The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (29 page)

I’ve no sooner hung up when Greg calls. He gets straight to th
e point.

‘Professor Power wants me to explain to Rachel and Toby why I’m in hospital.’

I don’t know what to say. ‘Oh,’ I manage finally.

‘He thinks that the truth is preferable to imaginary fears.’

But it’s a pretty heavy truth.
‘Are they old enough, Greg?’

‘He thinks so – as long as I keep it simple.’

‘When does he want you to do this?’ It had better be after
Saturday
. I’m not sure Ben and Ruth are ready to hear – from the mouths of babes – that Greg’s in hospital suffering from a psychiatric illness.

‘He thought maybe you could bring them in this afternoon and we could all go for a walk together and I could tell them then.’

I remind myself to breathe, tell myself it’ll be OK. I’ll postpone Ben and Ruth – indefinitely.

‘OK’ I say finally, on the basis that the doctor knows what he’s doing.

When I hang up, I tell the children that they’re going to see their dad.

There follows a frenzy of activity. We buy a hanging fern and a little red watering can – Rachel thinks Greg should have something to look after. Toby remembers wine gums. We make posters for the ward. Toby hums while he works. Rachel forgets to snap at me. Art therapy has a convert.

I’ve arranged to pick Greg up from the hospital entrance. As we approach, I’m hoping he’ll be there, that he’ll have remembered to shave and that the kids won’t notice how pale and gaunt he’s become. All three of us peer out for the first sight of him.

‘There he is!’ Toby shouts, pointing to a lone, thin figure.

And when Greg smiles, I see the effort he’s making.

I pull up in the Set Down area. The children jump out and run to him. I’m about to go help him to the car then remember he’s not an invalid. Behind me, a car honks. Rachel turns and gives the driver the finger. I’m shocked, but strangely proud.

Driving away with everyone aboard, I’m gripped by a
Thelma and Louise
urge to keep going, never return to the hospital.

It’s a short trip to Sandymount Strand. The children bombard their father with questions all the way. And as he struggles to keep up, I worry that he’s not ready for this.

We make it to the strand and walk, together, down onto the beach. The tide is so far out, the balance of sand to sea seems wrong, as if the moon has pulled too hard, leaving a margin of blue at the edge of a golden page. The sky seems to stretch forever in all directions. The sand, at first, is dry and loose, then damp and corrugated. Little saltwater streams and pools, left by the outgoing tide, glisten in the sun, reminding me of milk on a surface of
porridge
.

We take off our shoes, roll up our trousers and walk. Huge brown jellyfish lie stranded, like alien spacecraft that have landed for a convention. A giant seagull struts by as though he owns the beach. As we get closer to the sea, the line of white dots at th
e w
ater’s edge becomes a flock of seagulls. A dog runs among them, causing them to lift and fall like a Mexican wave.

But, no matter what the beach has to offer in terms of fun, adventure or excitement, the children never leave their father’s side. Toby slips a hand into Greg’s and starts to skip, his skinny body light and carefree. It’s so good to have Greg back with us again, breathing the salty air, experiencing the breeze on his face. We spend at least an hour on that beach.

Almost back at the car, Greg stops at a wooden bench that looks out onto the strand.

‘Let’s sit for a while.’

My stomach tightens.

Greg settles at one end of the bench, Toby on his lap, Rachel next to them. I’m at the other.

Bookends.

‘Guys,’ Greg says, ‘I want to explain why I’m in hospital.’

‘It’s OK, Dad. We know,’ says Toby. ‘You’re exhausted.’

‘Well, it’s a little more than that.’ He takes a breath. ‘I have a sickness that makes me sad sometimes. Other times it makes me very excited.’

They take time to digest that.

Toby is first to speak. ‘But it’s OK to be sad, Dad. You said.’ He looks at Greg for confirmation.

‘I did. And it’s OK to cry when something happens to make you sad.’

‘Yeah, you’re always telling us that.’

‘It’s just that if there’s no reason to be sad and you’re sad
anyway – a
ll the time – well, that’s not good, is it?’

Toby shakes his head wildly. ‘No, that’d be . . . sad.’

‘And not good,’ says Greg.

‘No,’ agrees Toby.

Rachel’s quiet. Taking it all in.

‘And it’s OK to get excited, too,’ continues Greg. ‘Lots of things are exciting . . .’

‘Like Christmas and birthdays and fireworks and when you get onto the next level in a game.’

‘Exactly.’ Greg smiles. ‘But being hyper isn’t good.’

‘No.’ Toby shakes his head again. ‘When you have Coke or Skittles or something, you get hyper. And that’s not good ’cause you go bananas. Isn’t that right, Dad?’

‘Yes, son.’ Greg kisses the top of his head. ‘But you eventually go back to normal, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

Rachel, eyes fixed on her father, is oblivious to the breeze whipping her hair across her face.

‘Well,’ says Greg, ‘I’ve a sickness that makes me hyper for weeks. And that’s not good.’

‘No.’ Toby squints. ‘Why not, again?’

‘Well, it can make me do silly things, and can make me hurt people.’ He looks at me.

‘Did you hurt someone?’ asks Toby.

‘I think so,’ Greg says, his eyes finding mine.

My throat burns. Tears well. I smile.

‘Who did you hurt?’ asks Toby.

‘Well, in France, I think I hurt you all.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ rushes Toby. ‘You never slap us.’

‘I wasn’t very nice to you, though, was I? Remember? I was hyper and I forgot about you, the people I love. And that wasn’t right, was it?’

‘Is that hurting?’

‘Yes, Toby.’

‘Is that because you were sick, Dad?’ asks Rachel. ‘I thought you were just cross with us.’

He puts his arm around her. ‘No, Rache, I wasn’t cross with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. If I snapped at you, it was my fault, not yours. I wasn’t well. I had – still have – this sickness. This sickness called bipolar disorder.’

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, Tobes?’

‘Was it the sickness that made you talk funny?’

Greg nods. ‘Anything I did in France that I don’t normally do was because of the sickness. And I’m sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you or upset you . . .’ His voice falters. I’m afraid his tears will upset them. But that only shows how little I know about children.

They put their arms around him. ‘It’s OK, Dad. It’s OK.’

And so, four people sit on a bench. Two in tears – the adults. And two comforting one of the adults and, thankfully, not noticing the other. Greg pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and runs it over his face. He sighs.

‘You’re such good kids. I’m glad we had this chat. I wanted to explain, in case you were worried about what happened in France. Were you?’ He looks from one to the other.

‘Kinda,’ says Toby.

‘Yes.’ Rachel.

‘Well, everything’s going to be OK. I’m taking medicine. And I’m not so sad now . . .’

‘And you’re not hyper,’ reassures Toby.

‘No.’

‘Poor Dad,’ says Toby, snuggling into him.

‘Hey, guess what? The doctor said you can come and see me every day, if you like.’

‘Yaay!’ they say together.

‘And soon I’ll be coming home for a weekend.’

‘When?’ asks Rachel.

‘Well, maybe not this weekend. But next weekend. Maybe. How’s that?’

‘Great,’ she says.

‘Good,’ says Toby. ‘Can we go and get your presents now? They’re in the boot. They’re really good.’

‘Let’s do that.’

The children hop up. Greg reaches out and takes my hand, the first time in weeks that he’s voluntarily touched me. As we return to the car, I marvel at how straightforward bipolar disorder can be when explained a certain way – a sickness that makes you sad and excited. Not something to be ashamed of. Just something that
happens
. Of course, that’s when you’re talking to children. With adults it’s
different
. With adults it’s more complicated. And with Ben and Ruth, I guess, it will be impossible. They’ll never
understand
.

At the hospital entrance, I’m about to start the goodbyes when Greg asks the children if they’d like to see where he sleeps. Another surprise. Another step forward.

That night, as darkness falls, I have a visitor. I’m surprised to see Hilary, but more surprised at how she looks, almost unrecognisable because of the amount of weight she’s gained. Her face has changed shape, the lower half dominating, her features losing prominence. It doesn’t help that her hair is greasy and scraped back.

‘I need to talk to Greg.’

I notice a stain on the front of her sweatshirt. ‘Sorry, he’s no
t here.’

‘Yes, he is. I know he is. He just doesn’t want to talk to me.’ She steps closer.

I hold the door and am firm when I repeat, ‘Greg. Isn’t. Here.’

‘Well, where is he, at this time of night?’ she asks, as if trying to catch me out.

‘Hilary, I don’t think that’s any of your business, and, frankly, you’ve a nerve showing up here after what you did.’

‘What, exactly, am I supposed to have done?’

I realise my mistake – the last thing I should be doing is engaging in conversation with her.

‘Nothing. Forget it. I’ll tell Greg you called.’

‘If you’re talking about Ben and Ruth, I just told them the truth.’

‘What do you want, Hilary?’ I make my voice sound tired.

‘To talk to Greg.’

‘Fine. I’ll tell him you called. He has your number.’ I go to close the door.

She takes a step forward. ‘Why isn’t he answering his phone?’

I slip my foot against the door. ‘I don’t know. I’ll get him to call you, OK? Goodnight.’ I close the door. Lean against it. Don’t move. Listen. Hoping she’ll go. I hear nothing. After what seems like an age, I hear footsteps walk away. I breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s just Hilary. What can she do?
But there’s something invasive about her coming to the house. It reminds me that she could do so at any time. During the day when the children are around. Any time. It would be so easy to make a scene.

30.

D
ad needs a hand to re-grout the bathroom, as well as fix a doorbell and a leaking tap. Mum requires assistance in the kitchen. Rachel is called in on maintenance duty. Toby’s culinary
expertise
may stem the domestic crisis.

I make a much needed appearance at the office, where I
complete
one of the jobs I’ve been working on and make good progress on the other.

When I get back to collect the children, they nag me to stay for dinner. After all, Toby’s cooked it single-handedly, with just a little guidance.

‘I’d love to stay, but we’re having Rob for dinner.’

‘Why don’t you just ring him and invite him here?’ Mum says. ‘And Greg, of course. We’ve made plenty. Or should I say, Toby’s made plenty.’ She puts a hand on his shoulder.

He looks so proud.

‘Greg can’t make it, Mum. He’s up to his tonsils.’

‘Yeah, he’s in hospital,’ explains Toby, helpfully.

Both parents look at me, then at each other.

‘In hospital?’ My mother looks at me.

But Toby’s already answering. ‘Yeah. He’s sad, but not hyper, and he’ll be able to come home – not this weekend, but next
weekend
.’

‘It’s bipolar disorder,’ confirms Rachel.

‘Yeah. He has to take medicine,’ says Toby as my parents stare at me. ‘I saw his bed. It’s boring. But we brought in lots of stuff, so it’s much nicer now.’

In fairness to Mum and Dad, they say no more. Mum opens her mouth, but shuts it again.

‘Come on,’ I say to the kids. ‘Let’s go. Thanks, Mum and Dad.’ On the surface, I look calm. Inside, I’m freaking. What will I tell Greg? And how can I bring the kids to Ben and Ruth’s now?

‘Wait a minute,’ Mum says, disappearing into the kitchen. Toby follows.

Then they’re back with a big Tupperware container filled
wit
h dinner.

‘You have to try this,’ Mum says. ‘It’s delicious. You carry it, Toby, seeing as you’re the chef.’

He smiles proudly and puts out his hands.

‘Bye, my darlings,’ she says, kissing them both on the top of the head.

Dad does the same.

‘Can we come again?’ asks Rachel.

Everyone looks at me.

‘Of course. If it’s OK with you,’ I say to my parents.

‘We’d love to have Rachel and Toby, any time.’ I almost hear them thinking,
Especially now.

When we’re in the car and driving off, Rachel says, ‘Is it a secret that Dad’s in hospital?’

‘Well. It’s not a secret . . . as such. It’s just that your dad, wel
l . . .
He isn’t ready to tell everyone yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘He just wants peace and quiet . . . for the moment. And . . . if everyone knows he’s in hospital, they’ll all come and visit, and he’s not ready for that yet.’

‘But he’s sad,’ says Toby. ‘Visitors will cheer him up. They can bring presents like we did.’

‘I know. It’s just that, well, your dad doesn’t have the energy for any visitors other than us and Rob, at the moment.’

And though it’s the truth, it’s not the whole truth, and I know for a fact that Rachel cops that.

As soon as the children are in bed, I phone Ben to postpone. He’s not pleased. He wonders if he should worry. I feel like telling him to go right ahead, he seems to enjoy it. Instead, I arrange their visit for the following Saturday and try to put worrying on hold.

Since Greg’s chat with the children, our routine has changed. Rob comes with us to the hospital, we collect Greg and go for a walk or a coffee, then, when it’s almost time to head back, Rob takes the kids off for ten or fifteen minutes while Greg and I have time together. Having everyone there makes things easier for me as Greg makes more of an effort. I worry, though, that it tires him.

We’re feeding ducks in Herbert Park when I tell him about my parents knowing.

‘I’m sorry, but the only way to keep this a secret is to lock up the children.’

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he looks at me sideways. ‘Where’ll we lock them?’

One small joke, but it seems monumental to me. I smile when really I want to throw my arms around him.

He shrugs. ‘Forget about it. Nothing you could have done.’

‘No.’

We circle the pond.

‘Rob says you’re doing too much,’ he says.

For him to think like that, outside his own head, is major progress. ‘Greg, I’m fine. I’m great. I don’t know why he said that.’

‘I asked him.’

‘Well, he’s wrong. Really.’

‘Is he, though? Your job, the kids, the house, me. You can’t do it all.’

‘I can. Honestly. It’s not a problem.’

‘Cut back on something. Maybe you don’t need to see me s
o often?’

‘Are you kidding?
You’re
my priority in all of this.’ That, I realise, gets forgotten in the day-to-day hassle of survival. ‘I love you, Greg. I want to be with you.’

‘What about work? You don’t need to, you know. I can support you, Luce.’

‘I like my job. I need to work.’

He scratches his head. ‘Thought you might say that.’

I watch our feet as we walk in silence.

‘How’re you paying for things?’ he asks.

‘Greg, please, don’t worry about money, everything’s fine.’

‘Let me give you my bank card and PIN.’ He stops, begins to tap his pockets.

I did resent paying what seems a huge amount to run a house and look after two children, but now that he’s offered, I don’t want his money. We’re supposed to be a team.

‘Greg, please.’

He finds his wallet, pulls out his card. ‘Here, take it. The number is . . . Hang on. What’s the number? Jesus.’ He hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘OK. Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out with Rob . . . And I want you to get a cleaner. Rob will organise it, don’t worry.’

Maybe it would be good.

‘What about a part-time childminder?’

‘No, Greg. Let’s not land someone new on Rachel and Toby. Let’s see how we cope, alone. In a weird way, it’s an opportunity for us to crack this – it’s them and me. Sink or swim.’

The inevitable phone call comes at nine. Dad. Timing it beautifully. I can picture him working it out: ‘What time d’you think she’ll be back from the hospital?’

‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, tired.

‘Hello, love.’

I wait.

He waits. Then, ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘Greg doesn’t want anyone to know.’

A second’s silence. ‘Understandable.’ A pause. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘He seemed better today.’

‘Will I come over?’

‘I’m a bit tired, Dad.’

‘All right, love. I just wanted to say that your mother and I want to help. Are you getting any time on your own?’

‘I’m grand, thanks. Grace takes the children if I have to go into the office.’

‘Grace
knows
?’

‘Yes, Dad, Grace knows. I asked her advice before I knew what was wrong. Then I had to ask her not to tell. Sorry.’

‘Lucy, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m glad you’ve had Grace. We want to help, too. We’d like to take the children for a few hours, every day. We’d love to have them. We’ve been feeling a bit lonely lately and they’re little dotes.’

‘And that’s the only reason?’

‘Well, you could do with a bit of time on your own, even just to spend it at the office. At least you’d be getting away from things for a while. You’re still a young woman.’

Sadly, I needed the reminder. ‘I suppose I could do with showing my face in there a bit more often. Actually, Dad, that would be great – if you don’t mind.’

‘We wouldn’t have offered . . .’

‘Yes, you would.’

‘Put it to the children. See what they think. If they’re all right with it, that’s what we’ll do.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Thank your mother. It was her idea.’

Rob hires a cleaner through a local agency to do three hours, twice a week. Tracy arrives like a fairy godmother. All she’s missing is the gold dust. The laundry basket stops overflowing. The Mount
Everest
of ironing vanishes. It’s possible to see whole pieces of furniture again and rooms as they’re supposed to look. Hearing the Hoover is a relief.

Next time, she says she’ll do the brass on the front door.
There’s brass on the front door?
I’ve been struggling, on an endless production line of cleaning, ironing, cooking, Internet shopping, so tired that my head has become hard to hold up. The number of times I’ve caught myself leaning my forehead against cupboards, tables, the steering wheel, the wooden slats in the airing cupboard, so hard to lift back up, so much energy required. Even listening takes such concentration. And now here’s Tracy. Like the sun coming out.

Over a two-week period, I’ve fielded four calls from Phyllis, Greg’s mother. Rob made the mistake of telling her we were back. He knew not to mention where Greg was; something, at least. When she calls, I tell her Greg’s out. Then I ring the hospital. Greg waits a while, then calls her back. It’s been working, except for one thing: Why, she wants to know, hasn’t he invited her round for Sund
ay lunch?

So, instead of Greg using his first day at home to relax and try to settle back into normality, he decides to put on a performance. Without consulting me, he invites her to lunch. When I hear that, I nearly explode. He doesn’t need that pressure.
I
don’t need that pressure. What if the children mention the hospital? What if she sees for herself that he’s a changed man? He
is
her son.