Sedating Elaine, page 9
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay.”
Eventually, after much typing and tutting, he printed off the prescription. He said the referral would be through in a few weeks—she’d receive a letter. “No drinking alcohol on the pills,” he said, because he had to say it, but they both knew she would wash each one down with a glass of booze, because that’s what he would do too. She took it, thanked him, and they looked at each other.
In a sudden, impulsive moment, she nearly confessed. She could hold her hands up high: “Doctor, I killed a boy.” What would his face look like if she told him? What would he say? It seemed, in that moment, that she could tell him anything and he might understand, might nod in his fatherly way and offer some reassurance, and then, when she left his office, it would be as if it had never happened; there would be relief whilst in his room, then step outside and return to normal. The thought of unburdening herself was so tempting she felt the words “There’s something else” form in her mouth. But, after holding it so long inside, she found that it was impossible to confess, impossible to be honest, and when she swallowed the words, the moment passed. The truth had been in there for so long it was like a brick in mortar, in the wall of her personality; it didn’t do anything—it just lived there—and she was used to it, even though she knew it had corroded and was the cause of much instability. As they looked at each other, each felt a sense of fleeting recognition.
She stood to leave. Stopping at the door, she said, “You know, I wish you could just hit or hug me.”
“Sorry?” He looked up.
“I said, I wish you could just hit or hug me. I can’t help feeling it’s what people like me really need. One or the other. It probably doesn’t matter which.”
He leant back in his chair. He seemed for a moment to be seriously considering it. She pictured them standing there, taking it in turns to slap each other around the face. He said, “Eat well. Sleep well. Keep busy. See your friends and family, and get outside, in the fresh air.”
They looked at each other again and she wanted to ask, “Is that what you do?”
“Yes,” she said. “Okay. Thank you.”
Outside, in the car park, she stopped to light a cigarette and found herself standing before the row of cars in the spaces reserved for doctors. Hemmed in either side by glistening bonnets was a grubby Mondeo, parked askew, the licence plate almost unreadable through the coating of dirt. Empty chocolate wrappers and crisp packets and cigarette cartons filled the dashboard, ties were draped all over the place, empty bottles and sandwich crusts filled the footwells. Glancing back, she saw the doctor peering out between the blinds, looking at her. She turned away, and the blind, like a huge eye, snapped shut.
* * *
—
Now, outside of the flat, Frances headed straight for her haven. There were the cafés, of course, but when walls and noise and people became too much, she remembered the doctor’s poorly-given advice and sought fresh air, and as she was often unable to run or walk far, this place had become a favourite.
The duck pond was only a short walk around the corner. She had stumbled across it by accident one day, concealed within a square hedge, with no sign or markings to announce it, it was the sort of place people walked blindly by for years, known only to drug dealers and secret lovers who ushered through after dark. She snuck in now, looking over her shoulder, as if she were having an affair or being followed. She wouldn’t put it past Elaine to have come after her, on hands and knees, if necessary, grappling at her ankle. It would have been very typical of her.
It was not a pretty place, despite its origins as an art installation. The boxed frame of concrete slabs had once been a vision of clean lines and clear water which the hedges and the muffled city noises combined to create a place of peace. Now a low water line traced by green slime ran around the dank insides. The high buildings and tall hedge which towered over it meant the small, shrinking pool saw little daylight, and so the water appeared to be black, with a scummy green surface, home to only mosquitoes and a sort of putrid sludge which gathered there. The only hint of past beauty stood in one corner; a rusty sculpture of a mallard with its wings wide open, as if coming in to land. Four graffitied benches bordered each side behind which, in the ever-dark, ferns and mosses and mushrooms grew, quite possibly overseen by an elf or two. In the heat, a stench of metallic dampness lingered, along with a more offensive odour, like sulphur. Frances went to her favourite bench and was immediately affronted to see a couple opposite, across the pond, sitting side by side and nuzzling each other’s necks, glaring over at her for interrupting them. Frances folded her arms and stared back; they whispered and giggled. The tight, claustrophobic space meant they were within striking distance; Frances was tempted to throw one of the many discarded beer cans at their conjoined head. The front of the girl’s top was untucked from her shorts, and the boy had his hand high up her thigh, where his thumb kneaded away at the whiteness. Looking up, behind them, tipping her head way back, Frances could see her living room curtains. The place looked silent and empty up there, as all properties do when no one is at the window. It was very easy to imagine it without Elaine, and Frances found herself wondering how it was going, if she might be asleep, collapsed, throwing up, or still cheerfully writing the shopping list on her phone, wondering where Funny Frances had gone. Buses rumbled hungrily away down the road, voices—talking, laughing, shouting—filtered in, and in the gap between the hedges she saw the pedestrians rushing by, back and forth, like flashing images, innumerable, faceless, multitudinous humans.
She had heard that, whilst grieving, it is quite common to “see” your loved one everywhere, and she hoped for it constantly. She wasn’t asking for much: the sight of Adrienne’s hair vanishing around a corner. Her scent left behind as a stranger walked by. Her smile on a passenger, in a bus going up the road. Anything would do. The knowledge that she was out there merrily existing, allowing other people—random people, everyday, unimportant people—to see her and interact with her was awful, insulting. Knowing some old anybody could at that moment be caressing her and kissing her was enough to make Frances want to curl into a ball. It was not only a question of whether or not she was fucking someone, but whether or not she was being fucked, being probed and penetrated as if she weren’t precious and lovely, but a pot of compost you make a seed-hole in with one grubby finger.
The couple were kissing, tongues poking out between the gaps where their lips failed to lock, messily salivating upon each other like they hadn’t eaten in months. His left arm dangled around her neck like a scarf, strangely immobile considering all the face action. The girl kept her hands in her lap, on a red duffle bag, only her face turned towards him, the rest of her body towards Frances, as if this were all for her benefit. In between kissing they whispered in the stilted way kids do when they know how to kiss but not how to talk. The newness of their relationship was embarrassingly apparent: he suffering that uncomfortable arm just because it was what he had seen in films, and she suffering him, because she hadn’t made her mind up yet. He had a habit of pressing his left hand into the girl’s jaw to turn it towards him, as if it were on a hinge; she would turn away again and he would be laughing, joking, like it were a game, but the girl looked increasingly annoyed by it. Frances thought, That won’t last long. When it is true love, your faces are mirrored, magnetised. She marvelled that Elaine had never noticed any of these failings between them. She was half tempted to bring her down here to observe this couple: “Look—do you see now? Do you notice the clashing, the wrongness? That is us, my dear. You pushing on and me turning away.” Then she remembered that she would not have to feel Elaine’s hand touching or turning her face, nor any other body part, and she felt better.
She had, for a brief time, taken the antidepressants the doctor had prescribed, mainly because she could see what an effort it was for him to print it, but after a week or two of no obvious improvement, she threw them away. When you know how to get proper drugs—drugs with an almost instantaneous effect—why bother with wishy-washy, soft, sensible prescription ones? If she was going to do drugs she was going to do drugs. When the referral came through for group therapy, she went, in as much as she sat in a bar opposite the hall and drank as people arrived. Seeing them all go in cemented it for her: She couldn’t do it. For one thing, she would have to enter last, alone, and they’d all stare at her as she slid awkwardly into a chair; some might smile, but no one would speak. The hall would reek of cheesy gym mats and sweaty insoles, it would be echoey and cold, the windows too tall, the ceiling too high. Distance from the door: miles and miles. And they had all looked so normal, so casual, as they strolled in, like they were popping into a library. One man had been holding a Disney store carrier bag, for heaven’s sake. She shook her head and sipped her beer. She had scarcely made herself understood by the doctor; how on earth was she supposed to explain herself to this lot? She had finished her drink and left.
Almost-fresh air. Stagnant though it was, it was better than being indoors. The couple had finally stopped kissing and now he was holding her hand and talking to the mole on her disinterested cheek as she stared back at Frances. Frances had the sudden urge to rescue her. She knew that expression well, knew the bored thoughts behind it, knew what it was like to be holding in a tirade of curse words that fought to burst out. No, they would not last. In fact, two weeks later he would be abruptly dumped in front of his friends when he announced she had performed some fiendish—and, as it transpired, fictional—acts upon him. Everyone has their breaking point. But for now, they’d drift on, he quietly salivating, and she unable to put her finger on what exactly was wrong because it was not yet fully clear to her that she just simply couldn’t stand him. Frances wondered if perhaps the girl should stick around, tolerate him, marry him. He didn’t have the power to destroy her, and that was no bad thing.
“Hello?” Frances hovered in the doorway as if ready to dash back into the street. “Elaine?”
She listened, she sniffed the air, she peered as far into the living room as possible. Nothing. Not a grumble, no smell of vomit, no items knocked over on a dash to the bathroom: It all looked just as it had when she had left. She glanced at her watch. She had been gone only an hour. Despite the fact that nothing appeared to have changed, the flat felt eerie now, as if she had returned knowing it was haunted, and she crept in stealthily, slipping her feet out of her shoes. Perhaps this was the stillness of sleep, perhaps the emptiness of absence, or the hollowness of death. She knew it was of the utmost importance that she behave completely normally, ready to greet whatever she may find with sensibleness and strength, so she was surprised to find herself creeping about like a caricature, slowly pressing the front door closed, leaning to listen with a cupped ear, tippy-toeing across the hallway as if she should have a money bag slung over her shoulder.
She leant forwards, squinting into the gloom, not because it was particularly dark but because it had been so bright outside that she now felt quite blind, and as her eyes adjusted she realised it was also stiflingly hot, the sort of heat which develops a density, so that merely walking through it makes you sweat. She called again, a little louder, “Elaine?” She glanced quickly in the bedroom. The bed was a tangle of damp sheets. No Elaine. She looked in the bathroom. One lace-like web wafted gently beneath the extractor fan. No Elaine. She stood staring into the living room, looking at the back of the sofa, the black TV. She must have gone out. She’d probably come skipping back in soon with Scotch eggs and fizzy pop, all happy and sunshiney, as if nothing had happened. Frances’ bag slumped to the floor with a thud.
“Boo!”
Elaine leapt up from the sofa, hands up like bear paws, and she laughed wildly. Frances stumbled backwards and fell into a box full of shoes.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, trying to haul herself up. “Don’t do that to me.”
Clutching her stomach as she laughed, Elaine walked round and grabbed Frances’ hand. She wrenched her up out of the box and onto her feet as if she weighed nothing. Frances eyed her suspiciously and said, “Are you alright?”
Elaine was wearing a bandana and a pair of polka-dotted cycling shorts, nothing else. Her thighs stretched the material until it turned white.
“Those are my shorts.” Frances pointed at them.
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t find my clean running gear. I had to go through your things—I hope you don’t mind. But look!” She stuck her thumbs into the suffocating waistband and pulled it a quarter inch from her body. “Look how stretchy!”
“What are you doing?”
“Going running!”
As if to demonstrate, she dashed into the bedroom. Frances turned, following slowly, then stopped in the doorway and gawped as previously unnoticed devastation came into view within the gloom: All the drawers were pulled out and upturned and half the wardrobe had been emptied. “Jesus, what’s happened in here?” she said.
“I told you,” Elaine replied, burrowing away on the floor, her vast behind poking up from the other side of the bed. “I can’t find my clean running gear. It’s still packed somewhere. Here”—she tossed a pair of shorts and a top at Frances—“put these on.”
“I’m not going,” Frances said, “and you shouldn’t either. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
“I told you.” Elaine walked round to her and kissed her forehead. “I’m fine. I feel great. Let’s get out of here. I want to run, baby! I absolutely must run. I’m going nuts in here.”
Elaine was grappling with her breasts, trying to wrangle the bulbous objects into one of Frances’ small sports bras, which would have been difficult enough without her jogging on the spot. It reminded Frances of lava bubbling up out of the earth.
“Elaine,” Frances said, “I think we should stay in.”
“Why?”
“You don’t seem quite right.”
“What are you talking about? I feel great.”
“I just think it would be for the best. It’s really hot outside. It’s too hot to run, for sure.”
“Are you mad? Look, missy, you might have been out already but I haven’t and I want to run, and I want you to come with me, okay? We never run together anymore. Come onnnnnnn.”
“I want to stay inside.”
Elaine paused and raised an eyebrow at Frances. “You…want to stay in?”
Elaine’s ditzy enthusiasm seemed to home in on Frances with a sudden, fierce precision. She grinned.
“No. You’re right.” Frances clapped her hands. “Let’s go running.”
“Yay!”
A few minutes later they were by the front door and Frances was tying her laces, feeling like a babysitter in charge of an excitable child. She tried to think positively; it might be nice to enjoy the simple momentum of running, to feel air in hair, blind in mind, but it was difficult to focus on such things with Elaine before her, bouncing up and down and punching like a shadow-boxer. “Come on!” she cried. “Come on!” Then, unable to wait a moment longer, she turned and bolted out the door. It occurred to Frances that she could probably just stay where she was; Elaine might not even notice she wasn’t there. Reluctantly, she grabbed her keys and followed.
Outside on the sunny street, Elaine was performing donkey-kicks round and round in a circle, then put her hands on her hips and walked around doing lunges. She had the rump—and run—of a racehorse: thin, bony ankles disguising a vast amount of strength, upper legs fit to burst through the polka dots, which strained in huge, elongated splats against such sheer bulging power. Frances, on the other hand, ran like a rodent, in many short, fast bursts, close to the ground, little leggies frantically doing their best. She often thought her run should be accompanied by a high piano trill, like when animated mice are being chased.
“Can we keep it nice and steady, and not too far?” she asked, but Elaine hadn’t heard her, because she was already across the road.
“Hurry up!” she yelled, her face appearing up and down beyond the traffic as if she were bouncing on an invisible trampoline. Frances wove her way across the road in between impatient cars, full of reluctance, dragging her feet to delay the inevitable. She had only just stepped one foot on pavement when Elaine took off, catapulted by enthusiasm down the crowded street, unable to wait any longer. Frances yelled, “Wait!” and sprinted after her.
For a while they ran side by side in silence; Elaine didn’t speak because she was smiling, her mind elsewhere, and Frances didn’t because she couldn’t—she could barely even breathe. They’d been going only a few minutes and already she was covered in sweat; it ran into her mouth and down her back, her temples tickled with it. Pedestrians walked in their way, dogs and prams appeared out of nowhere, forcing her to leap, dodge, even dash into the gutter. “Can we slow down?” she wheezed. “This is like a fucking assault course.” But Elaine didn’t seem to hear her; she charged on, arms pumping back and forth, eyes staring off into an imaginary distance. It was all very disconcerting, and Frances wondered what the hell was going on inside that muscular body and tampered mind, and which of them might collapse first. After a couple of miles, just as Frances felt her legs turn to spaghetti, Elaine suddenly vanished—one moment there, beside her, the next only a wall—having darted into a play park so swiftly that Frances had sped past its entrance. She skidded to a halt, looking around for a moment, then walked back and found the gate and went stumbling in, relieved beyond words to no longer be running, taking lungful after lungful of glorious air, her legs solidifying into a deep ache. Her relief was short-lived, however: There was Elaine, swinging from the monkey bars, much to the delight of several small children. Oh, God, she thought. Elaine was, with apparent ease, moving her body back and forth from one end to the other, shouting at the applauding audience of chocolate-smeared faces, “Look! I’m urang-Elaine! I’m urang-Elaine!” Frances looked on, stunned. She had to admit, Elaine did look rather long-limbed and at home there, as if this were her natural habitat. Enthralled toddlers on the roundabout ignored their mothers’ adoring faces to stare over at her, and children on the swings forgot to keep moving, clutching the metal chains and watching, open-mouthed, as they sat motionlessly, absorbing the sight of this bizarre performance in the Peewee Playground. Some of the larger children tried to climb up to join her but wary parents quickly encouraged them in other directions: “No, let’s leave the nice lady alone and go on the slide, shall we? Oh look, an ice cream van…” Elaine did not notice; she was having a fabulous time.
