A Special Relationship (26 page)

I didn’t react.

‘Sally, I’m going to ask you again. Will you please sit up, or should these gentlemen give you assistance?’

A pause. I could discern the threat lurking behind her even-tempered voice. I sat up.

‘Good, very good,’ Nurse Shaw said. ‘Now do you think you could get down off the bed?’

I hesitated. Nurse Shaw tilted her head slightly, and the two orderlies were on either side of me. One of them whispered, ‘Come on, luv’ – his voice uncomfortable, almost a little beseeching. I let them help me down, and on to the bed. Then, without a word, they returned to the gurney and steered it out of the room.

‘Right then,’ Nurse Shaw said. ‘Let me explain a few things about the unit …’

The unit.

‘First of all, your baby is in the ward around ten paces down the corridor from here. So, you can have complete access to him whenever you want, twenty-four hours a day. And you can also bring him in here with you … though we do prefer if he sleeps in the ward, as it will allow you to get some much-needed rest.’

And it will allow you to keep him out of my clutches …

‘Now, the next thing that’s important to realize is that you’re not a prisoner here. Because, unlike some individuals in the unit, you haven’t been sectioned …’

Sectioned rhymes with dissection
….

‘So if you want to go for a walk, or leave the unit for whatever reason, there’s no problem whatsoever. All we ask is that you inform the ward sister on duty that you’re leaving …’

Because the front door’s barred at all times … and also because we don’t want some ga-ga dame like yourself running off with the baby … especially since you want to do him so much harm.

‘Any questions?’

I shook my head.

‘Fine. Now you’ll find a hospital nightgown in the locker by the bed, so if you wouldn’t mind changing into that, I’ll see to it that your clothes are given a good wash.’

Because I spewed up all over them.

‘And then, I gather it’s been a while since you’ve eaten, so I’ll have some food sent up straight away. But before all that, would you like to check in on your son?’

Long pause. Finally, I shook my head. Nurse Shaw was reasonableness itself.

‘No problem whatsoever. But do remember – to see him, all you have to do is ring the call bell by the side of the bed.’

But why would he want to see me? Especially after I poisoned him. No wonder he always cried around me. From the start, he could sense my antipathy towards him.

‘Oh, one final thing: the unit psychiatrist, Dr Rodale, will be in to see you in about two hours. All right?’

I can’t wait.

‘Well then, that’s everything covered. So I’ll leave you to get changed, and then I’ll have one of my colleagues come back with lunch very shortly.’

Nurse Shaw left. I lay on the bed, not moving. Time went by. Nurse Shaw returned.

‘Need some help changing, Sally?’

I sat up and started stripping off my clothes.

‘That’s good,’ Nurse Shaw said, and left.

The hospital nightgown stank of bleach and felt scratchy against the skin. I rolled up my street clothes into a big ball and shoved them into the locker. Then I crawled in between the equally scratchy sheets, and shut my eyes, and hoped for sleep. Instead, the door opened. A plumpish young nurse in her early twenties came in, Patterson on her name plate.

‘G’day’

Australian.

‘You all right?’

I said nothing.

‘No worries. Lunch here.’

She was having a one-way conversation with a catatonic. But there was nothing I could do about it. I’d entered yet another facet of this strange landscape – in which mere speech suddenly seemed impossible, or somehow beyond my grasp.

The nurse placed the lunch tray on to the sliding table positioned next to the bed. She eased it over. I lay there and did nothing. The nurse smiled at me, hoping to get a response.

‘Cat got your tongue? Tongue got your cat?’

I shut my eyes.

‘All right, all right – it was a dumb joke,’ she said. ‘But you’ve still got to eat. I mean, your roommate stopped eating for more than five days. And then …’

She cut herself off, as if she was about to reveal something she didn’t want me to hear. Or, at least, not yet.

‘But you’re going to tuck into this lunch, aren’t you? Or, at least, have a drink of something.’

I reached out for the tray. I took the glass of water. I brought it to my mouth. I drank a little while still in a prone position, which meant that some of the water ran down my face and on to the bedclothes. Then I put the glass back on the tray.

‘Atta girl,’ the nurse said. ‘Now how about a little tucker?’

I wanted to smile at the use of bush jargon in a South London hospital. But I couldn’t do a damn miserable thing except lie there, feeling like a general all-purpose idiot.

‘Tell you what. Why don’t I just leave lunch here and come back in half an hour, eh? But, please, do yourself a favour and munch on something.’

But how can I eat when I can’t eat. Don’t you see that? Doesn’t that make completely logical sense to you?

Half-an-hour later, she was back. And she didn’t like the sight of the untouched lunch tray.

‘Oh come on,’ she said, still sounding chirpy as hell. ‘You’ve got to want something in your turn, don’t you?’

No. I want nothing. Because I want to shrivel. Like a prune. Do everyone a huge service and disappear from view. Permanently.

She sat down on the bed and squeezed my arm.

‘I know this is all really crap – and that you’re in one of those “circumstances beyond your control” things. But a word of warning – the Doc is coming by to see you in about an hour. And she takes a really dim view of postnatal anorexia, eh? If you don’t believe me, talk to your roomie when they bring her back from theatre. So do yourself a favour – and at least take a bloody bite out of the apple before the Doc shows up.’

But to bite an apple I have to bite an apple. Get it?

The doctor was a woman in her late forties. Very tall, very plain, with mid length brown hair sensibly cut, wearing a sensible suit under her white hospital coat, with sensible bi-focals on the end of her nose. Everything about her exuded high rationality – and a take-no-crap view of things. She immediately worried me.

‘Ms Goodchild –
Sally
– I’m Dr Rodale, the unit’s psychiatrist.’

She proffered her hand.

But to take your hand I have to take your hand.

She smiled tightly at my inability to make the necessary social gesture.

‘Right then,’ she said, pulling up a chair next to my bed, then reaching into her briefcase for a clipboard and a pen. ‘Let’s try to make a start …’

It was she who made a start – asking me to verify my age, whether this was my first child, my first experience of depression and/or the first time I had ever gone silent like this. She also had gathered – from looking at Jack’s chart – that his had been a traumatic delivery, and was wondering if this had impacted on my mental health … blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah …

Now what was interesting to me about Dr Rodale’s one-way interrogation was the briskness of her inquiry, and the way she ploughed on even when I refused to answer her. And it struck me that – though she may have been a shrink – she wasn’t of the touchy-feely
let’s talk to your inner child
school of psychotherapy. No, she was simply after the necessary information to work out the sort of treatment I needed.

There was a problem, however – I wasn’t responding to her questions. Something she picked up rather quickly.

‘Now Sally’ she finally said after getting nowhere on the answer front, ‘I am well aware that you
can
hear me and that you recognize your surroundings, your situation, and the effect you are having on others. Which means that your refusal to talk must be regarded as psychosomatic in nature.’

A tight smile.

‘However, if you do feel that you simply cannot talk at the moment, so be it. Do understand, though, that in order for me to render a proper diagnosis – and prescribe an appropriate course of treatment – you
will
have to answer my questions. So, shall we start over again?’

I said nothing. She reiterated her checklists of questions. Halfway through her list, I shifted position in the bed and turned away from her, showing her my back. I kept my back to her. She stood up and brought her chair around to the other side of the bed.

‘There now, we can see each other again.’

I flipped over and showed her my back again. Dr Rodale exhaled a long, weary breath.

‘All you are doing, Ms Goodchild, is impeding the speed of your recovery – and increasing the amount of time you will be spending with us. However, once again, I cannot force you to answer my simple medical questions. The choice is yours. For the moment, anyway. Just as you can decide whether or not to eat. But, as you well know, you cannot live without food. So if you continue to refuse food, that choice may well be taken care of for you.

‘However, I do see from your notes that your GP prescribed a mild sedative to help you sleep. I am going to ask the nurse to administer the same dose to you this evening. And when I return to see you again tomorrow, I do hope we will be able to make better progress than today. Good afternoon.’

Around five minutes after she left, the doors swung open and I met my roommate. Actually I didn’t meet her – as she was in a state of post-operative coma. Or, at least, I presumed she was suffering from post-operative
something
– as she was brought in on a gurney, and had a large bandage wrapped around her skull. Though I was still lying prone on my bed, I could see that she was a black woman around my age. Nurse Patterson helped the orderlies get the gurney into position. Once they left, she read her chart, checked her pulse, and rearranged her bedclothes. Then, seeing me staring at her, she said, ‘Her name’s Agnes. Her little boy, Charlie, is in the ward with your guy. You’ll probably have a bit to talk about when she comes ‘round – because she’s been through what you’re going through. In fact, she’s
still
going through it – which is a real shame, but there you are. There’s no rhyme or reason to the dance you’re dancing. It’s just a matter of bringing it under control before it dances you right into serious physical trouble – which is what happened with poor Agnes here. But hey, let her tell you all about it. Very bright woman, our Agnes – a senior civil servant. But hey, that’s the thing about illness – it doesn’t give a hoot who you are, right?’

She came over and sat down on my bed again. I so wished she wouldn’t do that.

‘And while we’re on the subject of bad things happening to good people – don’t you love that expression? – I’m going to let you in on a little secret: you did not make the best impression with the Doc. And she is definitely the sort of doctor with whom you want to cooperate, if you take my meaning. Very old school. Very into the old chain of command, and knowing what’s best for you – which, I hate to say it, she probably does. Because whatever about her manner – which does get up a lot of people’s noses – she does know exactly how to snap girls like you out of this mess. Only – take it from me – the road out of here is about five times shorter and easier if you help us to help you … and, yeah, sorry for the dumb cliché. So, come on, let’s try a little food again.’

Hey, don’t you think I want to help you out here? The problem is what the problem is, which is the fact that there is a problem which presents a problem when it comes to addressing said problem because the problem is …

She pulled over the table, and cut off a bit of sandwich for me and brought it to the vicinity of my mouth.

‘Just a couple of fast bites, nothing to it …’

Listen, I know you mean well, but … no, I’m not going to get into it again.

‘Apple? Glass of milk? Couple of our best choice bikkies? Nothing take your fancy?’

Just silence.

‘Well, how about we get you out of the bed and take you in to see Jack. He’s probably due a feed by now …’

This really made me react, as I suddenly clutched the pillow to myself and buried my face in it.

‘Looks like I just put my big foot in it,’ Nurse Patterson said. ‘But hey, the baby needs to eat too, right?’

Her bleeper went off. She glanced at it.

‘That’s me accounted for. Catch you later. And if you need anything, just buzz.’

I needed nothing – and certainly not the arrival, an hour later, of Tony. He was bearing a copy of that day’s
Chronicle
and a festive bag of Liquorice All-Sorts. As he leaned down to kiss me, I saw his watch: 5.12 pm. Guilt must have egged him on to visit so early – a good three hours before he put his pages to bed.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked me.