The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (25 page)

Toby’s little face crumples.

‘Ah, don’t cry, pet,’ says Greg, hugging him. ‘It’ll be OK. I’ll be back soon.’

‘When?’

‘In a few weeks.’

‘A few
weeks
?’ Toby and Rachel say together.

‘Why weeks?’ Rachel asks. ‘Eva had her whole appendix out and she wasn’t even in for one week. What is it, Dad? Is it rea
lly bad?’

His smile looks forced. ‘I have to see this doctor, OK? And he’ll decide if I have to go into hospital or not, and, if I do, how long I’l
l st
ay. Let me go see him and see what he says, OK? Let’s just take this one step at a time.’

‘So, you mightn’t be going in?’ Rachel confirms.

‘I probably will, pet.’

‘Who’ll mind us?’ she asks. ‘Rob?’

‘Lucy, of course. Rob will help out.’

Both heads swivel in my direction. Then Rachel shakes hers. ‘No way.’

‘Rachel,’ says Greg.

‘But I don’t want her . . .’

‘Look, I’m only going to say this once: I don’t like being sick and, if I had my way, I’d be staying right here. But sometimes we have to do things we don’t like to make things better for everyone. Lucy will have a lot on her plate, and the last thing she needs from you is trouble. Do you hear me?’

She lowers her eyes. ‘Yes, Dad.’

‘I want you both to help Lucy. OK? I want you to keep your rooms tidy, clean up after yourselves and help out. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Now, give me a hug.’

And they do.

‘I’ll ring as soon as I know what’s happening, OK?’

‘OK,’ we all say together.

The taxi pulls up outside. Looking like a man who’s lost a battle, Greg gets in. I put his bag on the seat beside him. Even it looks sad. I don’t want to fuss, so I just say, ‘Talk later,’ but then I can’t let him go without kissing him and adding, ‘Love you.’

He’s looking straight ahead, as if finally accepting his fate. I
close the
door and stand back as the taxi pulls away. The sound of a lawnmower coming from a nearby garden seems at odds with what’s happening. Nothing else should be normal. Not today.

‘He didn’t wave goodbye,’ says Toby.

The taxi is at the top of the avenue. It indicates and turns right, taking with it the only thing I have in common with the children. For a moment, we just stand, not looking at each other. Flattened. Then Rachel lifts her brother, turns and walks towards the house. I look back up the avenue. A young couple strolls by, bodies glued together, each with a hand slipped into the other’s back pocket. They stop to kiss and gaze into each other’s eyes. Wasn’t that the plan? I look away and make for the house.

Rachel hasn’t closed the door on me. It’s a start.

26.

T
he children are off limits, hidden away in Rachel’s room, a place that, when I first saw it earlier today, reminded me of what an enigma she is to me. I’ve never met a child so tough, yet her room looks like it belongs to a girl who dreams of turning frogs into princes. It’s pale pink with a crystal blue chandelier and a muslin drape falling over brass bedknobs. Her colour-
coordinated
furniture is prettily ornate, as if taken from a doll’s house and
magnified
.

I take a step towards the door then stop. What could I possibly say that would reassure them? With Toby, I mightn’t have to say anything. I could just hold him. But with Rachel, I need a miracle. Wringing my hands, I walk away.

In my room, unable to sit still, I call Grace.

‘I’m coming over,’ she says.

‘Grace, there’s no need,’ I say, conscious of her own problems.

‘I think there is.’

‘What about Shane and Jason?’

‘I’ll drop them at Mum and Dad’s.’

‘Don’t tell them!’

‘I’d never . . .’

‘Don’t even tell Kevin. He’s terrified people will find out.’
I ho
ld my forehead.

‘Don’t worry, Lucy. I won’t say a word to anyone.’

She arrives half an hour later. I’m at the front window, pacing like a sentry. I open the door before she gets to it. We hug. I burst into tears. Grace just holds me.

‘I’m OK,’ I say at last, pulling back.

‘Where are the children?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘Where’s the kitchen?’

I point down the hall.

‘Right. Come on.’

She closes the door behind us.

We sit at the table.

‘Will he be admitted?’ I ask, willing her to say ‘No,’ ‘Probably not,’ ‘Unlikely,’ or any other version of negative.

‘To be honest, Luce, while Karl has a lot of pull with the
hospital
, he wouldn’t have got Greg seen today if it hadn’t been urgent. And he wouldn’t have asked him to pack unless he expected him to be going in.’

I close my eyes. ‘That’s it, then. It’s definitely bipolar disorder.’ I wait for her to say something. But she doesn’t. I look at her. ‘But why hospital, Grace? Can’t they just, I don’t know, give him some antidepressants or something and send him home?’

‘He’s very low, Luce.’

‘We’ve all been low. Doesn’t mean we have to be admitted to a psychiatric ward.’

‘This isn’t just feeling down. The chemical imbalance takes time to readjust. And they’ll need to keep an eye on him while they do it.’

‘But weeks, Grace. He said it would be for weeks.’

‘Hospital’s the best place for Greg, now.’ She holds my hand. ‘I know it’s hard, but when you’re as low as Greg is, ordinary life can seem too much to cope with. Hospital can provide a sanctuary. And, Lucy, he won’t be in there for a solid block of weeks. As soon as he starts to improve, they’ll begin sending him home for short periods to see how he gets on. Weekends at first, then maybe longer. The good thing is, they’ll only discharge him when he’s ready.’

‘How’ll I manage? I’ve the children and work and I’ll have to find time to visit him . . .’

‘I’m here. I’ll help with Rachel and Toby, the house, whatever. You’ll probably have to talk to Fint about work, though. There’s no way you’ll be able to go back full-time.’

‘I know, but how’ll I tell him? I’m already in his bad books.’

We’re preparing dinner when the phone rings. I rush to it.

‘Hello, is this Lucy Arigho?’ A female voice.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Staff Nurse Betty O’Neill, from St Raphael’s Ward at S
t Mart
ha’s Hospital.’

My heart skitters. ‘Is Greg all right?’

‘Yes, he’s fine. Professor Power, one of our psychiatrists, has just admitted him. He’s resting now. He asked me to call you to say he’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’s tired. It’s been a long day. And, of course, a big shock.’

‘I was going to come in and see him in a little while . . .’ I look at Grace who has offered to stay with the children.

‘Well, maybe not this evening. Better to let him settle in a bit.’

‘He’s all right, though? It’s just I was expecting him to call.’

‘Yes, I know. But Greg doesn’t feel up to much at the moment.’

‘I’ll come in, first thing.’

‘Actually, if you don’t mind, we usually encourage visitors to wait till after five. That gives patients time to rest, attend group sessions, talk.’

‘OK. Thanks for ringing,’ I say, dropping the phone and bursting into tears.

Grace scoops me up in her arms. ‘It’s OK. This is the worst time, Lucy. It’ll get better. I promise.’

‘You said that already,’ I wail.

When I look up, Rachel and Toby are standing in the doorway. I pull back from Grace, wipe my eyes and paste on a smile.

‘Was that Dad?’ Rachel asks.

‘It was the hospital. They were just ringing to say he’s fine.’

They speak together.

Toby: ‘So, why are you crying?’

Rachel: ‘He said
he’d
ring.’

I answer Rachel; it’s easier. ‘He’s resting.’

‘Can we go see him tomorrow?’ asks Toby.

‘Maybe not tomorrow, Toby. Let me just go in and see how he
is . . .’

‘Why do you get to go and not us?’ Rachel demands.

‘Can we ring him tomorrow?’ asks Toby.

I don’t need this. I seriously don’t need this. But then I look at their little faces and see how distressing this is for them, their only security in life gone.

‘We might just let your dad rest tomorrow,’ I say. ‘When I go in, I’ll bring my phone. And, if it suits everyone in there, I’ll call you so you can talk to your dad. I can’t promise, though. Because I’m not sure yet, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘But I’ll do my best.’

‘Yeah, right,’ says Rachel.

Grace looks at her. Then at me.

Grace leaves to collect the boys and bring them home. I serve up a dinner that no one eats. Rachel mothers Toby, putting him to bed and reading to him. By ten, I’m locking and bolting up the huge, unfamiliar house. Outside, it’s twilight and the garden is full of shadows. I wrap my cardigan around myself and go to my room, hoping that things will seem more manageable in the morning. Two things keep me awake – fear of not being able to cope and guilt that I don’t want to.

I wake early and get up. If I keep busy, I won’t have to think. On the landing, Toby is at the airing cupboard, jumping up, trying to reach something. He’s naked.

‘Toby, are you OK?’ I ask quietly, trying not to startle him.

He covers himself with his hands. ‘I . . . I . . . was just getting some sheets.’

Ah, God.
‘Here. Let me help.’ I find what looks like Bart
Simpson
bed linen. ‘These yours?’

He nods, holds his arms out for them. His skinny body is covered in goosebumps.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll carry them for you. They’re heavy.’

In his room, the smell of urine lingers. He’s tugged off three corners of his sheet. The fourth is held fast against the wall. His soggy pyjamas are in a heap on the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, head hanging.

‘That’s OK. It’s just a little accident. Everybody has accidents.’

‘Don’t tell Rachel.’

‘Cross my heart.’ It’s catching. ‘I’ll just go get you a towel.’

I return with a warm bath towel and wrap him up in it.

Eye to eye, I say, ‘Everything’ll be all right, Tobes.’ I hold his chin between my finger and thumb and give it a little shake. ‘I bet you’re the kind of man who likes bubbles in his bath.’

He smiles.

He follows me into the bathroom, where I put down the toilet lid for him to sit on, while I fill the bath. Cold first, I remember from Grace’s boys. As it fills, I nip back to his room to remove the evidence, in case Rachel stumbles on it. I open the windows and close the door.

Back in the bathroom, I can’t find bubble bath. So I retrieve my Molton Brown shower gel. I test the water with my elbow the way you’re supposed to with children, or is that babies? Toby is in charge of pouring the gel. He isn’t stingy. Once, that might have bothered me. Once, I was a person who thought things like shower gel precious. Slow to leave him alone in the bath yet wanting him to have privacy, I busy myself tidying. Without directly looking, I notice that he’s just sitting there, surrounded by bubbles.

‘Do you want to mess around with this?’

I hand him the empty Molton Brown bottle.

‘Yes, please!’ He submerges it, filling it with bubbly water. He lifts it up and tips it over. He starts to hum.

‘Can you wash yourself if I give you a cloth, or do you need a
h
and?’

‘I can wash myself.’

‘What about your hair?’

‘I might need a little hand.’

‘OK, bud.’

After the bath, I wrap him in a fresh bath towel and carry him to his room. We pretend he’s a baby dinosaur that’s just hatched. And suddenly I feel just as protective as a mummy dinosaur.

Later, as I’m giving him breakfast and he’s chatting about snails, Rachel appears with her usual cloud. She ushers her runaway fledgling back under her wing. I wish she’d allow herself to be the child she is, rather than the adult she insists on being. I’d look after her, if only she’d let me.