Don't Think a Single Thought, page 13
If this doesn’t work, I’ll have to… have to have her… he thought, but said, ‘I can’t take much more. Emma’s not just depressed – she’s ill. But – she doesn’t want any medical help. She stays in bed most of the time now – her room’s a mess – eats very little, but has short periods now and then, or she did, where she gets up and will perhaps have a glass of wine and say a few words. That’s mostly in the evening.’
Even as he spoke, Jonathan knew his words sounded as though Emma was unhinged.
‘It’s not that she’s crazy,’ he said. ‘She gets so terribly depressed. Despite her novels, despite the film. Oh, I know all the reviews weren’t dazzling. But so what? Many writers never even get reviews. Most writers would give a lot to be where she is.’
‘Let’s talk about you rather than Emma, for now. What’s the effect on you?’
‘I’m worried, damn it! I can’t seem to do a thing. She won’t take my advice, she never goes out. I have to attend all the dinners and events on my own – of course that’s a minor part of it – we rarely have meals together, conversations. A vacation would be Herculean for her. Although Carla does the housework, I’m turning into almost… a carer. Emma is an intelligent and beautiful woman – she has more novels to write, I’m sure – but I never see her in anything but pajamas, looking terrible. She barely eats. She takes a lot of pills, painkillers, tranquilizers, sleeping pills – but not to any regime. She uses them as and when. She won’t admit how much or what she takes. I don’t think the doses are high, but they’re mixed up.’
‘Jonathan, I’m a psychoanalyst – shouldn’t you be talking to a psychiatrist? Someone at the hospital, even a colleague? Someone who deals in depressive illnesses? Of course, I’m willing to see you – yet I feel this is a medical problem. Emma doesn’t see her own therapist now, does she?’
‘She hasn’t left the apartment for weeks. Sometimes she stays in her room for days.’
‘Forgive me – does she care about her looks, hygiene? I’m sorry – but these are markers to the degree of gravity of the illness.’
‘Her looks, no – and she used to care a lot, she was always immaculate. But she doesn’t often wash her hair or ever put make-up on. She manages a shower about every other day, not always. She may go four days staying in bed.’
‘Then this is a medical problem, Jonathan. You’ve told me before about her depressions, but these were temporary? Depressions she managed to get over?’
‘Something always happened to lift her out of them – a new book deal, the film, being offered some journalism. She’s always uplifted by work. But that hasn’t happened lately.’
‘Is her agent in contact with her?’
‘Eve has rung, but I’ve always made some excuse – said Emma has a migraine, or she’s away, or we have family over. I think it would be a bad idea for her work contacts to know how depressed she is. Or even her friends.’
‘So no one else knows how ill she is?’
‘No one. I think it would be a mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I… what would it look like? As a writer she needs to keep a reliable profile. She wouldn’t thank me for telling people – she’d be horrified. She hates being depressed.’
‘It sounds as though the fact she’s depressed is making her even more depressed.’
‘Something like that. Thing is – what do we do?’
‘I can’t answer that. My only advice is to seek medical help for Emma, maybe from a trusted colleague. There are some good treatments now… but she’d need to go into a unit. And that would give you some respite, as well.’
‘I can’t think how I can put it to her. I feel so disloyal, like I should be able to solve her depressions myself – almost as if it’s my fault.’
‘I’ve had clients in similar positions. They all feel like that – as if they’re letting their wives down by trying to help them. It’s not the case.’
Jonathan noticed a vase of peonies and roses in the room – two of Emma’s favorite flowers. And a painting by Rothko, he thought – Emma would know, of course. One wall was lined with bookshelves. He noticed Emma’s books there.
‘You’ve read Emma’s work?’
‘Indeed. Emma is a fine writer, a fine person. We met at a literary gathering. She mentions therapy in her fiction, taking a comic view – good. I was impressed. I’m sad she is so troubled. Practical measures are needed.’
‘Yes. I know. It’s just I’m so reluctant. The effect it would have on her – Christ.’
‘But what effect will it have on her if she remains in this state, gets worse? I think you should talk to a colleague who deals in depressive illness – see what they say. Maybe you can present it to her as the medical equivalent of a spa break, something to relax and restore her energies, lift her depression. Maybe make the point that it’s illness, not madness. For your own sake as well, you need to do this.’ He tapped his pen against a folder. ‘Could you do that, Jonathan? Taking action is so much better than taking no action.’
‘And if she won’t go into a hospital?’
‘Cross that bridge when you come to it.’
Jonathan knew his hour was up. And that his therapist hadn’t a clue as to the solution.
In the dream, she’s walking along the cliff edge and carrying a little puppet. They’re both wearing school uniform, and the puppet is talking to her.
‘Don’t let me go, Emma. Don’t drop me,’ it says in a voice a bit like her own, but squeakier.
‘Of course I won’t!’ She clutches the puppet closer, even though she doesn’t really like it.
It’s a sunny day in her dream and she can clearly see the blue sky, the foaming waves. There’s no hedge on the cliff – it’s a sheer drop. There are waterfalls running down to the ocean, butterflies, and birds – like a Disney film.
‘I said don’t drop me, Emma!’ the puppet orders. ‘Your hand’s getting loose. Hold me tighter!’
She is loosening her grip, at which the puppet screams.
‘Stop it, Emma! You’re joking, aren’t you? You are joking?’
‘I’m not… joking,’ she gasps and sends the screaming puppet over the cliff edge.
Because it’s only a puppet, no one cares. School friends stroll up to her.
‘What happened?’ says one.
‘Nothing,’ she says, but she can see the puppet far below, floating, in the blue school summer dress with red piping. And she thinks she can hear the puppet too.
I’ll get you, Emma! I’m coming to get you!
The vicious cry, followed by terrible laughter.
In the dream, she feels herself fainting with fear, yet at the same time managing to grasp a thought.
It’s only a dream… I can wake up.
She does wake up, shaking, sweating. She sips water. Takes a pill. She sinks back gratefully. Looks at her watch – 3 a.m. – maybe seven whole hours before she has to try to get up. Seven hours of peaceful darkness. Night.
‘I’m not feeling well, Jonathan – I’ll stay in bed today,’ she says when he comes in. She’s been saying that a lot lately. All the time? She doesn’t remember.
‘Wouldn’t some air help, Emma? I’ve brought you some coffee. It’s the start of that conference today – the one I’m chairing. It’s way across town – I may be a little late... Carla’s in today – she’ll fix you some lunch.’
‘I don’t want any.’
‘Please try, you’re starting to look awfully thin.’
‘You can never be too thin.’
‘You can, actually.’
It’s funny how he doesn’t sound so sympathetic any more. She reaches for her old photograph of Mikey for comfort. It’s nearly thirty years old now, that photo… she remembers how happy she was. He stayed with her – wasn’t that it? And then died in a motorbike accident, only months later – Cathy told her.
There was a guitar-shaped wreath at his funeral.
She did manage a letter to her best friend, Ruth. A sort-of jaunty letter. The way they used to talk to each other:
It’s been a very rough couple of months. A rough year. Couple of years.
The critical reviews of Shrink – with that insane review in the British Sunday Times – did not help. I’m terribly happy you liked it. So many people did, do, and I am glad I wrote it. Although you won’t catch me writing about the American family scene again soon. I felt I said something that hasn’t been said – and have a raft of letters from women to prove it. The sad thing about the Women’s Lib movement is that it has unleashed a backlash, of sorts – and the subject of The Unhappy Middle-Class Woman is almost taboo... We’re on the verge of the 8os now, aren’t we? Something’s lost in writing. I’m not sure anything’s gained.
The phone rings.
Mia. One of her good friends.
‘Emma, it is you! I’ve been ringing for days, for ever, but can never get you. I did get Jonathan, but he said you’d flown to L.A. Not like you – you hate flying. How are you?’
Her bright voice kicks in. Why did Jonathan lie? She’d no more get on a plane these days than enter a lion’s cage. Why did he tell Mia that?
She knew, of course. He was ashamed of her depression. He didn’t want anyone to know. Just how bad it was. How ill she was. Ashamed of her.
‘I’m fine! I went to L.A. to give a little talk. I have been a bit unwell, but things are much better now. The bad reviews and… things.’
‘You’re feeling better?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Going out?’
‘Sure. I’ve been to a couple of movies and talks at MoMA. And been for a few dinners with Jonathan. He’s been so good about this… thing.’
‘Oh, everyone gets depressed from time to time. All writers do. It comes with the territory. The great thing is, it goes.’
‘Yes – I’m working on a new story now.’
‘Terrific! I’m so thrilled to hear that.’
‘Yes – I’m managing five hundred words a day, at least.’
They chatted for a while longer. Emma replaced the phone, exhausted. The effort of being bright, cheery. She didn’t feel any better. She got up, pulled on her robe, went to the kitchen.
‘Mrs. Bowden!’ said Carla. ‘Could you manage some lunch today? I bought cream of watercress soup, the best there is. I’ve made baked chicken with fresh peaches and roast potatoes with rosemary – then a homemade coconut ice. Can I tempt you?’
She knew Jonathan would eat it today or tomorrow, or Carla could freeze it.
‘All I really want is coffee and a biscuit. You have some lunch, Carla, and leave the rest in the ice box.’
‘Dr. Bowden did ask me to try and interest you in having something to eat.’
‘Too bad.’
She went back to bed.
Jonathan had seen a colleague, as advised by his shrink. He’d outlined Emma’s state. The colleague told Jonathan he’d be “shooting from the hip”.
‘Jonathan, I’m not going to mince words. She needs hospital help – as soon as you can get her in. I’m a little surprised you’ve let this go on so long – but get her in soon, for Christ’s sake.’
Sitting at Emma’s bedside, Jonathan took a large gulp of his drink – then made the suggestion.
‘Would you consider some hospital help? They have excellent treatments now – it’s not the bad old days. Don’t look like that please, Emma, and anyway, you don’t need that – but it’s a chance to try out some new drugs and procedures, really rest, eat a good diet and be free from any chores or worry. And of course, I’d come to see you every day. And I’m only talking a week or so. A luxury, private place, kind of, that’s used to dealing with your illness. The statistics show many more people suffer from depression. But, Emma, you have to co-operate, and nobody need know. Ever. I’ll keep it hushed up. I’ll say you are at a health spa – which you could also enjoy after you’ve had the hospital treatment.’
‘Please, Jonathan, stop it – I couldn’t bear it,’ she cried. ‘I’ll see a new shrink tomorrow – or the day after – and see if they have new treatments. There’s something called hypnotherapy. It’s a way of thinking that makes you feel more optimistic.’
Slowly, he drained his glass.
‘Emma, I don’t think you realize quite how ill you are,’ he said gently. ‘I can tell from your looks – and the state of your room – and your general demeanor how rarely you get up. How you never go out. And you take pills randomly – that’s self-medication. You need to follow a regime, not just throw them down when you feel depressed. Don’t you want to feel better, be your old self?’
What old self? Her old self was successful, achieving – and Jonathan loved her then. Now she was a millstone. He’d rather be with another doctor, some bright woman specialist who also loves after-dinner speaking and wears designer clothes. Who’s written important research. Who’s busy and happy. Who doesn’t spend weeks in bed. She’d guessed.
She doesn’t blame him, not really.
‘I don’t deserve to be my old self. Don’t deserve it,’ she whispered.
‘For God’s sake, Emma! What the hell are you saying?’
‘I’m so… Jonathan, I don’t want to go into hospital. Please let me try something else… anything… I will get up early tomorrow, clean my room, go out.’
But the next morning she felt as bad – worse – and stayed in bed, until hunger drove her to the kitchen when Carla had left. She drank a chocolate shake, ate two chocolate biscuits, a banana. Then what? She started to cry, sobbing hysterically. She rang Jonathan at work, crying – something she’d never done before.
‘I feel so ill… nothing’s working. It’s as though I don’t exist.’ She screamed with fright. ‘Help me!’
He was calm.
‘Emma, I’m coming home now. Try having a bath then go to bed, or rest on the sofa. I will be home soon, I promise.’
She had the bath, went back to bed, her refuge, her place.
When Jonathan came in, she was sleeping – she woke.
‘Emma, have you taken anything?’ he said.
‘Yes… no… I… I can’t remember. I think so, yes, a tiny piece of a sleeping pill. I think.’
‘We can’t go on like this. I’ve booked you into Payne Whitney for the day after tomorrow. For a week to start with. I’m certain you’ll get well again. Carla will pack for you; all you have to do is get up and get dressed, something casual. Pack books – you’ll have plenty of time to read and rest. I’ve already let them know the foods and drinks and flowers you like. They’re looking forward to meeting you. I promise it’s not as bad as you think. Please, Emma. Please.’
She saw it was inevitable. She did deserve it. Hadn’t her parents always said she was a bad girl, not as good as other children, not deserving gifts, treats? She recalled an exchange trip in Europe that every single girl in her class was allowed to go on – but not her.
‘Your behavior isn’t good enough. Going out with boys all the time. You don’t deserve it.’
Then when every girl in the class had a “junior” bra, her mother refused to buy her one. When she did give Emma one, it was something from a thrift store, gray and faded. The other girls had new matching sets in bright colors and patterns. So pretty.
And then when she had her first real boyfriend, her mother was unpleasant and suspicious.
‘What are you doing until ten o’clock at night? You be careful, Emma. I don’t doubt you’re doing something wrong. And we don’t want to be woken up by you coming in late and the door banging every night.’
When her first story was published, she’d had one letter from her mother:
I saw your short story in The Post, but of course no one really reads that. It’s not as though it was McCall’s or Harpers – can’t you get something in those? Your father and I didn’t really follow it – it seemed slow – though I guess it’s supposed to be clever. Well done, anyway.
No, she deserved nothing. She’d go to the psychiatric hospital.
It was June. Sunny, bright. She lay in bed, some tiny comfort from the soft pillows, the cool sheets, the scent of some linen fragrance Carla used when ironing. Waking was always a surprise – ‘Me? Here?’ – and after a few seconds, terror.
She hadn’t been able to face clearing up her room – books, magazines and clothes scattered around, a sprawl of cosmetics on the dressing table, various used glasses and cups. Many bits of pills – so many she no longer knew what each segment was supposed to do.
She took three or four slivers, gulping them down with three day old water. She lay back. Oh, to sleep. Just to sleep. If only it was winter, not June, when the dark days made it more – usual – to sleep. Didn’t people sleep through the winter in the Middle Ages? She’d read that, maybe even studied it some time. They began to get up when the spring came. To go about their business…
She lost the thread of her thoughts. And remembered with a shock of horror – tomorrow she was booked to go into the psychiatric hospital. It was all arranged. Jonathan would go with her in a taxi at 11 a.m. She needn’t even pack – someone would do it for her. All she needed was to pick out personal things and a few books.
This can’t be happening.
She picked up a hand mirror she kept by her bed and stared at her reflection. The hollowed-out cheeks, the dents under the eyes, the limp hair, the crow’s feet. All the vitality and energy had drained from her. Her skin was pale, dry.
A lipstick had rolled onto the floor – she could reach it. She painted on a red mouth with a shaking hand. She thought she looked like a clown. How could she go to a place where people would see her? She didn’t even have the energy to wash her hair or clean her teeth.
‘How did it come to this?’ she cried out loud. The pill she’d taken seemed to be making her feel worse, heavier, and without hope. She remembered the Vassar girls who’d died in a joint suicide, their arms lovingly entwined, their black silk nightdresses fresh, their faces made up. How right they were, to do it when they were young and fit. For them it was an adventure, an experiment in living – dying. They never went through pain, defeat, despair, menopause, rejection… they left when everything was bright. But poor Mikey – she looked at his picture again. She left it where Jonathan would find it. Take care of it.
