Saving Grace (17 page)

‘You look terrible, Grace. When are you going to see a doctor?’

Grace’s mouth is set in a sharp line. ‘Thank you, Ted. There’s nothing like having your husband tell you how awful you look to make you feel better.’ She turns to go back upstairs, her shoulders hunched and tense.

‘Grace! I wasn’t saying anything of the kind. Don’t be so silly . . .’

‘Don’t tell me I’m being silly,’ she says, recognizing she is being unreasonable even as she is being unreasonable, not knowing how to change it, how to get out of this mood that has just descended.

There is a long, awkward silence as Ted just looks at her. ‘I’m going out,’ she says, grabbing her bag. ‘I’m going to town. I’ll be back later.’

She walks out the door, stopping suddenly as she realizes her car is gone. They have a number of cars – Ted drives a newish Volvo Estate, she has a small Mercedes that she loves; there is a very old Volvo they carted Clemmie and her friends around in when they were small that they have never got rid of, and a pickup truck that has always been surprisingly useful.

All the other cars are parked where they always are, except for her Mercedes.

‘Ted? Where’s my car? I need to go out.’

‘I think Beth took it.’ Ted seems nervous, halting. ‘I think she may have taken it to the car wash.’

‘It didn’t need a wash,’ Grace says. ‘It’s
my
car. No one drives my car without asking me. Oh, for God’s sake.’ Her voice rises with irritation.

‘Grace, it’s fine. Text her and see when she’ll be back, or take my car. Take the Suburban. It’s a car, and it’s not like we don’t have alternatives for you to drive. Please, Grace. Calm down.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’ Grace is steely cold. ‘I don’t want to drive the Suburban and I hate your car. You know I hate driving your car. Who gave her permission to drive my car?’

Ted looks at her, aghast, just as the Mercedes pulls back down the driveway.

‘See!’ Ted’s whole body sinks in relief. ‘I told you she wouldn’t be long.’

Grace says nothing, just marches out of the house and towards the car as Beth climbs out of it, dry-cleaning in hand.

‘Beth.’ Grace attempts to hide her sudden anger, realizing now how inappropriate it is. ‘Please do not take my car without checking with me first.’

Beth’s face falls. ‘I’m so sorry!’ She is clearly mortified. ‘I just noticed you had spilled some dirt from the plants you’ve been carting over to Harmont House, and I took it up to the car wash to have them clean it. But you’re right. I should never have done it without your permission. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you for doing that.’ Grace attempts to modify her tone. ‘It was very thoughtful. I’m just asking that you don’t take my car without checking I’m not using it.’

‘Of course,’ says Beth. ‘It won’t happen again.’

Grace nods, not trusting herself to speak. As she drives off to Harmont House, she starts to feel increasingly stupid. Embarrassed. Beth was only trying to help; why did she feel so . . . violated? How did she reach a point when something so insignificant sent her not only into a temper, but almost to tears?

It must be hormonal. It has to be hormonal, for it is so unlike her. There are other things that have started happening. Night sweats. Her period, still there, but erratic. Sometimes missing for months at a time, sometimes every two weeks.

She hasn’t yet been to see a doctor, for she is so averse to taking medicine unless it is absolutely necessary. At various times in her life, it has been absolutely necessary, but only antibiotics for a cold that developed into a sinus infection or an ear infection that wouldn’t get better by itself.

One of the first signs that something is a little wrong is when Grace stops cooking. She can’t stop altogether, not anymore, not when she has obligations to fulfill, but there isn’t the same pleasure there usually is; it is more of a chore that she tries to get done as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Here today, at Harmont House, she brings with her the ingredients for a ‘paleo’ carrot cake. No wheat flour, for two of the women now have an intolerance, and while usually she would be excited at trying a new recipe, today she just wants to be in and out, back to the safety of her house.

There have been times when she has been prescribed an antidepressant. She has hated taking it, hating having to admit there may be something wrong, terrified that she has somehow inherited her mother’s illness, and has only ever used it as a temporary panacea.

These mood swings, however much she hates to admit it, remind her of her mother. She used to be certain she had not inherited her mother’s illness. She has never experienced mania, nor anything like it, and her depressions are not like her mother’s – not enough to send her to bed for months at a time. Hers feel like the excitement and joy have been pulled out of life, leaving it flat, colourless, dull. During those times, she is sad, yes, but she takes the pills, they make her feel better, and soon she
is
better. Her mother would be flattened for months, and mania? Grace has never,
thank God
, had it.

But this anger is new or, at least, the regularity of this anger is. Despite her certainty about the approaching menopause, she is nervous about taking hormones, even the ones her body may need to help regulate her moods.

Grace has changed her diet completely, hoping, believing, that she can improve their health – both hers and Ted’s – by changing their nutrition. He is on Lipitor, but she is convinced she can lower his cholesterol naturally, eventually hoping to take him off. She now has two pill boxes in the kitchen, labelled for each day of the week, filled to the brim with supplements to keep them in optimum health, help stave off the inevitable.

Vitamin D, omega-3s, Vitamin E, B-12, choline and inositol, SAMe, zinc, DHEA. Every day she pops handfuls of these pills, but right now, driving to Harmont House, foggy-headed after her lengthy afternoon sleep and embarrassed at being so ridiculous about Beth trying to do something nice for her, Grace starts to wonder if any of it is working.

Grace starts to wonder if Ted may be right. Maybe she is going crazy after all.

W
hen she first moved to the United States, Grace would sit, mesmerized, in front of the television screen, watching adverts for drugs, desperate patients encouraged to beg their doctors for pills, despite the side effects that may include, it seemed, certain death.

She remembers telling Lydia, on one of her trips home, how hilarious she found them. Patrick had just returned from a trip to Los Angeles, and he immediately adopted the voiceover, warning them all of certain death should they take that aspirin. Patrick and Grace had laughed more than the others, but as hilarious as she found them then, she now finds them frightening.

She has never been on anything for any period of time, and has never, ever countenanced seeing a therapist. Therapists seem so . . .
American
. What good could it possibly do to sit in someone’s office week after week and pour out your woes? How self-indulgent! What an unwanted luxury! And if you didn’t have woes, what then? Who wants to sit in a therapist’s office and talk about the good stuff? If you didn’t have woes, you would surely have to create them.

Grace’s life has always been pretty good, thank you very much. She will admit there have certainly been times when she has been depressed – Clemmie leaving home was one of her lowest moments – but her remedy has always worked: stay home for a while, sleep a bit more, drink more cups of tea and wait for it to pass.

Which is why she is currently sitting in the waiting room of esteemed psychiatrist, Dr Frank Ellery, wondering what the hell she is doing here.

Ted just wouldn’t let the subject drop. It wasn’t like her to lose her temper, he said. It wasn’t like her to be up all night, then in bed for hours during the day. He was worried about her.
Beth
was worried about her.
Clemmie
was worried about her.

This last part made her sit up and take notice. If Clemmie is worried about her, Clemmie who is troubled by nothing, then perhaps there
is
something to worry about. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing to talk to someone. Just talk. Just see if that might help.

She would get her hormones checked too. Would make an appointment with the endocrinologist this afternoon, when she finished with Dr Frank Ellery. It was also time for her colonoscopy. And soon, a mammogram.

This was when she missed living in England. For all she knew, it had changed entirely, but growing up she never remembered her parents going to the doctor, and certainly never for checkups.

Over here, the older she gets, the more tests there are. None of them show anything, ever. She doesn’t believe they ever will, believes it to be a precious waste of everyone’s time.

And yet . . . and yet . . . so many friends have been diagnosed with breast cancer, caught at a routine annual mammogram. Ten years ago Sybil had come back from Mexico with what she presumed was a stomach bug, or parasite, picked up while she was there. Her doctor insisted on a colonoscopy, discovering that it was indeed giardia, and while he was there, he removed two large polyps. Both of which turned out to be precancerous. At thirty-seven. Long before Sybil was expected or due to even start thinking about her colon.

It wasn’t that Grace didn’t expect the bad stuff to happen, it was that she didn’t expect it to happen to
her
.

She only agreed to this, this therapy, because she doesn’t want Clemmie to worry about her, and because Ted had suggested Dr Frank Ellery – and they had met him at a dinner party last year. Surprisingly, she had felt instantly comfortable with him, had thought that if she were to ever wish to see a psychiatrist, he would be exactly the sort of psychiatrist she would choose.

And now here she is. Nervously flicking through a very old copy of
Town & Country
that she read months ago, trying to still her beating heart, as the internal door opens and there he is. The good doctor, offering her an outstretched hand and a warm smile as he tells her how delighted he is to see her again.

‘I
know you talked to my husband,’ Grace says nervously. ‘Thank you for asking my permission to do that. I’m sure he’s told you a little of what’s going on.’

‘He did,’ says Frank – he asked her to call him Frank – saying nothing further, examining her with limpid eyes.

Grace wants to ask exactly what Ted said, but knows it is unlikely he will divulge much. She probably shouldn’t ask. It would be pointless.

‘What did he tell you?’

An empathic expression as Frank looks at her, pools of understanding and compassion in his eyes. ‘He said he’s very worried about you. That you haven’t seemed like yourself. I was hoping we could talk more about that.’

Grace takes a deep breath, thinking she has nothing to say. All morning she has walked around the house wondering what it is she should be talking about in the psychiatrist’s office, constantly coming up blank. They would sit in awkward silence, she thought. She would perhaps tell him a little about her life, but not much, for how could she reveal her self, her true self, to a stranger? How could she allow herself that vulnerability with someone she doesn’t know?

And here she is. Talking, suddenly. Her words tripping over themselves in relief at finally having someone to talk to.

‘I feel like I’m going crazy,’ she says. ‘I’ve always been so calm, so happy, and right now the tiniest thing sets me off in tears. I’ve always loved my life, but all I want to do is go to bed and crawl under the covers. And I know I’ve been flying off the handle at the slightest provocation. I know how horrible I’m being, but even when I’m in it, I just don’t know how to stop myself and I can’t stand feeling this way.’

Each time she finishes, or thinks she’d finished, Frank looks at her, nodding, as if he understands exactly, but
exactly
, what she is going through, as if he has felt the precise pain she feels. As if, were professional boundaries not in place, he would gather her in his arms and cradle her like a baby, rocking her to safety and warmth. As if the only thing he cares about, the only thing he wants in the world, is to make Grace better.

She talks, and cries, and laughs. She cries, and laughs, and talks. He has set aside two hours for this first session, and it flies by, Grace barely stopping for breath, aware only that she is in the presence of a warmth and compassion so strong, it feels as if she has come home.

‘I’m sorry,’ Frank says when the two hours are up. ‘We have to bring it to a close. How do you feel now?’

‘Oh God!’ Grace sits back with an embarrassed laugh, running her hands through her hair. ‘I feel . . . stunned. I can’t believe how much I had to say. I had no idea. How do I feel? I feel good. Really good! Talking to someone who understands! I never realized how powerful that could be. And I feel . . .’ Tears spring into her eyes. ‘Relieved. I feel relieved. I guess I never realized how alone I’ve been. Just being here and talking to you makes me feel I don’t have to do it all alone.’

‘That’s right. You don’t. Would you like to make another appointment, or perhaps think about it?’

‘Definitely another appointment. Tomorrow?’ Grace says, only partly joking, before they agree to a twice-weekly schedule.