The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (24 page)

25.

I
move immediately to get us out of there, booking us all on the first available flight.

Greg tells Rachel and Toby we’re going home.

‘Already?’ asks Rachel.

‘Why?’ asks Toby.

‘I’m not feeling the best. The heat – it’s making me tired.’

‘Oh,’ says Toby. ‘So, if we go home will you be able to play with us, again?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘You won’t stay in bed all day?’

‘No.’

‘Is it a deal?’

‘Deal,’ says Greg.

‘Shake on it.’

He shakes.

Toby nods. ‘OK, so, let’s go.’

‘What about the guys?’ asks Rachel. ‘Are they coming back to Dublin, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will we see them there?’

Greg looks at me.

‘Sure,’ I say.

Rachel takes Toby off to pack their things.

Rachel walks ahead of us at the airport, posture perfect, like a mini airhostess, pulling her case behind her. Her sense of purpose gives me hope. Whatever this is, we’re sorting it out.

On the plane, Greg eases back his seat, closes his eyes and opts out. Toby, next to me, is busy with an activity book. Rachel’s
playing
peek-a-boo with Shane, who’s seated in the row in front with his mum and brother.

When we get to Dublin, Kevin is there to pick up his
family
. Shane runs to his dad and is scooped up. When Grace, carrying Jason, reaches Kevin, there’s a tension between them I’ve never noticed before.

Grace turns to me and offers a smile of encouragement. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Thanks, Grace, for everything.’

As I watch them go through the sliding doors, I hope that they’ll be all right.

The rest of us get a taxi, leaving the airport under a grey sky, everyone quiet.

When we get to the house in Dalkey, there’s a crisis. Toby runs to Hilary’s room, expecting her to be there. It’s empty. She’s taken her things. Of course she has. It makes total sense. Not to Toby.

‘But where
is
she?’

It’s Greg who should explain. But he’s downstairs, slumped in a chair.

I squat down to him. ‘Hilary’s working somewhere else now, Toby.’

‘But why?’

‘Well, sometimes in life, a time comes for a change, for people to move on. But other people come instead, like Grace and th
e boys.’

‘They’re gone, too. Everyone goes.’ The corners of his mouth turn down and his eyes fill.

‘No. They’re not gone. You can see them any time you like. They’re kind of like your cousins, really,’ I say, to cheer him up.

‘Really?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Rachel. ‘They’re not our cousins. Because Lucy is not related to us.’

‘Oh,’ says a disappointed Toby.

‘Well, Toby,’ I say, trying to move on from my stupid mistake, ‘your dad’s not gone. Your dad’s still here. He’ll always be here.’

‘Why did Hilary go?’ he asks.

‘Well, it was just time for a change . . .’

‘Not true,’ says Rachel. ‘You asked Dad to fire Hilary,
remember
?’

‘No, Rachel. I didn’t . . .’

‘Forget it,’ she snaps. ‘Come here, Tobes, I’ll look after you. I’m not going anywhere.’ She glares at me as if to say, ‘But
you
will be.’

Grace has made an appointment for Greg with her GP friend, Karl Brennan, who has a special interest in psychiatry. Greg knows nothing of the special interest. And I hope he won’t need it, that this will be something physical. All Greg cares about is discretion and getting it over with.

He wants to go alone. And I have to trust that he’ll get there. He takes a taxi, lacking the energy or concentration to drive.

I can’t stay still from the moment he leaves.

By the time he gets back, the place is spotless; the holiday clothes washed and in the process of being dried, cases put away. He walks past me, into the kitchen.

I follow. He’s standing at the window, staring out.

I go to him. ‘How did it go?’

‘I thought he was supposed to be good,’ he says, looking at me as if I’ve done something wrong. ‘He hadn’t a fucking clue.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He wanted me to see a shrink. A fucking shrink.’

Everything stops.

‘Today. Would you believe that?’

I force the next question. ‘Did he say what he thought it was?’

He doesn’t answer. And, to be honest, I don’t want him to.

We’re stuck.

‘Maybe he’s making a mistake,’ I say, hoping.

‘Of course he is. Bloody quack. I thought Grace knew what she was doing. Why the fuck did she pick him?’

‘Did he think you were depressed?’

He turns to me, his face bitter. ‘Oh, no. Nothing that simple. He thinks I’m
manically
depressed. No, no, sorry. He thinks I’m
bipolar
, the politically correct tag. I mean, who’re they trying to protect? D
o t
hey think that by changing the name it changes what it is? It’
s a joke.’

His anger makes everything clear. He does believe the GP.
Otherwise
he’d simply have dismissed him. He believes him, but he doesn’t want to. And, my God, I don’t blame him. I want to put my arms around him. I want to tell him that everything will be OK. But I’m paralysed. Will it? Bipolar disorder. It seems so huge, like a dark grey rug being thrown over us.

I have to assume he’s going. It’s my only hope of getting him there. ‘What time is your appointment?’

He throws me a look that says, ‘Are you mad?’ ‘I’m not going. Waste of time.’

‘Greg, you have to go. You’ve got this far.’

‘I said I’d go see a doctor and I have.’

‘Yes, but you have to do what he recommends, or else it’s like you haven’t gone at all. I know it sounds like he’s making a mistake. I’m sure he is. But go to the psychiatrist and get the all clear so we can get on with our lives. Please, Greg.’

‘What if he’s right, Lucy? Do you want that? Do you want me to be a maniac who gets depressed?’

‘Greg, you either have this or you don’t. And if you have, let’s just deal with it, OK?’

‘He thinks the psychiatrist will admit me.’

‘To hospital?’

‘St Martha’s Hospital.’ His head lowers. ‘Psychiatric ward.’

This isn’t happening.

‘He wants me to bring my stuff with me in case I have to go in.’

‘When’s your appointment with the psychiatrist?’

‘As soon as I’m ready. He’s expecting me.’

I see now why denial is such a tempting option.

‘What about the children?’ I ask. What will he tell them? Who’ll mind them? And how will they cope with yet another separation, this time from the most important person in their lives? I’ve just told Toby he’ll always have his father.

‘That’s what I’m saying, Lucy. If I go in, I won’t be coming home. Not for weeks.’

Weeks?
I’m too shocked to speak. But I have to speak, to pretend I’m not shocked. ‘
Okaay
. . . We can manage that. Le
t’s
think. We’ll have to get someone to mind the children, someone they know and trust, someone who’s free . . . Rob. Of course! He’s a teacher. He’ll still be on summer holidays. We’ll ask Rob.’

He looks hurt. ‘Why not you?’

‘Me?’ I’d be useless. They’re not my children. Rachel hates me. ‘Greg, they need family.’

‘You are family.’

‘They don’t see me that way.’

‘Please, Lucy, look after Rachel and Toby for me and I’ll go in.’ His eyes are searching mine. He’s waiting. If I say no, he won’t go.

I close my eyes and find my head nodding, my voice agreeing, ‘OK. I’ll do it.’ I try not to think about what will be involved.

‘Thank you.’ Such relief in those words.

We gaze out at the children, busy in the garden, Rachel trying to save the plants from drought, and Toby reaching under a shrub for something. We stand in silence for a long time, neither of us wanting to move forward.

‘Do you want me to pack some things?’ I ask, eventually.

‘Hmm?’

‘Will I pack for you?’

‘Would you, Luce? I can’t seem to get my head around wha
t I need.’

‘I’ll make some tea, then throw a few things in a case, OK?’
I try to sound casual
, and not think about the fact that this will be the last tea we’ll share for I don’t know how long.

I bring a packed bag downstairs and start to look for the car keys.

‘I’ll go in on my own,’ he says.

‘Oh, Greg. Let me drive you.’

‘No. I need to handle this myself. I’ll get a taxi.’

The thought of him heading off alone kills me. But he has h
is pride.

‘We’d better tell the children,’ I say.

His eyes widen in panic.

‘Just that you might be going into hospital. Not
why
.’

‘You’re right. Of course. I’m not thinking. But don’t tell anyone about this, Lucy. Not one person, OK? If this gets out, I’m ruined.’

I nod, my heart breaking for him.

We call the children in. Toby comes running, shouting, ‘D’you want to see my snail collection? It’s brill. I’ve five of them. My favourite’s the small one, but I like them all, really. D’you want to see, Dad?’

Greg looks at me, his face a question. How can I leave my boy?

We sit, the four of us, at the kitchen table. Rachel regards us carefully. Toby’s oblivious, poking his box of snails under Gr
eg’s nose.

‘Dad, can I’ve some lettuce for them? They ackshilly love
lettuce
.’

‘Guys,’ says Greg, ‘I’ve something I want to tell you.’

Toby stops, looks up at his dad, big brown eyes wide. Rachel looks like she wants to run.

‘I haven’t been feeling the best.’

‘I know,’ says Toby. ‘But you’re home now. And it’s freezing. Are you better yet?’

‘No.’

‘But you said . . .’

‘Yes, I said that when we got home it wouldn’t be hot and I’d be fine. But I was wrong. I’m not fine.’

‘But we shook on it.’

‘I was wrong. I’m sorry, pet. I’m still sick and I have to see a doctor.’ He ruffles Toby’s hair. ‘I might have to go into hospital for a while.’

‘No,’ says his son. ‘You can’t. You have to stay here with us. You can’t go away. I won’t let you.’

‘Come here, Tobes.’

Greg sits him up on his lap.

‘You can’t go, Dad. You just can’t.’ He clings to Greg, cheek against chest. Greg wraps him up in his arms.

‘You want me to get better, don’t you, Tobes?’

Toby doesn’t answer.

‘And you’re a big man now, aren’t you?’

Silence.

‘What’s wrong, Dad?’ asks Rachel.

‘I just haven’t been feeling the best.’

Toby sits back from Greg. ‘D’you have a pain in your tummy?’

Greg rubs Toby’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘No, no. No pain.’

‘Well, what is it, then?’ asks Rachel. ‘Not cancer?’

How does she know about cancer?

‘No,’ says Greg. ‘Not cancer. It’s just that I’m exhausted and I need to rest, that’s all.’

‘Go to bed,’ says Toby.

‘Stop, Toby,’ orders Rachel. ‘If Dad has to go to hospital, Dad has to go to hospital.’