Peter. No way.

The doctor looked down and shuffled paper for a while. He wouldn’t find his answers there. He should look at us. Look hard.
Please, look at me, look at her
, I thought.
Please understand
.

The doctor proceeded to list a range of new treatments, how much good this unit could do for me, how I was lucky they had a space, that I could go there this afternoon.

‘We need to intervene before this progresses any further. Don’t worry, Audrey,’ he said, ‘you’ll find it’s comfortable. The staff are very well qualified; you’ll get everything you need to get you up and running, out of that chair. I want to see you on your feet. Eating healthily. Getting some fresh air and exercise. And of course there’ll be the daily therapy; that’ll be of huge benefit.’

Mum sat further forward on her chair and I let her do the talking.

‘You know, doctor, it’s such a relief to hear this. After all this time, the things we’ve been through. I knew if we kept trying, we’d get to the bottom of Audrey’s illness, but I need to thank you, personally, for everything you’ve done. Your persistence and professionalism.’ She paused for a second, considering. ‘And, of course, I guess, if the worst comes to the worst you could try ECT, couldn’t you?’

I didn’t know what that was. Mum was looking at
Mr McGuiness, her hands braced on her knees, and I saw the strain in her jaw, knew she’d be chewing the inside of her cheek and that her mouth would be filling with blood. He frowned.

‘That treatment is usually a last resort. I’m confident we can make a big difference for Audrey without it.’

‘Yes, but,’ Mum began, ‘electroconvulsive therapy could be the answer; I know of many cases –’

‘We’ll have to see how things go,’ Mr McGuiness interrupted. Very decisive, trying to take control.

‘Of course, well, I presume I’ll be with her,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll need to stay with Aud, won’t I?’

‘No,’ the doctor said. My head jolted up. I looked at Mr McGuiness through the scratched lenses of my glasses. He’d said Mum wouldn’t come. That I would be without her, alone. That was different. I could get well fast. Get home fast. I would tell a doctor or a nurse when I got there, straight away. And Mr McGuiness would rescue Peter; he’d have to.

Mum cleared her throat. ‘Audrey won’t be able to cope in hospital without me. I’m her carer.’

‘As I said, I think she’ll find the team are very supportive,’ he said, explaining that there’d be nurses and doctors designated to care for me.

Mum coughed again, twisting the strap of her handbag, heat rising under her skin.

‘I don’t think you understand. I have to come too. She needs me.’

‘But what about your son, Mrs Morgan?’ Mr McGuiness asked.

‘Yes, Peter, he’ll be all right, I’ll leave him with neighbours like always.’

‘Like always?’ He raised one eyebrow.

‘When Aud’s sick, when she needs me.’

‘I see. On this occasion that won’t be necessary. Of course you’ll be able to visit Audrey, you and Peter both. She’ll be able to come home too, to visit. But the residential place is only for Audrey herself. Right now it’s the best place for her.’

Mr McGuiness was clever. I crossed my fingers. Tried to send him messages with my eyes. Blinking fast. Then slow. SOS.

‘We’ll see you soon, Audrey,’ he said, looking at me, the interview over.

‘I’ll make sure she’s there, doctor.’ Mum gave him her best smile before she looked at me, sighing, rubbing her hand on the fuzz of my hair, but underneath I could see she wasn’t happy; this wasn’t what she’d planned. ‘We’ll be all right until later, won’t we, Aud?’

I nodded and closed my eyes and sat back in the chair. She wouldn’t let me go. There was no way.

‘I want to come now,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry. It’ll be later today.’ Mr McGuiness’s voice was surprised. ‘But I’m pleased to hear you’re so positive about this, Audrey.’

I leant forward, dug my fingers into my thighs, pressed as hard as I could. Why wasn’t he listening? I could scream. Shout. Maybe that would change something.

‘Please, Mr McGuiness, let me come now,’ I said again, tears near, my voice high and panicky.

He stared at me for a long time.

‘You’ll be admitted today, Audrey. The unit will telephone your mum when the bed is ready. I know this all sounds very daunting, scary even. But try not to worry.’

I looked at him again. Tapped on the side of the chair with my fingernails. The same rhythm. Dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Dot dot dot. Mr McGuiness held my eyes; I saw the question in them, like he was waiting for me to speak. Mum covered my hand with her own.

‘I’ll see you later, Mrs Morgan. I’ll be at the unit when you bring Audrey; we’ll talk more then.’ He held out his hand and Mum took it and then pushed me away. I felt his eyes on us as we left and I knew we’d never see Mr McGuiness again.

‘Right, well, we’ve reached the end of the line here, Aud. If that doctor thinks I’m letting you go into some God-awful mental-health unit without any idea what he’s playing at and without me there to keep an eye on you, he’s got another think coming. They want to take you away from me, but they can’t.’ Mum started the car, reversed out of the car park, barely checking her mirrors.

I didn’t answer her. She was chewing her lips, gnawing at her flesh.

‘It’s time we got a second opinion,’ she said.

Here we go again. Here it comes.

‘Tomorrow. We’ll get up early, get off. I’m sick of this place, all these snobs round here. We’ll pack tonight and hit the road at first light; find a decent doctor, one who knows what they’re talking about. Like I said. I think you
need the ECT. I read up on it, Aud. It’s the best treatment. I’ve been thinking about Scotland,’ she said. ‘What do you reckon?’

There was no point arguing.

Mum wanted us to pack and she sent me upstairs to get the bags. I crouched by her bed and fished around for her luggage, but my fingers met with hard edges and I pulled a heavy cardboard box towards me, stuffed to almost overflowing with papers. Her secret stash. I hadn’t known it was here.

I began to search, fast. What was I looking for? A piece of paper, maybe, with instructions on it:
How to be happy. How to change, grow, begin
. Instead there were scrawled notes in my mum’s writing that covered pages in jagged scribbles, a jumble of phrases. I tried to decipher the words but they made no sense, scrabbling and running like terrified children among ink-spitting bombs. And then, as I dug deeper, I found a stack of envelopes addressed to me. The dates on the postmarks were old, and I was surprised I’d never found this hoard before; Mum must have brought them from our old place and forgotten to hide them. I screwed my fists tight. All those lies about a fire. What had been the point? Who really cared? No one. I prised open the first, carefully, but it fell apart; the tacky sides had long lost their stick, and out slid a card:
10 today!
There was a picture of a girl wearing roller skates, holding a bunch of balloons. Inside there was a ten-pound note and a scrawl:
Happy Birthday, Aud! Love, Dad
.

I opened the next envelope, and the next. They all read
the same, marked birthdays for the last ten years. He hadn’t forgotten, not once. I looked for the most recent, from my birthday in September. That was the only one I couldn’t find, but, still, the rest were mine and Mum had stolen them. Dad thought about me. Dad cared.

I shut my eyes and tried to remember something, more than just this. I held the cards up to my nose and breathed in hard, trying to sniff out the past and the memories I deserved. ‘Dad? What happened? Where are you? I need you now,’ I whispered into the paper. There was no answer, but a memory began, like a twist of thread unravelling fast, spooling away out of my fingers, almost too quick for me to catch. The scene spun: Dad’s face, soft eyes, the strength of his back. I’m riding high on his shoulders, way above the world, the sun tickling my face as I scream,
Faster, go faster!
and we gallop down the hill towards the sea somewhere, in an early-morning flash of green and blue light. My dad and me. He holds me tight. He won’t let go. I will not fall. We are alive and he loves me. For a few seconds, that much I know.

I wanted more: letters, a number, an address. Here were the old articles about me, from way back, printed in the local news. I glanced over them and grabbed at another pile. Peter’s birth certificate: father unknown. Mum’s passport, out of date. In the picture she had long hair hanging in corkscrew curls, and she gazed into the camera with accusing eyes. I swung round, scared all of a sudden that she was standing there, watching me ransack her private stuff.

No, I was still alone. My heart slowed and I dived again
into the box. There was a fat wallet of papers, wedged at the bottom. I eased it free and began to read. The bundle contained old medical records, I realized: not mine but Mum’s, dating back to the 1990s. My fingers trembled as I flicked through the pages and tried to piece together the information. There were notes about her morning sickness, her trips to the doctor, the hospitalization for high blood pressure, an early emergency Caesarean. There were so many pages, so much to understand, and I didn’t have time. I flicked through, searching for something, and then towards the end of the folder I saw the words ‘
factitious disorder
’ followed by a question mark, a follow-up recommended. The file ended there and I knew Mum had stolen it. And I knew why.

‘Aud?’ she shouted. ‘What are you doing up there, Aud?’

‘Nothing,’ I called, and with fumbling, terrified fingers I jammed everything back into the box, shoving it into place.

That afternoon, as we stuffed bags full of clothes and things Mum said she needed to keep, I tried to think. Peter kept looking at me, casting nervous, wary glances.

‘I like my school, Aud,’ he said, ‘and Jake said he’d be my best friend and I could play with him at lunchtime.’

‘I know, Pete. I’m sorry.’ I packed his little bag of toys and clothes, and couldn’t find any other words. He began to throw his stones against the wall and I didn’t tell him to stop.

The phone rang. It’d be the ward. I scrambled up but Mum got there before I could, and I strained to hear, leaning over the rickety banister.

‘Wonderful, yes; we’ll be along soon, thank you,’ she lied, before slamming down the receiver and striding back up the stairs.

‘Come on – get a move on, Aud. You’ve got enough stuff there, haven’t you?’ She grabbed my bag out of my hands and an armful of Peter’s things. ‘Let’s get this lot in the car.’

As we packed the bags into the boot it started to rain. Big fat drops fell from the heavy, bursting sky.

‘Typical,’ Mum muttered, slamming the door shut, nearly catching Peter’s arm. ‘Get to bed now, you two. We’ve got an early start.’

The phone rang on and off throughout the evening. There was no way to answer without Mum knowing. Even if I did, what would I say?

When the flat was quiet, I got out of bed and pulled on a jumper and tracksuit bottoms, breathing heavily, hard.

We needed to do something and do it now. Mr McGuiness couldn’t help me, Leo couldn’t help me, no one could. I had to do it for myself and for Peter. I had to stop this.

The floorboards creaked under my feet, just a little, and I edged to the wall and inched along. I stopped in the hallway and listened at the Thing’s door. Her breathing was slow and deep, a snore rattled in her throat now and then. I pushed the door open, just a touch. She looked different asleep. Tired. But not peaceful; her mouth slack, twisting on silent words every now and then, chewing them over, preparing her lies. I leant over her. What did she think? What happened in her mind to make her believe that she
could hurt me forever? A sob rose in my throat, and I covered my mouth, tried to stifle the noise. Too late. She turned, moaned, and I inched back away from her.

I crept out of the room. Downstairs I opened the cupboard in the kitchen, Mum’s medicine store, and removed the tubs of pills, lining them up on the table. I sat at the computer, assembling my proof.

Confronted with the glare of the screen, my eyes ached. I squinted, typed with one finger:

Lithium

Fluoxetine

Diazepam

Olanzapine

Risperidone

Some had been prescribed. Others were Mum’s gift to me: her love, her care.
Take this, Aud, you’ll feel better. If you don’t take your pills, you’ll never be well. Come on, love, just one more
. I’d swallowed and choked and swallowed again, thinking one day, one day, it would stop.

And my body’s revolt, its anxious twist into silence and suffering, it had all been a trick and a lie.