Again, Rachel, page 34
‘Mmm. Most of the dams had foaled –’
‘Anything going on with your children? Freya? She’d done her A Levels, left school and come home? For how long?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘You had expected her to stay for longer?’
‘I thought she was home for good. To study Equine Science at uni in Dublin.’
‘So what happened?’
Bronte’s face became pinched. ‘Eden got her an internship in a bank. In San Francisco. It came as a huge shock to Freya. And to me. When her year in the bank ends, instead of going to uni in Ireland, he says she’s reading economics in Durham.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
‘It was devastating.’ Her voice was faint. ‘We – Freya and I – had such wonderful plans, to work together with our horses. We were both so excited. It had been agony being away from her, from all three of them. But I’d stayed strong because I knew better times were coming. Then I discovered that the end of her schooling meant she’d be more gone from me than ever.’
‘So you fell off your horse.’
Startled, she said, ‘Are you suggesting I did it on purpose?’
‘Did you? Put it another way. You’d waited a long time to have a proper relationship with your daughter, only to discover that that special mother–daughter time you’d been yearning for was never going to happen. You felt …?’
‘Desolate.’
‘Then you fell from your horse. I don’t doubt that you were in a lot of physical pain. But the drugs they offered you were old friends. You knew they would numb your anguish about Freya. There were many ways of relieving the agony of the broken bone. But only one way to muffle your loss about Freya.’ I shrugged. ‘Heroin.’
Dennis actually gasped. In fairness, though, they were all awestruck, thinking I was some sort of a witch.
‘So it’s Eden’s fault?’ Bronte asked.
‘You’re the one who takes heroin.’
‘But Eden’s so –’ She stopped abruptly.
‘High and mighty?’ Dennis offered. ‘Bossy?’
‘Autocratic?’ Chalkie said. ‘Overbearing? Dictatorial? A pain in the hole?’
‘I thought he was lovely,’ Ella murmured, giving Bronte a poisonous look.
‘Enough,’ I said. ‘This isn’t about him.’
‘Ah, Rachel, I was enjoying that,’ Chalkie said.
Eden Tollemarche did seem like quite the tyrant, but the Cloisters wasn’t a reinvention heaven where under-the-thumb women came to get their groove back. Bronte could sort out her marriage further down the line – or maybe not, who knew? – but, much as I would have loved to wade in there and give her all sorts of life advice, my only job was to help her to get – and crucially, stay – clean.
60
When I switched my phone on, it beeped: a missed call from Luke, then a terse two-word text: Call me.
My stomach fell down a well.
He answered after half a ring. ‘I need to see you. We need to talk.’
‘… About what?’
‘Something we have to get straight.’ His voice was calm, measured, furious. ‘On Sunday, at the beach, you said I left you, but that’s not how it was –’
Stunned, I said, ‘You absolutely did. You hired a van, packed your stuff, moved to Denver –’
‘Rachel, you left me.’
‘Luke, are you … okay?’ I was confused. ‘You sound a bit …’
‘You were already long gone,’ he said. ‘You and your sleeping tablets. Off in a place where I couldn’t reach you.’
‘But …’ I didn’t know where to start. ‘You know why I had to take them. And why are you ringing about this, two days later? Why didn’t you say anything on Sunday?’
‘Because …’ He paused. ‘Because I feel – felt – bad about, yeah, the end, how we … ended. But I woke in the night, like a bomb had gone off in my head. Rachel, you can’t put all the blame on me. We need a serious conversation.’
‘We needed a serious conversation six years ago but –’
‘I had a lot of serious conversations with you, Rachel, back then, plenty, and you know how much good it did me? None. So I’ll be finished with Dad in about an hour, I can come to –’
‘I can’t this evening.’ In the morning Quin was going back to New Mexico for a few days. Tonight we had plans for a movie. ‘Tomorrow night?’
‘No.’ Then, ‘What time? I’m taking Kal to the airport –’
‘She’s leaving?’
‘She’s got a gig on Friday night. I could be with you by eight-thirty, nine-ish? Too late?’
‘It’s fine. The Huntsman?’
‘A pub?’
‘It’s halfway between both of us.’
What I didn’t say was that I could get up and walk away if it got too much. This – Luke’s rage, his conviction that events had been different to the way I remembered them – had shot a swirl of dread through me, making the whole world seem inky and ominous.
The movie was no multiplex blockbuster but a documentary about a young mountaineer who climbed giant rock-faces without any safety gear.
Hurrying into the Irish Film Centre, the calibre of tonight’s patrons almost made me laugh – mostly men, they were sinewy and serious, sharing tales of high-altitude bravado. As I looked for Quin, fragments of conversation reached me: ‘The weather came in, we decided not to push it …’ ‘… carrying forty K of kit …’ ‘… massive whipper, but it held …’
There he was, with Murph and Golden, the three of them dressed to the nines in their technical clothing. It was probably subconscious, the way Anna and I had got labelled up to see The Devil Wears Prada.
Quin’s arm shot out and he pulled me to him for a kiss, then I said hello to the other two – Murph (a man) and Golden (a woman). Along with two other men, they’d all been friends since junior school. Together, they’d been on countless climbs.
Golden openly disliked me and, uncharacteristically, it caused me no angst whatsoever.
For at least ten years, she’d been in an epic on-again-off-again with one of the other men, Prosser. In the off-again phases, she slept with Embury, the fourth man in the group. But at various stages, over the years, she’d slept with all of them – Prosser, Embury, Murph, even Quin, before his marriage to Shiv. I suspected she thought of them as her personal property.
‘Would you like anything?’ Quin nodded towards the café. ‘We had carrot cake.’
There was no popcorn or pick-n-mix, it wasn’t that sort of cinema. And it wasn’t that sort of night. The clientele were serious about their climbing, serious about their nutrition.
… Except for cake. I’d noticed that climbers liked cake. Although they only seemed to eat it with other climbers.
To my surprise, the movie was great.
‘Did you really like it?’ Golden asked, afterwards, in the Nepalese restaurant. ‘Or are you just saying it? To make us feel okay about you taking Embury’s ticket?’
I looked at Quin. ‘Did I …?’
‘This was booked weeks ago.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’m away tomorrow until Saturday, I wanted to see you tonight. He did me a favour.’
‘So obliging of Embury.’ I smiled at Golden, who sent daggers from her pale blue eyes. ‘Things off again with Prosser?’
Her face reddened. Although it was fairly red to begin with.
She looked like a weatherbeaten cat.
‘Fuck you,’ she muttered, which made me laugh.
Next to me, Quin shifted. ‘Don’t blame Rachel,’ he told Golden. ‘Blame me.’
‘Whatever. Shall we order?’
It was late by the time we got home and Quin and I were both relaxed and giggly. It would have been so easy to say nothing.
But that would have been all kinds of sneaky.
‘Quin, tomorrow night I’m meeting Luke.’ I spoke quickly. ‘The way we split up, the reason, he sees it differently to how I do. It would be good to … untangle it.’
After several moments of silence, he asked, ‘Is something going on?’
‘Not the way you mean. But –’
‘What if you “untangle” that you still love him?’
‘That’s not going to happen. But I’m hoping to get some peace.’
‘Rach?’ His tone was surprisingly scornful. ‘Something you should know: your ex-husband is just a man. An ordinary man that, despite how he treated you, you’ve idealized. I’ve met him and I can tell you he’s not a French sauce that’s been reduced and reduced until it’s … fucking …’ He waved his hands, searching for the right phrase. ‘… food of the gods. And I’m better than cheesy fries from Jo Burger. A lot better. I know it. I wish you did.’
‘I should never have said that, Quin. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Please forgive me.’ I felt breathless. ‘Maybe it was what I thought in our early days. But it was mean and stupid and wrong. Things are different now.’
‘What way?’
‘Well, they are. Aren’t they?’
‘Yeah. Whatever. Can we go to sleep now?’
He turned his back to me, then switched out the light.
61
In the weeks and months after Yara’s death, I still went to NA meetings but nothing like as often. For the first time, they’d stopped giving me comfort. My loss was too huge; it had separated me out from everyone else and set me down on an island of one.
Everyone was as lovely as they’d always been, so supportive and encouraging. Over and over, they promised me that I could get through my loss without relapsing. But their fervour exhausted me. They didn’t – couldn’t – know how bad I felt so they had no right to tell me how to cope.
And if they knew I was taking tablets to help me sleep, they’d probably freak out, worrying that I might relapse.
My higher power had always been the meetings but I no longer believed. Not in anything, really.
Every morning Olga Mae, my sponsor, sent comforting recovery texts: Just for today and This too shall pass. But when they beeped onto my phone, all I felt was guilt.
Mia had taken to popping by at around six in the evening, bearing a box of heritage tomatoes or a punnet of blackberries left over from her day on the stall. It became another thing to dread – having to drag up words from my depths, to thank her for food I had no ability to eat. Eventually, I left Luke to deal with her.
Carlotta had urged us to try out self-help groups for bereaved parents, but I wanted to go to one that was only for women. However terrible Luke’s pain was – and I guessed it was appalling – mine, because of my corrosive shame, had to be worse. It was the most natural thing in the world to give birth to a healthy baby, and I’d failed. Maybe if I could talk to other women who’d failed in the same way, I’d get some comfort?
But when I tried explaining, Luke was hurt. Huffy, even. ‘You’re shutting me out, babe.’
I didn’t have to. We were already doing it to each other. I couldn’t take care of him and he couldn’t take care of me.
And as it happened, even in a group of bereaved mothers, I felt isolated. After only two sessions, I bowed out.
Claire’s way of showing support was to send links to stories of celebrities making shows of themselves. Two or three times a day, State of this eejit! would pop up on my phone. And to be fair, a couple of minutes reading about another person’s meltdown was distracting.
Anna visited most weekends, usually bearing expensive skincare – at times including some for Luke.
‘So this is a …’ Dutifully, Luke would read the box. ‘An overnight skin-cell renewal serum. That sounds … cool. Thanks, Anna.’ I’d watch him struggling to be light-hearted. ‘Next time you see me, I’ll look twenty years younger.’
‘And twenty times hotter!’ We’d all laugh awkwardly, then Luke would slide from the room.
Anna was the one who tentatively suggested that Luke and I might try to have another baby.
‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘I’m forty already.’
‘Forty isn’t old!’ she cried. ‘You’ve every chance of getting pregnant again.’
I almost smiled. It was such a New York way of thinking, that science could make nature dance to its tune.
‘I’m too …’ I tried again. ‘Anna, I don’t think I was meant to have this.’
‘You can’t give up,’ she said, little and fierce. ‘You need to have hope.’
‘Anna …’ It was so difficult to say the words. ‘Luke … he blames me. For her dying.’
‘No! He doesn’t –’
‘It’s true. He hasn’t said it out straight, but the way he looks at me, it’s awful.’ I choked. ‘I’m so ashamed and – I’m afraid. Me and him, it’s not good, we’re not being nice to each other.’
I’d been reading about couples who’d lost a baby. How, often, they blamed each other. How, frequently, the relationship broke and ended. It felt as if it was happening to Luke and me. Previously it had been unthinkable, we’d been so close, so very much a team. But when Yara died, something had ruptured.
I hadn’t noticed it straight away, because we’d been lurching around, appalled and disbelieving. But now that some time had passed, the landscape was starting to look more settled – and very different from how it had been previously.
I’d catch Luke watching me, almost evaluating me, as if I were a puzzle he needed to figure out.
He was distant. Irritable. At times cold.
And I felt … Well, all I wanted to do was sleep.
We needed to talk but if he admitted that he thought Yara was my fault, we might never get past the damage.
There was a morning when I tiptoed into Yara’s room to find Luke sitting on the floor, holding a small teddy bear and full-on sobbing. I was so shocked – so ashamed – of the pain I’d caused that all I could do was stare, then back away.
We lost our dreams when we lost our baby and now it looked like we were losing each other.
62
‘Morning,’ Brianna said. ‘Your new client is in room three.’
‘Thanks.’ I needed to get my head in the game and focus on Lowry Cooke. He was thirty-nine, cross-addicted to alcohol and cocaine and had been persuaded in here after his life had fallen asunder: his girlfriend had left him; his friends had walked away and he was being sued by a pair of newly-weds for ruining their wedding.
I opened the door and there he was, good-looking in a lanky, loose-limbed, slightly grimy way, waxy jeans hanging loose on his hips, dark hair flopping over his forehead.
‘Lowry? I’m Rachel, your therapist.’
He blinked, doing a theatrical double take. ‘Wow.’ A slow smile spread across his face and both of his hands closed around mine.
Oh God no, not one of them! A pathetic flirt-monster who won’t rest until everyone fancies him.
He was a photographer – high-end, but dressed like an indie-band singer, in a fashionably washed-out Karen Carpenter T-shirt and embroidered cowboy boots. Friendship bracelets and other nonsense festooned his wrists, tattoos ran up and down his arms, an army dog tag hung heavy around his neck and his collarbone was inked with ‘Dead on Arrival’.
‘Please sit down,’ I said.
He lounged low in the chair, manspreading like no one’s business, his long limbs and even longer boots stretching almost to the far wall.
‘So?’ I asked.
‘So?’ He smirked, as if we were on a first date.
‘Why are you here?’
‘This place has a good rep. A boot camp for the mind. You guys need to sort me out.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
He took a breath. ‘Depression. Bad. I’ve had it on and off for years. It’s the reason I drink and get high. But you guys get to the root cause, right?’ He produced a pack of cigarettes from his jeans, flipped one into his mouth and mumbled, ‘Okay if I smoke?’
‘There’s a smoking area in the garden.’
‘Wow.’ Radiating woundedness, he replaced the cigarette in its box. ‘So yeah,’ he said. ‘Once you discover what went wrong for me, I won’t need to drink as much.’
This was a regular thing – addicts showing up, convinced that all that ailed them was a forgotten trauma. They expected that we’d forage around until we’d plucked it out, like an ingrowing hair, then they could resume their drinking or whatever their poison was and everything would be dandy.
But ten times out of ten, our foraging revealed that the reason they felt depressed was because of their heavy drinking or enthusiastic drug consumption.
Still, I had to be clear with him. ‘This is a rehabilitation centre, not a hospital. There are no doctors. We treat alcoholics and addicts. If that’s not what you want, you should leave.’
‘You’ve got me wrong. I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘Lowry, you were employed to take photos of a wedding. Someone’s special day. You got so drunk that most of their photos are unusable. You fell into an ornamental lake. You knocked over the wedding cake and stood on it –’
‘I didn’t mean to –’
‘You vomited on the wedding car. You made a pass at the bride –’
‘Hey –’
‘Then made a pass at the groom’s father.’
He waved a hand. ‘Love is love.’
‘It sounds more like alcoholism to me.’
‘Yeah, okay, I wasn’t my best self that day. But that’s why I’m here. When I find out why I drink, this sort of thing will stop happening to me.’
‘“Stop happening to you”? The alcohol didn’t magically infiltrate you, Lowry. You drank it.’
‘Only because I felt so dark. It was the only way to get through that day. My girl had left me … Shooting a wedding with a broken heart, that was hard.’
I could have laughed. Lowry Cook couldn’t have been more of a classic alcoholic if he’d tried. Firmly bonded to his stance as a victim, refusing to own his actions, insistent on justifying anything shameful.
‘That day,’ he said. ‘The way I drank. It wasn’t usual.’
I referred to my notes. ‘But you’d received a caution for drunk and disorderly the previous month –’
