Again, Rachel, page 32
‘You can talk about her with me.’
‘I know. And that’s lovely of you.’ I was trying to find the right words and, at the same time, avoid hurting him. ‘But talking about her with the one other person who loved her like I did …’
‘I understand that,’ Quin admitted. ‘It’s just …’ Suddenly infuriated, he exclaimed, ‘I never get to feel sure of you.’
‘But you can! Quin, I haven’t done anything wrong.’
All of a sudden, he looked exhausted. My heart twisted with frustration, then softened with pity for him.
‘Just …’ His voice was weary. ‘If anything changes, be honest with me.’
‘It won’t change. I’m mad about you. We’re together.’ I love you hung in the air, unspoken. But to say it now, in response to his insecurity, would have felt wrong.
‘I’m completely serious,’ he said. ‘I can cope with anything except being lied to. “Protected from the truth” is the worst thing you could do to me. Even if you know you’re going to hurt me, I’d prefer the facts.’
‘Okay. But –’
‘Do you swear?’
‘Yes, but honestly, Quin –’
‘Let’s leave it there.’
56
It was something I kept to myself but I actually liked Mondays. My little ducklings were in such a process of constant change that it was exciting to sit in the Abbot’s Quarter and see what might have developed over the weekend.
But this Monday, as I hurried along, hoping for a good chair, dread had me in a chokehold. I felt spacey, slightly disconnected from reality – hardly surprising, considering all the turmoil of the weekend – and braced for something bad.
Which I narrowed down to an outburst from Luke.
Sometime during last night’s broken sleep I’d seen that he was angry with me. Despite his mixed messages – the Denver Goodbye showed he was trying to be nice – his anger had kept leaking out.
He had never actually said that he blamed me for Yara’s death – but it was clear that he had. And probably still did.
He was going to accuse me, that was what I was dreading – hearing those terrible words. The irony, though, was that I no longer blamed myself. I hadn’t, not since the meditation weekend where I’d met Quin.
Quin hadn’t known me from a hole in the ground but our strange connection during the LovingKindness exercise had absolved me. It was the greatest gift I’d ever been given.
No matter what Luke still thought, Yara’s death hadn’t been my fault. I had to remember that.
My phone rang, making my brain bounce off the ceiling of my skull. God, I was in bits. But it wasn’t Luke, as I’d expected. Instead, it was Bronte’s husband, brusque and bossy. ‘Our eldest child, Freya, is flying in from San Francisco tomorrow morning. Just for the day. She’s coming in to confront her mother.’
Is she now? Is she indeed?
That wasn’t how it worked – he didn’t get to decide Bronte’s schedule. And had he forgotten there were six other people in Bronte’s group? There could be countless things already tabled for tomorrow.
Coolly, I said, ‘I need to check the agenda, there may not be an opportunity for Freya to –’
‘She’s catching a flight back straight after her session. We’ll be with you at ten a.m. Leaving at eleven.’ And he hung up.
The high-handed fucker!
As it happened, tomorrow morning could be freed up. But I’d get no chance to interview Freya, to brief her. Her written testimonial had been worse than useless – she had nothing but lovely things to say about Bronte. And was there any point in her coming if she wasn’t capable of a tough conversation?
Switching off my phone, I got the best seat in the Abbot’s Quarter and watched my ducklings file in. Trassa was first. God love her, she was carrying so much pain, but she’d had a peaceful weekend.
Dennis, however, seemed buoyant as he swaggered in. Too buoyant, actually. I suspected he was engaged in high-wire cognitive manipulation, convincing himself that, despite all the evidence, he wasn’t an alcoholic. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
Apparently, Ella had spent the weekend stomping around, badmouthing Jonah and Naaz, but she was still here, so she obviously didn’t completely believe she was innocent of all their accusations.
Giles, leaving today, radiated wisdom and compassion. You could find it irritating, if you were that way inclined.
Speaking of which, here came Chalkie. He’d smashed a tennis racket on Saturday, another one yesterday and he’d hit the punchbag so hard it fell down, bringing half of the shed ceiling with it. All excellent stuff!
At least some good had come out of poor Gemma Kaye’s visit – because Harlie still hadn’t cried. In a small, quiet way, I was actually starting to panic. She had only two weeks left and if she stayed locked into anger for much longer, I’d have failed her.
Sometimes it happened – that a client only got so far in the process, and stayed stuck. Not often but when it did, it sort of killed me.
Here came Bronte, cool and slightly inscrutable. She was a challenging one, no doubt about it, very skilled at protecting her addiction. Probably because she already knew so much about it.
Her relapse was interesting. It was undeniably hard when an addict had to re-engage with medicine they’d once been addicted to. In so many ways it was easier to be an alcoholic – you just didn’t drink. There was never any reason for medicinal vodka (no matter what Claire might tell you).
Bronte had exaggerated the pain of her broken ankle, I was fairly sure of that – but I was just as sure that it genuinely had hurt. That’s what made it so tricky – the fact that it had been real. Same as with me, when I hadn’t been able to sleep. And in those situations, the right doctor was vital.
Carlotta had been so kind to me. So too had Dr Gagnon – the psychiatrist I’d found, on her orders.
One of his reviews had described him as: ‘A doctor who really gets it, who knows what real insomnia looks like.’ When I’d read that, my heart lifted in relief. Immediately, I’d picked up my phone to make an appointment.
I’d sat in front of him and told him my terrible story. I didn’t have to exaggerate – I really was broken.
‘Oh boy,’ he’d said, ‘what a trauma. So, acute insomnia? You know about sleep hygiene? No electronics in the bedroom? Wearing glasses to reduce blue light?’
‘I already do all of that.’ I gasped, suddenly terrified he was going to recommend warm baths and camomile tea. ‘I do mindfulness. Yoga. Eat a banana at bedtime. I do absolutely everything everyone recommends.’
He frowned. ‘It also sounds as if you’re experiencing anxiety.’
Well, I certainly was then, as a recommendation to start Yin Yoga (most boring of all the yogas) looked increasingly likely.
‘But you’re finding the Ambien helpful?’
‘A lifesaver.’ Once again I wasn’t exaggerating.
‘Taken as prescribed, they’re non-addictive. Even for a person, such as yourself, with a history of addiction.’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ For over thirteen years I’d thought differently, but the previous few weeks had changed my mind.
‘Should I add an anti-anxiety medication into the mix?’ he said. ‘How are you with Xanax?’
Suddenly nervous, I said, ‘No, please don’t.’ I didn’t need tranquillizers but I might have taken them anyway. Having them felt dangerous. ‘Just sleeping tablets.’
He seemed surprised. ‘… Okay.’
Next thing, he was printing out a prescription, scribbling a signature and handing it over. ‘You can pay outside.’
It appeared it was time for me to leave. ‘When should I come back?’
‘In a month.’
The reviews had said he was brisk – and he was certainly that. Also expensive – my insurance wouldn’t cover all of his fee. But he’d listened to me, he’d heard me.
I was back out on the street before I saw that he’d doubled Carlotta’s dosage – and I was surprised. But also very grateful. I remembered, then, one of the reviews which had criticized him for ‘throwing pills at the problem’.
But sometimes that was exactly what the problem required.
At the end of group, Dennis danced over to me. ‘Rachel, a chara, could I have a wordeen?’
Oh, here we go … ‘Sure. Now suit you?’
‘Down to the ground. And further! Right through to the centre of the earth and … out the other side.’
In a consulting room, he perched on the edge of the chair, fixing his bright eyes on mine. ‘I was thinking about Trassa. About … That’s a desperate thing that happened to her, you wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But, Rachel, wouldn’t I have had a trauma or something?’
‘Maybe you have?’
He perked up. ‘Was it the time Patch won the egg-and-spoon race out from under me nose? There I was, thinking I was coming home to a hero’s welcome and, at the last minute, the little feck whips certain victory from me grasp.’
Steadily, I eyeballed him.
‘But, Rachel, being serious, like. If that’s the worst thing I can think of, there isn’t anything there.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That, well, it makes sense, doesn’t it, that Trassa would get addicted to something. Cause and effect, like. But with me, there’s no cause. So no effect.’ His curls bounced as he sat up and announced, ‘So I can’t be an alcoholic!’
‘Oh, Dennis.’ In less tragic circumstances, it would actually be funny. ‘Trassa is Trassa. But everyone is unique. People are addicts or alcoholics for all kinds of reasons and some for no reason at all. No obvious one, anyway.’
He cocked his head. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘Sometimes a trauma can occur when the person is too young to remember. Other times there genuinely isn’t any trauma, just excuses and justifications.’
‘How’s that now?’
‘Addicts are great at hard-luck stories – their parents didn’t love them enough or their boss doesn’t value them or their wife isn’t grateful – and that’s why they have to drink or use. But, Dennis, you’d drink even if you had no excuse. All that matters here is that you’re an alcoholic and you need to get well.’
He looked crestfallen. In a small voice he said, ‘I don’t want to be an alcoholic.’
I nodded. I knew. ‘Dennis? When you used to find your father passed out, looking like he was dead? What did that do to you?’
He dropped his head. ‘How do I know?’ he muttered. ‘You’re the expert.’
‘I’d imagine being a little boy of six or seven discovering his daddy and thinking he had died would have been devastating.’
His head remained bowed. Then he cast a furious look at me. ‘’Twas,’ he choked, his eyes wet. ‘’Twas.’
He curled inwards, making himself smaller. Roughly rubbing his face with his hands, he became a little boy before my eyes.
Well, that was easy, a lot easier than I’d expected.
I let him cry. He had a lifetime’s worth to catch up on.
‘There are probably worse crimes I’ve committed.’ It was Giles’s last session in group and he was in giddy good form. ‘But this memory is the worst I can think of.’ In a fruity voice, he asked, ‘Are you ready, children? Then let us begin. One night, after a right old time of it, I thought I was having a heart attack, so I went to A and E. I wanted an ECG. The picture in my head is me standing in the waiting room, yelling at all the sick and injured people, “I am having a cardiac arrest! I! Giles Freyne! And you know who I am!”’
‘Holy fuck,’ Chalkie muttered. ‘Morto for you, bud.’
‘The security guards were trying to catch me but I was sprinting around the place, whisking open the curtains around the cubicles. At one, I told the woman in the bed to get out, that I needed it. Then I said I had a gun.’
‘And had you?’ Chalkie asked.
‘Where would I get a gun?’
‘No? Okay. As you were.’
‘I tried to pull the drip out from the woman’s arm,’ Giles said. ‘Then the police came and arrested me. I told them I’d gone to school with the minister for justice and they’d be directing traffic for the rest of their careers. That’s the sort of thing’, he said, ‘I want never to repeat.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Trassa said. ‘So long as you go to your meetings and aftercare.’
‘Of course.’ He twinkled his eyes at her, acknowledging that, along with Chalkie, she was now one of the group elders. ‘I’m looking forward to not feeling ashamed. Or having to remember which lie I told to whom. And being relieved of all that planning – where I could get cash, when I could do a line, how to hide that I was buzzed. It was really hard work.’
‘And remember, Giles,’ I said, ‘addiction is a parasite that never quits. Nail that to your heart. The second it spots weakness, it’s right back in, as strong as ever.’ Briefly, I had a moment of strange confusion, something like déjà vu, then reality returned. God, I was really stressed. ‘You need to work on your firewalls every single day. You can never drop your guard. Okay?’
‘Okay!’
I stood up. ‘Time for cake.’
Sadly, no homemade Gateau Diane for Giles, he hadn’t been popular with the catering staff. But there was a long-life Victoria sponge from Spar and a healthy turnout to heckle him.
‘Six weeks ago, I could not believe that I was a patient in such a dreadful place!’ He was up on a chair, delivering his farewell speech. ‘The only reason I was here was to get my job back …’
Approaching from behind, Brianna grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘Drama. His first wife has turned up to take him home. So has his third wife. They’re both up in the office, looking like it’s Staplers at Dawn. What’ll I do?’
‘Nothing.’
Giles could take care of it. Telling the two women that actually he’d be living with his second wife could be his first clean and sober challenge. Hit the ground running, as it were.
When he climbed down from the chair, people queued up to hug him. It always made me teary that despite every harsh word said in here, at the end of it all, everyone wished everyone else well.
I watched him hugging Trassa, then Dennis, people the likes of whom he’d probably never crossed paths with before.
Oh, and here came Chalkie. He and Giles faced each other and, for a moment, neither man moved. A tense energy pulsed between them, then they fell into a tight bear hug.
‘Stay safe, bud,’ Chalkie said with a sly smile. ‘Go to your meetings.’
‘You go to your meetings.’
‘If we both go to our meetings, we’ll probably run into each other. Imagine that. You and me, hanging out, having the chats. Jaaaaaayzisss.’
‘Or,’ Giles twinkled, ‘we could have a game of tennis?’
‘Ah, Gilesy man, that’s enough to send me back on the gear.’
57
Switching my phone on after work, I’d expected a missed call from Luke – but nothing. I should have been relieved but waiting for the other shoe to drop was unbearable. I’d rather get it over and done with.
However, Helen had texted, asking if I wanted to get what she described as ‘evening food’.
I assumed she meant dinner but that the word ‘dinner’ was on her Shovel List. God only knew why, but it wasn’t as if any of her pet hates were rational.
I rang her and, after a long time, she answered. ‘You couldn’t have texted?’
‘It would have taken too long. But here’s what I would have texted: Yes, thank you, Helen, I would like to get “evening food” with you. I’m going to a meeting in Stillorgan at eight o’clock, so a place nearby would be good. I’ve taken a quick look and there are three restaurants with tables available at six thirty, which is when I’d arrive –’
‘– but not a place with an Early Bird Menu! That boasts about it. Rachel, I couldn’t! I’d be too irritated to eat.’
‘Way ahead of you.’ I was smug. ‘See you at Chopping Block at six thirty.’
Of course, there was always a chance that Chopping Block might be on her list for some other reason – perhaps the name was infuriating? Or misleading? Perhaps because it wasn’t an actual chopping block?
To my relief, she said, ‘Okay!’ Then, ‘Why can’t everyone be as reasonable as you, Rachel? This is why you’re my favourite sister.’
‘I am? Thanks.’
‘Apart from Anna, like.’
At Chopping Block, I found her deep in conversation with a waiter. I guessed they were discussing coleslaw. Helen liked coleslaw. Cheese and coleslaw sandwiches were about all she ate.
‘Howya!’ she cried when she saw me. ‘Sit down. This is Ultan, he’s sorting me out with cheese and coleslaw sandwiches – and a pint of Diet Coke. Did I say that, Ultan?’
‘You did.’ He consulted his pad. ‘Room temperature. No lemon or lime or any fruit, especially no pears, cranberries or kiwis.’
‘Good man. But Rachel will order normal food.’
‘Fine.’ Ultan gave me a menu and skedaddled off to do Helen’s bidding.
‘So?’ I asked her. ‘How are things?’
‘Do you want to know why I suggested this?’ she asked. ‘Us, meeting for evening food?’
‘Something’s wrong?’
‘No.’ Then, with a great deal of pride, she said, ‘I’m checking in on you.’
‘Oh! That’s … ah … nice.’
‘Yep. Trying to behave like a normal person.’ She was so very delighted with herself.
‘Checking in, in case I’m upset about you and Artie tryi–’ I stopped myself. ‘Sorry. I nearly said the “trying” word there.’
‘Good job you didn’t.’ And both of us laughed.
‘In case I’m upset about you and Artie hoping for a baby? Because I’m fine about it.’ Well, almost, and that would have to do.
‘Not just that,’ she elaborated. ‘I was thinking about you seeing Costello again, after what went down with your little girl. And now the old woman and her bullshit about the party. I’d say it’s a lot for you, like.’
