The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (30 page)

When we collect Greg, he’s looking better, his blue shirt picking up the colour of his eyes, making him look less pale. He’s had a haircut and is cleanly shaven. All round, a big improvement. But enough to fool his mother?

We get to the house in plenty of time and wander down to the sea, something Greg misses. Toby and Greg roll up their trousers and paddle on the steps. Rachel collects stones for skimming. I perch on a rocky outcrop, staring off out towards Bray Head and the Sugarloaf Mountain. But when Greg starts to explain to the children why they ‘shouldn’t upset Gran’ by mentioning that he hasn’t been well, I slip away to the kitchen.

Apparently, she likes pork steak, cut into slivers, covered in flour, then fried. I take the meat from the fridge, cut open the plastic wrapping and watch watery blood ooze out. No matter how many times I’ve cooked it for the children, I still haven’t got used to raw meat. There’s no getting away from the fact that it was once a living creature.

It smells, but as I’ve never experienced the pleasure of raw pork steak before, I can’t tell whether it’s a normal or an abnormal smell. I check my watch. Too late to make it to the supermarket and back.

I ring Grace.

‘What does raw pork steak smell like?’

‘Seriously, Lucy, how can I describe the smell of raw pork steak? It smells like raw meat, what can I say?’

‘I know, but how do I know if it’s gone of
f
?’

‘It smells gone off.’

No help. ‘What else?’

‘Does it look sort of greeny-grey?’

I lift it with a piece of kitchen paper and slowly twirl it around. ‘It
looks
OK.’

‘Then it probably is, Luce.’

‘I don’t want to poison her.’

‘You sure?’ She laughs. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go, they’re killing each other here. Cook it, Lucy. It’ll be fine. Got to go.’

Phyllis, as is her custom, arrives by taxi. I stay at the door while Greg and the children go to greet her. Greg helps her from the car. She has gifts and hugs for Rachel and Toby.

‘Come meet Lucy, Ma,’ says Greg, his arm around her.

She looks at me as if remembering, with grave disappointment, that I exist. Then she starts towards the house. She’s about ten years older than my mum, but looks more – thin, short and slightly stooped, her face a road map of lines, her silver hair yellowing at the front. She’s wirier than I expected, though, and when she speaks, her voice is deep and hoarse.

‘Lucy,’ she says, like it’s a statement of my existence rather than a greeting. She doesn’t smile.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I lie – for Greg. I extend a hand.

She shakes it, loosely at first as if testing my grip, then
tightening
into a squeeze, before letting go. I catch her looking at my toe ring.

In the sitting room, Greg pours drinks.

‘Aren’t you having one yourself, Greg?’ she asks.

‘Not today,’ he says. ‘Rough night.’

She starts rooting in her bag. ‘I know it’s a mortal sin to smoke indoors, but mind if I have a quick one?’

‘Go ahead,’ he says.

I take myself off to the kitchen where I make a semi-success of lunch. Rachel, under her father’s instruction, helps me serve.

We sit down to eat.

While Phyllis asks the children if they’re looking forward to going back to school, I check faces as they bite into their pork.

She turns to me. ‘And what do
you
do, Lucy?’

‘I’m a graphic designer.’

The children eye me with interest.

‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’ Her laugh is husky.

‘We design packaging, logos, book covers, pretty much anything really. We . . .’ She has stopped looking at me. Has she stopped listening? Am I boring her? I let my voice trail off. If she wants to know more, she’ll ask.

‘Don’t stop now, this is fascinating,’ she says in a bored tone.

I look at Greg, bemused.

‘Lucy’s an artist,’ he says, smiling at me.

‘I
knew
you were good at drawing,’ says Toby.

‘I’m learning how to sew, Gran,’ says Rachel. ‘Lucy’s mum is teaching me. She’s really good.’

‘You see Lucy’s parents?’

‘Yeah, we go all the time, when Lucy’s at work,’ says Toby
cheerfully
.

She turns to Greg. ‘Is Lucy
living
here? Where’s
Hilary
?’

There’s an awkward silence.

‘Yes, Lucy is living here,’ says Greg.

‘Just until Dad gets out of—’ Rachel stops.

‘We let Hilary go,’ Greg says.

Phyllis’s eyes widen. ‘You fired her? Why?’

‘It wasn’t working out,’ he says.

‘But she was so good with the children.’

‘I know,’ says Rachel, narrowing her eyes at me.

‘I’m shocked,’ Phyllis whispers.

No one speaks.

She lifts a piece of pork with her fork, examines it and shakes her head sadly. ‘They make such good meals at the home.’

Greg looks at me as if to say ‘Don’t mind her.’ But he doesn’t say anything.

‘Catherine was a great cook,’ she says, staring off into space as if dreaming of wonderful times gone by. ‘Speaking of food,’ she says, turning to her son, ‘are you eating properly? You’ve lost weight. You don’t look well.’

He pretends he hasn’t heard, cutting into a piece of meat.

‘You work too hard, Greg. Always have. You should let Lucy take care of you. Ah, but Lucy has her own priorities.’

What
have I
done
to the woman?

‘It’s Catherine’s anniversary next week,’ she continues. ‘I think we should do something.’

‘We’ll talk about that another time,’ Greg says.

‘We should put an announcement in the paper.’

‘We’ll discuss it later.’

The children’s knives and forks are suspended as though they, too, are listening.

‘Such a great loss, she is. Such a good wife. And mother.’

‘
Fine
, Ma.’

‘She could handle anything, could Catherine. Then again, she
was
older.’

I excuse myself.

Greg follows me into the kitchen. ‘Don’t mind her.’

I turn to him. ‘How can you let her go on like that? Catherine this, Catherine that. As if I’m chopped liver.’

‘She doesn’t mean anything by it.’

I stare at him. ‘I’m not going back in there. I’m going for a walk.’

‘OK, fine. Run away.’

‘Don’t think I’m not tempted, Greg Millar, a million times
a day.’

He looks shocked, wounded.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’ But, in a way, I did. And he knows it. Looking like I’ve speared him in the heart, he turns and goes back to his mother.

31.

I
stand at the sink, looking into dirty pots, reminders of the effort I made: the remains of potato I carefully mashed, pork steak I fussed over, broccoli I didn’t overcook, carrots sliced longways, the way she likes them. The old bat. She’s probably in there planning another offensive. I’d been doing so well with Greg, fighting all urges to admit how hard I’m finding everything. And now I’ve gone and sabotaged that with one thoughtless remark.

I go back in and sit at the table. I make eye contact with him and mouth one word. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, Lucy, you’re back,’ she says.

Round Two.

‘I was just telling Rachel about the time her mother discovered she was pregnant with her. She was so happy . . .’

What about Toby? How can she even bring up the pregnancy?

‘Toby, are you finished?’ I ask.

He nods.

‘Come on, I want to show you something in the kitchen.’

‘OK.’

‘We’ll see you later,’ I say into the general air.

‘What d’you want to show me?’ he asks when we get to the kitchen.

I think fast. ‘Bubbles.’

‘Bubbles?’

‘Yeah, let’s make some. Let’s make a load. Let’s fill the kitchen with bubbles.’

‘OK,’ he perks up.

I sit him up beside the sink, put in the plug, hand him the washing up liquid and blast on the water.

‘OK, squirt it in. Go mad.’

Bubbles multiply like happily dividing rainbow cells. She doesn’t matter. Only Greg does. And I’ve hurt him. When it’s the last thing he needs.

And so, when she’s leaving, I bring Toby out to say goodbye.

As the back of her tiny head disappears up the driveway, the children go inside.

‘I’ll get a taxi,’ Greg says.

‘Greg, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I was upset.’

‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘I didn’t, though. Honestly. Why don’t you come in and I’ll make a cup of tea.’

‘I need to go back, Lucy. This was a mistake.’

We stand at the door, watching him go. Toby waves.

Back inside, the kids turn on the TV. I’m stacking the dishwasher when I hear someone’s runners squeak on the floor behind me. I wipe away my tears and turn. It’s Rachel, carrying a heap of plates in from the dining room. The gesture seems enormous.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

She half smiles and goes back out. When she brings in her grandmother’s plate, she heads straight for the bin with it, as if trying to hide the fact that it’s hardly been touched.

We work together in silence.

Eventually, she speaks. ‘She was kind of mean to you, wasn’
t she?’

I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Especially when you made her favourite dinner.’

I smile.

She tucks back the hair she normally hides behind, then fiddles with the coloured charity bands on her wrist, before looking up at me with those dark eyes of hers.

‘It’s not just you, you know. She’s like that with Rob’s girlfriends, too.’

‘She is?’

She nods. ‘She made one cry.’

‘Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better. Thank you.’

‘It’s OK.’ She looks out of the window.

Suddenly, I feel for her. ‘Things will get better, Rachel.’

She looks at me with such hope.

‘You’re a good kid.’

She gives me a ‘You can’t be serious’ look, then heads for
t
he door.

That evening, around ten, the doorbell rings. I think of Hilary and peer through the peephole. When I see that it’s Rob, I open up.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Kids in bed?’

‘Rob, if they’re not at the door two seconds after you arrive,
assume
they’re in bed.’

He smiles and heads for the kitchen.

‘So, how did it go?’ he asks, tipping back onto two legs of
a chair.

Realisation dawns. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You knew it would be a disaster.’

‘Let’s just say, I know my mother.’

I pull a Heineken from the fridge. ‘Want one?’

‘Only if you’re having one.’

‘Try and stop me.’ I crack open two cans. ‘Let’s go inside.’
I need
to get out of that kitchen.

‘So, how awful was she, on a scale of one to ten?’

‘Five hundred – and three.’

‘Ouch.’

I give him an outline.

‘If I
ever
get married, remind me to live abroad,’ he says.

‘I don’t know. You might be OK. She liked Catherine.’

He throws his head back and laughs. ‘Are you serious?
Catherine
and my mother? They hated each other. Catherine refused to be in the same room as her.’

‘But she said . . .’

‘Lucy, if my mother was talking Catherine up, it was to bring you down.’

‘It did feel like that.’

‘Don’t take it personally. Nobody’s good enough for her boys, especially her eldest.’

So, Rachel was right.

‘Take a leaf from Catherine’s book. Don’t put up with any crap. When the Old Dear was visiting, Catherine would always arrange to be somewhere else.’

‘And Greg was OK with that?’

He shrugs. ‘I doubt he had a choice. Catherine did her own thing. In fairness, I think she was right. She was straight. No bull. But no saint. Well, not till she died. Then my mother canonised her.’

‘Well, I’m not about to keel over to keep Phyllis happy.’

‘Take my advice and stay out of her way. She’s happiest when she can have her sons, especially her elder, all to herself.’

‘But why didn’t Greg tell me that?’

‘You have to understand something: Greg has always been protective of her – ever since our father died. He lets her away with anything, won’t have a bad word said against her. I don’t see that changing. Learn from Catherine. Love him, but don’t take any crap from his mother.’

I stare into my beer. ‘I should be more like her, shouldn’t I, Catherine?’

‘Just in
that
sense.’

‘Sometimes I think Greg was looking for another Catherine when he met me.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Don’t you think we look alike?’

He squints at me. ‘OK, you’re dark like she was, but that’s it. Your face is softer.’

And then I’m sharing it, the worry that has started to grow in my mind. ‘Maybe Greg didn’t fall for me at all.’

‘What are you talking about? He’s mad about you.’

‘Greg was probably hypomanic when we met.’

‘Come again?’

‘Hypomanic: the earliest stage of mania. Remember the barbecue? Remember how you thought that he was acting out of
character
? Well, maybe he was. Maybe he was at the beginning o
f h
is first high. Maybe he didn’t fall for me at all, but an idea of what I was.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second.’

I lean forward. ‘I’ve been reading all this stuff the hospital gave me and visiting website after website. Things keep hitting me. Like the fact that rejection triggers depression. Rob, after Greg’s high, I told him I was leaving, that I couldn’t take any more. What if I caused his depression?’

‘Or
what
if it was the disease just running its course? Lows follow highs. Or maybe something else triggered it, a stressful event. You don’t know it was you.’

But I’m not listening. ‘And then today I sent him tearing back to the hospital. Do you know what I told him? I told him I thought of running away, a million times a day. I’m afraid of what I might have done to him.’

‘Look, Lucy, I’m no expert. But I know one thing: Greg loves you. Even when he’s down, he’s thinking about you. He’s always asking after you. “Is she doing OK? Is she doing too much?” He’s never asked for my help before. All of a sudden, he’s asking me to organise money for you, a cleaner . . . I mean, no offence, I’m delighted to do it. You know that. I’m just making a point. He rang me, about an hour ago, and asked me to call over to make sure you were OK. He’s about as low as a guy can get and he’s still thinking about you. In my book, that says something. I know my brother. He loves you. Maybe you should stop reading all that stuff. Just go see him. Steer clear of my mother. And hang out with wonderful people like me.’ He grins.

I smile.

‘You’ll get through this. I know you will. Trust me, I’m a teacher. We know everything.’

Funny how, of all people, it’s Greg’s happy-go-lucky brother who is holding our relationship together.

Next day, walking into the hospital with Rob and the children, I’ve no idea what to expect. I’m terrified that he’ll have regressed. I’m even more terrified when we get to the ward and he’s not there. His roommate directs us to an exercise room I never knew existed.

We find it. And Greg. Pummelling a punchbag. I don’t know whether it’s all that action or the fact that punchbags automatically make the puncher look more masculine, but he looks great, moving with determination and force.

‘Dad,’ says Toby. ‘Can I’ve a go?’

He turns. Smiles. ‘Hey,’ he says, very Rocky. ‘OK. Come on, a quick one.’

Greg stands behind his son as he throws a few wobbly punches.

‘Cool,’ says Toby.

‘Right. Let’s go,’ says Greg, grabbing a towel, running it over his face and throwing it across his shoulders. Rob and I exchange a surprised glance as we follow him from the room. We drive to Greg’s favourite destination, Sandymount Strand. Rob takes the children off for ice cream while Greg and I sit together on the same bench where he told Rachel and Toby about his bipolar disorder.

‘I started group therapy today.’

‘Oh, Greg, that’s great.’ But I don’t understand; I rejected him
again
. The opposite should be happening.

‘I made a decision. I’m going to get out of this. I’m going to do the art therapy, the group therapy, the psychotherapy, every bloody therapy they have.’ There’s colour in his cheeks, determination in his eyes.

‘That’s so great.’

‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I’ve been an idiot. I should have involved you. I was trying to protect you, but all I did was push you away. No wonder you wanted to leave. I don’t ever want you to feel like that again.’ He takes my hands in his. ‘I’m sorry about my mother. I should never have invited her. I should have known she’d be
difficult
.’