Crying for Help (26 page)

‘You’re not abandoning her, Casey. You’re supporting her. And before you ask, I’ve already spoken to the people I need to speak to. She’s staying in hospital for a few days, while she recovers from her injuries, and then the likelihood is, subject to the psychiatrist’s assessment, that she’ll be transferred to a specialist adolescent mental health unit, where she can get the treatment she so badly needs.’

I’d had little experience of such places, though I did remember from my time running the unit in school about a girl – a tragic case; a chronically sick anorexic – and she’d come through it. Got better. Made it back to us. I pulled out another tissue and blew my nose, which felt as if it must be scarlet. ‘And they think she’ll recover?’

‘Probably too early to say. But from the conversations I’ve had, that doesn’t seem an unreasonable prognosis, not with the right support …’

‘But what
is
wrong with her? Does it have a name?
Is
it to do with her Addison’s? I wish I knew more about all this stuff.’

‘Casey, you can’t know everything.’

‘But
is
it? Or is it something else? Is she schizophrenic? Psychotic?’ I was just grabbing words and I knew it. It was probably so much more complex than that.

‘Who d’you think I am?’ John said. ‘Doctor bloody Kildare?!’ His features softened then. ‘Look,’ he said, as I finished my coffee and told him I’d better think about heading off. ‘Don’t agonise, okay? Whatever it turns out to be – and my hunch is that it’ll be a mixture of all sorts of pressures – you can still support Sophia. Go and visit her every day if you want to. Just do me one favour, okay?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t feel you failed her. Don’t feel
any
of this is your fault. You’re my stars, you and Mike, and I can’t have you wallowing in self-doubt, okay? And one day – and, honest, I’d stake money on this – Sophia herself will know that and be grateful to you. Okay?’ he finished.

‘Okay,’ I said. I suddenly felt so much better. ‘I tell you what, though, John. You might not be Dr bloody Kildare, as you put it. But you’re a brilliant mind reader. Derren Brown, eat your heart out.’

I left smiling, but John had been absolutely right. Little by little, over the last few months, I had lost all confidence in my ability to do what I did. I climbed into the car feeling drained. And though I accepted what he’d said to me, I still wasn’t sure what good I’d really done. I pulled my phone out to call Mike, thinking I’d just touch base with him, but in that instant I decided I needed to speak to someone else. Someone else who, happily, these days, didn’t live too far away.

I checked the time. Just past twelve thirty. That would be perfect.

It was Justin I called, and he answered immediately. ‘Hey, Casey!’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘All the better for speaking to you,’ I told him. ‘Fancy a McDonald’s for lunch?’

Silly question, I thought. Was the Pope Catholic?

It took less than ten minutes for me to drive from John’s office to where Justin now lived with his new foster family, and I arrived just as he turned the corner of the street. He always came home for lunch, and after catching up with, and getting the okay from, his foster mum, Glynis, I drove us both to the closest McEatery.

It had been a while since he’d left us, and though we kept in touch by phone regularly I’d purposely avoided being in touch too much, as it was important he settle with his new family.

But it was so good to see him, it felt like medicine.

He’d slimmed down, and also grown a fair bit since I’d last seen him – at 13 now, he was a good head taller than I was, and looked both well and, most importantly, happy. I felt so proud when he told me he was in the school football team now – one of the things that we’d really tried to engage him in was football; as in playing it, as opposed to sitting at a PlayStation operating the finger controls. I also glowed when he told me how lovely it was to see me. ‘An’ you look just the same, Casey! No older, I swear it.’

‘Oh, you flatterer,’ I teased him. ‘Practising for chatting up the girls?’

I was most thrilled, however, to hear about his little sister – the baby his mother had had when he’d been with us, and whose existence, given how cruelly his mother had abandoned him, caused a lot of the heartache in his already desperate young life. He’d seen her recently, and it seemed regular contact was in place now, and I prayed for that state of affairs to continue.

And when I dropped him back at school it was with a real sense of hope for the future, as a boy waved and jogged across to walk back in with him.

‘So why you up here, anyway?’ Justin wanted to know, as he opened the car door.

I smiled. ‘Honest truth? I just needed one of your big hugs.’

He looked at me for a moment, as he processed the simple statement. Then he leaned across and threw both of his now strong teenage arms around me, completely unselfconsciously, even though his mate was looking on.

‘Sounds like a deal,’ he said, releasing me, and grinning from ear to ear. ‘You get hugs and I get a Big Mac meal. Come again soon!’

And with that, he was gone. And I thought I might cry again, but, instead, a sudden strength flooded through me, which chased all the threatened tears away. Justin was positive proof that I
could
do something useful. It was with a heart so much lighter than it had been in months that I headed back south, to visit Sophia.

She looked beautiful, lying in her hospital bed, asleep. Really beautiful, just like her mother had. And so peaceful. How bloody wretched, I couldn’t help thinking, to find peace of mind only when you were sleeping.

She was still hazy, I’d been told, about what she’d done to herself. She’d had it explained that she’d need to stay in hospital for a couple of weeks, and had apparently accepted this quite meekly. The sister who had greeted me seemed clear on one thing, however: that Sophia knew she was sick and in need of their help.

I didn’t want to wake her, so I just sat nearby, in case she did stir, and contented myself with remembering John’s assurances. I hadn’t failed her. And even if it felt like I had, I was still here for her, and could support her for as long as she needed. If she wanted me to, I could be there.

‘Poor love,’ said a young nurse now, in hushed tones, as she passed. ‘So young and so lovely. Why can’t they see, eh? Everything to live for, yet they can’t seem to see it, can they?’ She looked from Sophia to me, then. ‘Sorry, are you her mum?’

I shook my head. ‘Foster mum.’

The nurse’s expression changed then, as the complicated nature of Sophia’s probable situation became clearer. It wasn’t hard to make the leap, after all. You had a foster mum, you had problems at home. If you had a home at all. Whatever the reason, you weren’t with your real family. But she didn’t enquire further, just sighed a knowing sigh. She’d probably seen all sorts, as well.

I didn’t expect Sophia to wake up because they’d already told me they’d given her a sedative. Time enough, I thought, to face the grim reality of her future when the emotional turmoil of the night’s events – not to mention the implications for her Addison’s management – had been properly addressed.

But just as I stood up, after half an hour or so with her, her eyelids flickered open and once she saw who it was she smiled a funny little smile. It really hit me then, stripped of all the make-up, all the artifice, just how young and how vulnerable she really was.

I placed a hand over hers. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘How you doing, sweetie?’

She blinked. ‘Um, I’m not quite sure,’ she said sleepily. ‘Okay, I think.’ She seemed to ponder. ‘And hungry.’

This was something I could do for her, definitely. ‘I’ll get someone to see about some food for you then, shall I?’

She nodded slightly. ‘That would definitely be good.’

I walked across to the nurse who’d spoken to me earlier, who was now at the nursing station, close by, writing some notes. ‘I know its way past lunchtime,’ I said, ‘but do you think there’s any chance of getting Sophia something to eat? If it’s allowed, that is. Some toast or something, maybe? With Marmite, if you have it. She loves salty things,’ I added. ‘It’s part of her condition.’

The nurse nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure that’s fine.’ She checked a note. ‘She’s not nil by mouth or anything. And we can always do toast,’ she said, smiling at Sophia brightly. She raised her voice a little. ‘Toast, love? We’re famed for our toast on Ward 8, we are.’

I didn’t doubt it. It was a young persons’ unit, full of teenagers. Voracious appetites were probably the order of the day. At least for those recovering, at any rate.

‘There,’ I said, going back to Sophia’s bedside. ‘All sorted. But I’m going to have to leave you to it, now, I’m afraid. Got to get home and start on Mike and Kieron’s tea. Shall I come back tomorrow?’

‘Will you?’ she seemed genuinely keen to hear that.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Right here. Same time, same channel.’ I hovered a moment, unsure whether to do what felt suddenly instinctive. And did it anyway. I leaned over and placed a kiss on her forehead.

‘See you tomorrow, then, Sophia, love,’ I said.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she answered. But then, as I turned to go, she clasped my hand in hers. ‘Sophie,’ she said. ‘Remember?’ Her eyes shone. ‘You said you’d call me Sophie.’

She was one hundred per cent lucid. I knew it. I could
see
it. I felt my throat catch. ‘Absolutely,’ I replied.

In the end, Sophia didn’t make her mother’s funeral. It took place just three days later, and it was decided, in view of everything that had happened, not to tell her. With her still being so weak and emotionally unstable, the professionals felt that to make the trip from the hospital and attend the service, especially with the highly likely family tensions, was too risky – it might cause a marked deterioration in her mental state.

It was then that I think it sunk in just how seriously ill she’d been, and what a long road she had ahead of her to recover.

‘A whole potpourri of stuff,’ was how Dr Shackleton described it to me. She was clinically depressed, had been having acute psychotic episodes, and it had all been symptomatic of what had originally been flagged up as mild sociopathy, but which they now felt was indicative of an extreme stress reaction – not good for her condition, but also not unsurprising, considering the enormous traumas she had been through, together with her continuing guilt over her mother’s ‘death’.

In the end, for all my desire to understand what was happening in Sophia’s head, all that mattered – and it
did
matter – was the general feeling of optimism among the medical professionals that with the right support – psycho-tropic drugs, cognitive, therapeutic, whatever – Sophia
could
be rehabilitated.

But in the meantime, after ten days in hospital, during which I did visit daily, as promised, she was to spend the coming months in an adolescent mental health unit, about an hour or so’s drive from where we lived.

‘So what about these paintings?’ Mike wanted to know, as we got her things together. He’d taken a few days off work to support me, and I couldn’t have been more grateful to have him around. I’d taken up spontaneous random crying as a kind of new hobby, it almost felt like, and it was so unlike me that I even mentioned it to Dr Shackleton when I went down to the surgery to give him Sophia’s now redundant hydrocortisone injection kit to dispose of. His response had been clear. What else did I expect? He reminded me how it was when you’re at home with a new baby: just the emotional whirlwind, the lack of sleep, the anxiety about the future … you’d need a hard heart, he reassured me, not to feel tearful – not after what I’d been through.

I looked at the two canvases Mike was holding up for inspection, the two from Jean that she had chosen to go on her bedroom wall. She also sent a card, bless her, which I knew would please Sophia.

‘The blue one,’ I decided. ‘Put the other one in the box.’

We’d been involved in the whole process, and since almost all Sophia’s worldly goods were with us we had to make the decision for her – which she was happy to leave with us – about which of her things we should bring to the unit, and which were destined, in the short term, for our loft.

‘Funny you should say that,’ Mike said. ‘I would have guessed the exact opposite. But then, that’s what I love most about you, my darling. Always contrary …’

‘You mean mysterious and unpredictable, don’t you?’

‘Nope,’ he said, grinning. ‘Just contrary.’

The whole family had rallied round for the day of Sophia’s move, and I was grateful. Not just because it reminded me just how precious my family were to me, but also because it sent a clear message to Sophia that, even though she was almost alone in the world, in terms of her blood relatives, she would at least know the Watson clan were there for her.

Kieron’s Lauren had made a picture – a montage of snapshots from her
Wicked
party – and Riley had made a lovely hand-painted card, from her and David, including poster-print handprints and footprints from little Levi. And, inspired by this, even Kieron, perhaps the most relieved she no longer lived with us, did something similar with Bob’s paws. It was saying something that the blue paw prints all over the kitchen floor didn’t even make me snappy. They made me smile.

And the adolescent unit, when we saw it, filled me with hope and happy thoughts. It was small, set in lovely gardens, and had a palpable air of optimism. It was nothing like my mind’s eye imaginings of such an establishment: all locked gates and shadowy figures, looking lost and forlorn.

No, I thought, as we unloaded the car of the possessions we’d brought with us, I knew I could rest easy at least on that score.

Sophia had now been told about her mother. But if I was tense about seeing her in the aftermath of that – and I was – I needn’t have worried; so locked in her own troubles, she’d apparently barely registered it. According to John, she had been told the news by her uncle, who’d visited her in hospital, and, apart from commenting to the ward sister that she was ‘glad Mummy was properly asleep now’, she’d displayed nothing in the way of emotion. It’s not sunk in yet, I thought. But then, with her sedated and sick, how could it?

Ironically, as we’d left home, I’d seen marked on our kitchen calendar the next scheduled date she’d been due to go and visit Grace. How much water had passed under all our bridges since I’d written that? An awful lot, most of it turbulent. But now all was peace and calm – even if chemically achieved, as it was in Sophia’s case – and as Mike and I helped her sort out and put away her belongings it felt almost as if she was doing nothing more unusual than arriving at a boarding school for the first day of term. Only with a better room. It was on the first floor, with a view over the surrounding countryside. It would definitely have passed muster for a rural B&B.

‘It is scary,’ she confided in me, again looking and sounding so much more her proper age. ‘All these strangers and all these people asking questions.’

‘You’ll soon settle,’ I told her. ‘And Mike and I will come and visit you again next weekend. By which time I don’t doubt you’ll have made some new friends.’

She lowered her voice. ‘Except they’re all mad here,’ she answered. Then she completely surprised me by nudging me in the ribs and bursting out in great peals of laughter.

‘How do you think she seems?’ I said to Mike when we left her half an hour later, having promised to be back the coming Saturday. ‘She certainly seems to have developed a sense of humour about it all.’

‘Impossible to say,’ he mused. ‘A little odd, a little not-quite-really-with-it. But I suppose that’s to be expected, if she’s on so much medication.’

‘I think she’ll be
fine
,’ I said, looping an arm though his as we walked back downstairs. ‘And I’m not just saying that, love. I really think it.’

And I was doing just that when our progress was arrested by a voice.

‘Mr and Mrs Watson?’ It was a male voice. We turned around. ‘Casey, isn’t it?’ the tall man before us now asked. ‘I’m James Johnson, Sophia’s uncle. I recognised you straight away,’ he went on, gesturing to his head. He half-smiled then, at my obvious confusion. ‘Sophia’s been telling me all about you,’ he explained. ‘And showing me pictures from her memory box. Photos …’ Now he pointed towards my head. ‘I would have recognised you anywhere,’ he said. ‘By the black hair.’

And the lack of inches, I thought, but didn’t say. I looked more carefully at him. You could definitely see the likeness. He looked quite well-to-do. A professional. His suit looked expensive. And I remembered what I’d been told about the family finances.

He looked a little tense, a little embarrassed, though. ‘I just wanted to say thanks. I know we’ve not spoken, but, well, we really are very grateful.’

I wondered about the ‘we’. Which ‘we’ would that be?

‘We’ve just been doing our job,’ Mike said gruffly. I don’t think either of us knew the lie of the land here. But the man shook his head.

‘No, you’ve done
way
more than that.’ He spread his hands. ‘Look, it’s been a mess. It’s still a God-awful mess. But I just wanted to let you know that we’re –
I’m
– extremely grateful. You know the score about what’s happened. Chapter and verse – probably more than I do. But I just wanted to let you know that, well, we all know Sophie owes you her life. As will she, of course, eventually, God willing … but, well, I just wanted to thank you. Whatever else is true about what’s happened in my family, it really matters to me that my sister’s – her mother’s – legacy isn’t another needless death.’

Neither of us had an answer ready to roll when he finished speaking, so some seconds passed while we both tried to work out what to say. In the end it was me who spoke.

‘Thank you,’ I said to him. ‘As Mike says, we were only doing our job, caring for Sophia. But, well, as I say, thanks. I hope it works out for you all.’

‘Me too,’ he said. He actually seemed like a nice, normal man. Perhaps he’d come good after all. Step up, as they say, to the plate. Perhaps he already was. He was
here
. That was the main thing. He had accepted some responsibility. Which was all good. Now the future looked just that bit brighter.

‘Chapter and verse,’ I whispered to Mike as we said goodbye and walked to the car. ‘That’s what we have to say to John Fulshaw next time. That we ain’t not doin’ nuffin’ till we get chapter and verse.’

‘Good luck with that,’ he grinned, getting into the car.

‘That says butter chicken!’ I repeated. ‘Look that’s a double “t”, not an “n”!’

‘It’s definitely my bhuna, mum. Come on, give it here and let me open it.’

‘Be my guest,’ I said to Kieron, ‘but a pound says I’m right!’

It was the following Saturday evening and we were having the best day ever. Mike and I had been up to see Sophia, and spent a perfectly pleasant hour with her in the sunshine, after which we’d gone back to her room – which was now looking more lived in, and I’d been moved to see three things on her little bedside table. A photo of all of us, a get-well card from her granddad and, best of all, a lovely photo of her mother, in a silver frame.

I didn’t know why, but there was something about that collection of items that gave me all the hope I needed to know that, ultimately, all would be well. Or at least she’d have a shot at it – I wasn’t that naïve; nothing in life was certain – but at least the confidence that she was in with a fighting chance.