Goodnight, Beautiful: A Novel (43 page)

Euphoria ran through my veins. Add a few tins of cider and some cannabis to euphoria and you got me, at fifteen.

At fifteen I got pregnant.

I didn’t know when exactly. That’s the thing about those times: I vividly remember the feelings, but rarely the specifics. The edges blur away into nothing in my mind, I have huge gaps in my memory; patches of recollection.

I do know, though, that the father could have been one of three men, because over the course of a month, three different men approached me. I was back down again, feeling awful, barely able to get dressed every day to go to school. One of those men must have seen me going into school, because he waited for me outside the school gates, calling my name, blowing kisses, touching himself. He only left when the PE teacher threatened to call the police. Another one came up behind me in a sweet shop, rubbed himself against me and whispered things in my ear. The third man I saw when I was waiting at a bus stop, and as he came toward me, the grin of recognition on his face told me he was another one. I knew what I’d done. The disgusting things that the second one had whispered in my ear. I turned and ran.

After that I started to get flashes of things. I was in a car while a man’s hands tore at my clothes and crawled over my body. I was in a strange house, with my face pushed into a bed while someone behind me was doing something that hurt more than I could imagine. I had someone on top of me, almost smothering me as he moved back and forth. It was one of those times that I lost my virginity. I never did remember which.

My mother guessed I was pregnant when I skipped two periods. She was too scared of my father finding out to be angry. She took me to the doctor to find out for sure. Our usual doctor was on holiday and the replacement was a rare thing in those days—a woman doctor. When my mother, who I’ll never forget was white as a sheet and shaking all the time, told the doctor
that she thought I was pregnant, the doctor asked my mother to leave us alone. You could tell my mother, in her best coat and carrying her best handbag, didn’t want to go, but she’s of that generation that will do anything anyone in authority tells them.

“Could you be pregnant?” the doctor asked kindly.

I nodded.

“Have you told your boyfriend?” she asked.

“I don’t have one,” I replied.

“Do you know who the father might be?”

I shook my head.

She changed then, became all concerned. “Did somebody hurt you? Force you?”

“I don’t remember,” I told her. “Nothing. I don’t remember things. I don’t remember this happening.”

“Do you forget a lot of things?” she asked.

I told her everything. Once I started talking, I couldn’t stop, it came tumbling out in a jumbled mess, the crying, the dancing, the happiness, the way drinking would be like pouring pure, potent joy down my throat, the gaps in my memory, the flashbacks to those times with those men.

When I finished, she asked me more questions. So many questions.

And I thought … I don’t know, I hoped, I suppose, that at the end of it there’d be a simple prescription for antibiotics, or she would say that in a couple of years I’d grow out of it, like the other doctors had said.

Instead, she ended my life. She told me, told my mother, in words that we could both understand, that I wasn’t “normal,” that I was ill in the head, that I was a freak of nature. No, she didn’t say that, of course she didn’t. She went out of her
way to say that it wasn’t my fault, more people than we could imagine had what I had, that this wouldn’t stop me leading a normal life.

I was fifteen, all I wanted was to fit in, be like everyone else, and now she was telling me that would never happen. I was marked. Branded.

She wasn’t a hundred percent sure since it wasn’t her area of expertise, but would refer me to a psychiatrist, they would do more tests, they would be able to tell for sure—as sure as they’d ever be—and they could prescribe the right medication.

I was willing to go along with it then. I had heard the word “medication,” and I knew then that I would get better. This would all become a horrible memory, something to lock away in my past. All I had to do was be a good girl, go along with this, get the tablets, get better. My father was willing to pay to see a psychiatrist because it would all happen quicker. We could get the tablets down my throat and I would stop being the thorn in his side.

My parents waited patiently outside the psychiatrist’s office, knowing it was worth it. I waited patiently inside the psychiatrist’s office, answering question after question, doing everything he asked because then I would be normal again.

I don’t know who out of my parents and me was more upset when we discovered that “medication” was forever. Medication meant regular blood tests, constant visits to the doctor, the possible need to add more tablets as time went on. Medication wasn’t a quick fix. Or even a fix. It was maintenance. It was to stop it—me—spiraling out of control in either direction.

On top of that, they wanted me to talk about how I felt to this man, this psychiatrist.

How are you supposed to feel when you’ve been told you’re
mentally ill and you’ve been handed a life sentence of pills, pills, doctors and pills?

My mother sent me to live with my aunt so, she told my father, I would have the chance to get used to all this. But it was really to take care of the other problem. To further empty me out.

And because my father was more loath to pay a psychiatrist (“quack”) than I was to talk to one, he agreed.

When I came back, another term was introduced into my life: “suicide watch.” After that, I started to live in a prison with no locked doors. My every move was scrutinized. I had to take tablets in front of my keepers. Everyone knew what was best for me but no one ever asked what I thought. What I wanted.

I know they were just looking after me, but no one seemed to consider that I may well have agreed with them. I may have needed them to watch me carefully, but once in a while someone should have
asked.

No one was more shocked than me that they let me go to London to college, but all those years of learned dependence and its resulting docility must have convinced them I was safe to unleash upon the world. I made it. I only came close to the edge a few times, I only tried to stop the gray a few times. I was fine. A routine, exercise, medication, looking after myself, not doing too much or hoping for too much paid off.

I was extra careful with sex. I had boyfriends and we always used condoms because I never told them I was on the Pill. I never wanted to risk getting pregnant again. If I did, I might have to sacrifice my medication, my equilibrium, fragile as it was, for nine months to ensure the baby was born healthy. Or, worse, it might turn out like me.

I told Mal I couldn’t have children because it was easier than
explaining that I didn’t want to risk having children. He knew all about my condition, all about the things I had done while I was in the manic phases, but I didn’t want him to hope I would change my mind. I would change my mind, obviously I would, but if I had a lie to keep me locked to my decision, I wouldn’t be tempted to try to have a baby.

What I have is passed on genetically, they think. Or it runs in families. Whatever it is, however it is explained, I did not want to pass this on to someone else. It was a chance I did not want to take. Even if it was the smallest chance, I didn’t want to take it, especially because it runs in Mal’s family, too. The odds were not in my favor.

I saw what my illness did to my parents. How it dragged peace, happiness and certainty from my mother; how it coiled resentment, bitterness and fear into my father. It cleaved them apart with every incident. I did not want that for Mal and me.

Then I saw the woman and the boy in the supermarket and I wanted a baby. I couldn’t have one, so back to suicide watch. When I told Mal, he tried to fix it because he always tries to fix things. Even the things we should not try to fix.

“I’m the person who desperately wanted a baby,” I say to Carole.

“Pardon?” she asks. She has been so still and silent all this time, revisiting my history without a hint of judgment crossing her face. I have been studying her carefully, waiting for the moment a revelation will shock her into judging me, but it hasn’t happened. It hasn’t come.

“At the dinner party, remember I said someone close to us wanted a baby? That was me. I was the one. Mal’s friend, his best friend from childhood—”

“The black woman you introduced me to at the wedding?”

“Yeah. She agreed to have a baby for us. And then I got scared and jealous and I changed my mind and I changed Mal’s mind and forced him to choose, but she had the baby anyway. She moved away and had the baby.”

Carole frowns, her face a corrugated mass of confusion. “And he’s going to die?”

“The doctors think so, yes. Very soon by the sound of it. Mal’s there now, to see him before … before it happens.”

“You’ve never met this boy?”

I shake my head.

Her frown deepens all the lines of her face as she stubs out a cigarette. “I still don’t understand, how is any of this your fault?”

Why can’t she see what is so obvious to me?

“If I hadn’t lied, Nova would never have had Mal’s baby and then he wouldn’t be about to die. If I hadn’t lied, none of them would be going through this because Leo would never have been born.”

“Oh, Stephie.” Carole scrapes back her chair as she gets to her feet and comes to me, enveloping me in her arms and bosom and musky scent. “If up was down, we’d all be living in Australia.”

“But—”

“You’re feeling guilty, that’s all. None of this is your fault. I hate to break it to you so bluntly, but you’re not omnipotent. You don’t control the order of the universe. We could all go back and ‘if’ better all the things we’ve done. If I hadn’t felt so insecure about my looks and being a frumpy old housewife, I wouldn’t have let myself be seduced by Vince’s best friend and I wouldn’t always be looking at Sophie and wondering who her daddy really is.”

My jaw hits the table. “You and Dan?”

“Yup, but let’s not talk about that. Ever, actually. Stephie, babe, you must be twisting yourself up in knots over this because you feel so powerless. Being here all alone all day can’t help. It’s really not your fault.”

“I don’t want him to die.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I still miss him. Even though I never knew him, and it’s my fault he isn’t mine, I still miss him. Almost every day. I pretend I don’t, but I do. So much.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“He’s the hole in our lives. And if he dies … I couldn’t bear it. It’ll destroy Mal and it’ll do the same to me.”

“I know, babe, I know.”

“I want him to be all right.”

“This is what we’ll do,” Carole says, suddenly all business. “You’ll ring Mal and ask him how Leo is. That’s his name, right, Leo? Right, you ring Mal and ask him and say you’re worried and is it all right if Mal calls you the second there is any change.”

“He won’t. I was such a cow to him on the phone the other day that he hasn’t even called me since because he’s so angry.”

“No, Mal’s not like that. He’s probably just confused and scared, too. Just tell him how scared you are. And then pack some stuff up and come and stay with us until Mal comes back.”

“But I don’t know when that will be.”

“Doesn’t matter. The last thing you need right now is to be on your own.”

I sniff back my tears, and let her stroke back the strands of my hair that have become matted with the wetness on my face. “Does that sound like a plan?” she asks.

I nod.

“Good.”

“Thank you, Carole. Thank you for listening and for being so nice to me.”

She shakes her head. “Shut up thanking me. That’s what being friends is all about, you don’t have to thank me for it.”

Is that what being friends is all about? The closest thing I had to friendship that went beyond dinner parties and jogging and exchanging the odd phone call was what Nova tried to create with me. And that was always one-sided—she shared with me but I would never dream of sharing with her. I kept her at arm’s length for obvious reasons.

“We may seem a bit shallow in our group, but we would always be there for each other in a crisis,” Carole says. “You know that, don’t you?”

I stare at her, blankly; I’ve never considered it a possibility. I would never even dream of telling them things that were a bit unpleasant, let alone sharing a crisis. Under normal circumstances, if Mal was here, I wouldn’t have told her about myself to help stop what I could see was happening. I would never have told anyone.

“
Don’t
you?” she repeats, horror spiking in her eyes and on her face. “My God, Stephie. I’ve always thought you were the most sorted and settled person out of everyone, but you’re just as fucked up as the rest of us.”

“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”

“Oh, yes I do. Now I can stop thinking everyone out there is better off than me. Everyone, and I mean
everyone
, is messed up in their own way. I love that. Come on, now, chop, chop. Get some stuff together. Let’s hit the road.”

Normally, I hate people taking over, telling me what to do, but at this moment, when all around me is falling apart, there is nothing better. Nothing sweeter and more soothing. All the
more because she doesn’t seem to care what I told her about myself. I told someone and she didn’t change how she felt about me. She isn’t even worried about having me around her children. She thinks I am as fucked up as her. She thinks I am what I’ve always wanted to be: normal.

“On the way back to mine,” she says as she loads our tea things in the sink, “I’ll stop off at church, light a candle, say a prayer. I’m sure his mother will appreciate it.”

I
haven’t been praying.

Mum has, I know. I think that’s all she does when she isn’t talking—crochet and pray. Everyone else probably has as well, but not me. I haven’t been praying, because I haven’t reached there yet.

If I pray, I won’t be asking God to make Leo better, but for Him to do what is best for Leo. Not best for me, but best for Leo. And for Him to look after Leo when he leaves here.