Again, Rachel, page 30
‘It’s Mia,’ I said. ‘Downstairs at the door. Fruit Mia. From NA.’
‘Oh? Okay. You want her to come in?’
Not really but I felt I should.
‘Hey.’ She was rushed and apologetic, her cuddly-toy face anxious, her brown eyes huge. ‘I’m not here to bother you. Just need to give you something then I’m gone.’
Her candour was hard to resist. ‘Come in.’
Already she was fishing something from her ivy-coloured messenger bag, which she wore cross-body over a red leather jacket and what looked like a pair of men’s suit trousers. She was an attractive combination of cute and cool.
She stepped into our living room, then saw Luke, his top three buttons opened, his hair mussed. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude …’
‘You’re not,’ Luke said. ‘Hey, Mia.’
She nodded at him, her face flushing. ‘Hey.’
‘Would you like to sit down?’ I asked.
‘Seriously, no. Just need a quick word.’
This was Luke’s cue to leave so Mia and I could speak privately, but he didn’t move.
‘At the meeting today you shared that you couldn’t sleep?’ She put a small jar in my hands. ‘Melatonin. It’s non-addictive, natural. Safe for you and me to use. Might help.’
‘Th-thank you.’ I was touched and suddenly hopeful. Why hadn’t I thought of melatonin? In the past I’d used it for jet lag but hadn’t thought about using it for insomnia.
‘I’m not good at sleeping,’ she said. ‘Never really was. Tried everything. As you know, Rachel …’ Mia had arrived in NA after a dependence on Ambien and Xanax had brought her to her knees. ‘I also brought you –’ She fumbled in her bag and produced a punnet of dark, glossy cherries. ‘Left over from today.’
She held them out and Luke stepped forward to take them.
‘I hope the melatonin helps,’ she told me. ‘But if it doesn’t, one thing to remember, no one ever died from lack of sleep.’ As she turned to let herself out, she said, with great sincerity, her gaze moving from my face to Luke’s, ‘I’m really sorry about your baby. It sucks so bad.’
The door rattled shut and she was gone.
For a short while, Luke and I stood in silence, him holding the punnet of cherries, then, with a trace of a smile, he said, ‘How nice was that?’
53
In the park, I held my face to the sun and urged its rays to work their magic on whatever part of my brain controlled sleep. Daylight – apparently that was what I needed. With the amount of time I’d been spending in the apartment, maybe it was no wonder I was trapped in insomnia.
No one ever died from lack of sleep, Mia had said. Maybe not, but you could go mad without it. The previous night, my fourth without sleep – even though I’d taken Mia’s melatonin – I’d felt trapped, like a rat in my own head, where time kept jumping – I’d forget what had happened, thinking I was still pregnant, waiting to give birth, only to discover that it was all over, but I had no baby, then I’d tumble into horror.
I prayed and prayed for sleep, to not go mad.
This morning, when Luke had brought me tea he’d seemed lighter somehow.
I dragged myself up to sitting, exhausted and queasy.
‘You didn’t sleep?’ He was very surprised. ‘Not even with Mia’s melatonin? You mean that from midnight to seven a.m. you literally didn’t nod off once? Are you sure?’ For the first time he had sounded impatient about it.
The heat on my face dimmed – the sun had gone behind a cloud – so I opened my eyes and looked around the park. It was a small, scrappy affair, but it was the closest to our apartment.
In the playground, a man with a weighty little bundle strapped to his chest sat on a swing. Gently he rocked back and forth, talking to the bump …
… and for a moment I was wondering if that really was a baby on his chest? What if he was chatting away with a bag of potatoes or his sweatshirt rolled up in a ball? It was a strange idea, almost funny, and maybe that was the thing about having had almost no sleep in five days – everything felt off, slightly mad, as if I was dreaming.
Then I spotted a baby in a stroller headed towards me. My first urge was to get up and run away – I was afraid of getting too close to what I had lost – but a horrible fascination kept me frozen in place. Closer it got, then closer, the mommy walking jauntily and singing a song.
The baby was near enough now for me to touch. We made eye contact as it passed, it was maybe three months old, squishy and milk-drunk.
In a second or two, the stroller was gone. I watched the retreating mommy in her Birkenstocks, wondering what it was like to be her, with her healthy baby. Did she know how incredibly blessed she was? For a moment I thought I was imagining it but she was deliberately squeezing her buttocks with every step she took. I guessed that that accounted for the jauntiness of her walk. Not happiness, as I’d first thought, but an attempt to ‘snap back to her pre-baby body’.
My own body was a far sight from its pre-baby-ness. Maybe the woman would lend me her baby so I could walk and clench my buttocks … Out of nowhere I was gripped with fear that the baby in the stroller would die because of having been close to me. That I was, in some way, toxic.
In the playground, the man and his baby were still on the swing. What if that child died too? And that one over there, being breastfed on the grass? And it was all traced back to me? Because it could happen. I’d already been responsible for one death.
I knew I was crazy. With so much sleep deprivation, it was no surprise. But part of me actually believed it and that part was terrified.
This couldn’t go on.
I stood up and went straight to the drugstore, where I bought a packet of Unisom. I was in dangerous territory here, buying tablets, but I was desperate. Unisom was basically horrible, an antihistamine which would give me a dry mouth and no happy feels, but it might knock me out.
But I couldn’t tell Luke. I couldn’t tell anyone.
I took it at 10.50 p.m., nodded off – and woke two hours and thirteen minutes later, my mouth like cotton wool. That was it for the night.
Lying in the dark, I was quietly frantic. Where would this end? Seriously?
My mind began tracking back over my day, landing on the baby in the stroller. What if, at home in its apartment, it had developed a high temperature? Or had trouble breathing?
A thrill of terror seized me. Maybe it was already at the hospital, its mom and dad sick with worry?
This was nonsense, I knew it was, just down to lack of sleep.
But what if it wasn’t?
My mind jumped from the anonymous baby in the stroller to my friend Olga Mae’s little boy, Carter. Thirteen months old and cute as a button. What if he died?
Panic spiralled and I had to leave the bedroom and turn on the TV. That calmed me. But the fear began to stack up again until I was convinced that Carter was in danger.
I should call Olga Mae.
But there was no need – Carter was fine and I just needed some sleep.
But what if morning came and the news arrived that Carter was dead? As soon as I had that thought, I reached for my phone.
‘Rachel …?’
‘Can you check Carter? See if he’s okay?’
‘… It’s five a.m. What’s going on?’
‘Just check him. Please.’
‘… Sure.’ Then, ‘All good. He’s sleeping. He’s good.’
‘Breathing normally? No temperature?’
‘His skin feels normal. Rachel, what is it?’
‘Nothing. Thank you for checking. Go back to sleep.’
The spike of relief at learning that Carter was safe lasted no time – because suddenly I was worried about Luke. I tiptoed back into the bedroom and to my disbelief I couldn’t hear his breathing. I crept closer. He was lying unnaturally still, no rise and fall to his chest.
I put my hand on his stomach, sick with fear that he’d be cold. He was warm to the touch but if he had just died, then he wouldn’t be cool just yet … Suddenly he jolted awake and when he saw me looming over him, looked terrified. ‘Rachel! What the –’
‘Are you alive?’
‘Yes! What’s going on?’
‘Luke, did I kill her?’
‘What? Babe, no!’ He pulled me down into bed with him. ‘Of course you didn’t. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Let’s just go to sleep.’
Within moments he’d tumbled back into dreamland.
Our bodies were clammy and stuck to each other and he was snoring softly into my ear, every exhale lifting a lock of my hair. I tried to not hate him but it was hard.
When he woke at 7 a.m., I’d extracted myself from his embrace and was back watching telly. He wandered into the living room, looking at his phone, at the text he’d got from Olga Mae.
‘Babe, what’s going on?’ he asked.
So I told him about my fear that I was dangerous.
‘This is … so sad. None of this is your fault. But this can’t go on. You need to go back to Carlotta.’
‘What can she do?’
‘She’s a doctor. She must be able to prescribe you something?’
Luke was a lot more innocent than me. The thing was, I knew there was no sleeping pill that I could safely take.
Carlotta suggested antidepressants again, which might also help with sleep.
‘But I’m not depressed,’ I said. ‘I’m – I don’t know – grieving? Traumatized?’
‘I’m not sure the distinction really matters when you’re this bad.’
I considered it. But I wanted to see what Carlotta’s next offer would be.
‘I can refer you to a good grief counsellor,’ she said. ‘But the work will take time. Because you can’t sleep right now, how about I prescribe you a short course of Ambien? Used short-term, they’re not addictive.’
‘Maybe not for normal people, but for me, they …’ I hesitated. ‘… probably are. I’m an addict. Sleeping pills were part of my thing.’
‘Five pills,’ she said. ‘No more.’
It was so alluring. Five nights of blissful sleep. I’d feel so much more normal after them and surely I could manage to not get addicted in five short nights?
My thoughts hovered on a knife-edge. I’d been clean for over thirteen years, an achievement I was grateful for and really proud of. If I took these pills as they’d been prescribed, I’d be doing nothing wrong. Things only got tricky if I started doubling up, messing with the prescribed dose or taking them at times other than bedtime.
I’d be doing nothing wrong.
And, with that, my decision was made.
‘Only five,’ I said. ‘No more, you promise? Even if I beg?’
She laughed. ‘Not even if you beg.’
‘Okay.’ I exhaled, already feeling better.
I walked home, gratefully clutching my five little circles of magic in the drugstore bag. But I didn’t want to tell anyone. I’d be afraid of being judged in meetings.
But I had to tell Nola, Olga Mae and Luke. Those relationships were too important.
‘What did Carlotta say?’ Luke asked.
‘You might not like it. She gave me Ambien.’
‘… Sleeping pills?’ Concern zipped across his face. ‘Rachel, no.’
In exasperation, I asked, ‘What did you think she could do for me? Doctors aren’t miracle-workers.’
‘Was there any other option?’
‘Antidepressants.’
‘Maybe you are depressed?’
‘I’m not. I’m …’ I tried to locate the exact word to sum up my sadness, my shock, my self-blame, my yearning. ‘… grieving. We both are.’
‘Sleeping tablets, though. You know you can’t take them safely.’
‘She gave me five tablets, enough for five nights’ sleep. I told her to not give me any more, even if I beg. This is a short-term emergency thing.’
He sat, his head in his hands. ‘What if this starts you back into addiction? I don’t want to lose you as well.’
‘You won’t. You know how strong I am. But I swear to you, Luke, I’ll lose my mind if I don’t get some sleep.’
That first night, it was like a miracle. One minute I was conscious, then the next thing I knew, it was seven in the morning and Luke was getting up for work.
‘Oh!’ I was full of wonder. ‘I slept for eight hours!’
It had been gorgeous. No broken sleep, no bad dreams, just a perfect blankness, as if I’d been temporarily dead.
I felt like a new person! Yes, my baby had died, but today I could cope. Especially because I knew for certain that a time would come later in the day when all the pain would stop.
The second night treated me to the same delicious oblivion.
On night three, when I looked at the card, at the three remaining pills – a mere three – panic gripped me.
By the fifth night, I was waking up intermittently. If I’d had any tablets left, I’d have taken a second one.
On the sixth night, it was time to try again on my own – and I was still awake when the sun came up.
‘No one ever died from lack of sleep,’ Luke said, parroting Mia.
But those five nights had changed me. Now I knew the magic the pills could do, I was in thrall to their wonders.
Getting through the day was suddenly far harder than it had seemed before, because today there would be no cut-off point when I could swallow a little white tablet and all the pain would dissolve.
I couldn’t bear it. Not when I knew there was a solution. So I went back to Carlotta and flung myself on her mercy.
‘You told me I shouldn’t give you any more,’ she reminded me.
‘Yeah, I got it wrong. I didn’t understand how bad … how deep the damage is. I can’t stop asking myself what kind of mother sleeps through her baby dying?’
Her pupils flared with pity. Doubtfully she studied me. ‘Can I trust you to be sensible?’
‘You totally can. The last thing I want to do is relapse, things are bad enough.’
She exhaled. ‘Okay. I’ll give you a month’s script, renewable by three, to be taken if and only if you need them, mmmkay?’
‘Of course, of course.’ I was breathless with relief.
‘And you must start seeing a psychiatrist. You need more help than I can give you.’
I’d have agreed to anything, so long as I could get some sleep. ‘Who should I … Is there anyone you recommend?’
‘It’s better if you do the research. It works best if it’s a doctor you feel comfortable with. Perhaps someone experienced in addiction?’
I promised I’d sort it out, then left, gratefully clutching the prescription.
But this time I couldn’t tell Luke. He’d go crazy.
It was easy for him, he could drink whiskey, he had the option to self-medicate any way he liked. I needed to sleep, I’d go round the bend if I couldn’t and I was desperately grateful for the tablets. I knew I had no choice and I knew this was just temporary, until I’d done some healing. Luckily, I knew enough about addiction to know how to handle this.
54
I was woken by a dream about Yara and Luke. Quin’s bedroom was pitch-dark and already the details of the dream were dispersing, leaving just a watery sorrow. It was only 3.20 a.m., but there would be no going back to sleep, not for ages.
Quietly, I slid from the bed.
‘Y’okay?’ Quin mumbled.
I paused. Quin tried so hard to be kind about Yara but nothing he could say would make me feel okay. It was better to just leave him to sleep. ‘All fine, sweetie.’
But downstairs, because his TV was embedded in some sophisticated audio-visual set-up, I couldn’t switch it on. Honest to Christ, what good was it that I could – in theory – get nine hundred channels in surround sound if I couldn’t access one simple episode of Brooklyn 99 to distract my grieving heart?
I decided to go home. At least there, technology didn’t laugh at me.
Meanwhile, a text had arrived from Claire during the night: FYI, the birthday girl’s got the bit between her teeth about inviting Luke to her party.
Ah, no! My fragile acceptance was a long way from happily watching Luke Costello eating mushroom vol-au-vents in the thick of the Walshes, being quizzed by Auntie Imelda on my many failings.
As soon as I got home, I tripped over Devin’s boots in the hall – which tumbled me into thinking about Luke again. For a moment I wanted to ring him because he was the only other person on earth who knew exactly how I felt.
Instead, I gathered Crunchie to me. We snuggled under a blanket, listening to Nigel Slater read his Kitchen Diaries. I was hoping his calm voice would soothe me enough to doze off again, but not today. Then I remembered there was an NA meeting at seven thirty on Sunday mornings in Bray, I might as well have a shower and go.
The turnout in Bray’s parish centre was very small – only eight of us.
‘Because the clocks went forward,’ someone said. ‘The usual crowd will turn up in an hour.’
Oh, right. Summer time had officially arrived. How had I missed it? Because my head was full of the past, obviously.
When it was my turn to share, I did a quick recap on what had happened yesterday. ‘I wish I could time travel,’ I said. ‘To when I was pregnant. And just magically avert whatever made my baby’s heart stop beating. I want to go back and rescue the three of us.’ Suddenly I was crying so hard, I could barely speak. Tissues came my way from all quarters of the room.
When I could talk again, I said, ‘I’ve been lucky, I’ve – mostly – accepted it. But seeing Luke again, it’s churned up a lot of painful feelings and I’d like to sleep for a month. Or disappear into something like Big Little Lies, except I’ve already seen it twice.’
As soon as the meeting ended, I got a lot of advice – some of it very specific. ‘Have you seen Ozark? Oh, right, how about Mad Men? The Fall? Breaking Bad? Obvious one, this, but The Sopranos?’
I’d already watched everything the man suggested and my eyes were becoming glassy.
‘Tin Star?’ he said.
