Good Me Bad Me(30)

‘Never mind,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Sounds like it was good you were there, Phoebs.’

‘Also, Dad, have you seen a chemistry paper of mine lying around?’

‘I don’t think so, darling. When did you last have it?’

‘I’m not sure, yesterday maybe, but it’s due for tomorrow and Mr Frith will flip out if I don’t hand it in.’

‘You better get searching then.’

Saskia joins us, dressed in yoga gear. Vagina obvious as ever.

‘Did you hear that, Sas? Phoebs helped Georgie Lombard, she had an accident in the gym a few days ago.’

‘That’s nice,’ she replies. ‘I have to shoot though, I’m late for class.’

It stings Phoebe. The fact she doesn’t ask for more details. She gives Saskia a filthy look and pushes past her. Saskia gestures to Mike and says, what?

‘Nothing,’ he replies. ‘Come on, Milly, we should get started.’

None of us notice her at first. Three. Floors. Up. Perched on the edge of the banister.

‘Enjoy yoga, Mummy dearest,’ she says, looking down at us.

She taunts Saskia, takes her hands off the banister, does a faux wobble, wants her to say be careful, but it’s not her, it’s Mike who says it.

‘Don’t be so stupid, come down from there, it’ll be the death of you.’

Let down again, she flicks her middle finger at her mum, disappears off the landing into her room. Mike attempts a smile, but Saskia replies with: ‘You’re the psychologist, fix it.’

‘Sas, she’s our daughter, not something to fix. She’s angry because –’

‘Because of me, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’ Saskia replies. ‘It’s my fault. It was years ago now but it’s still my fault, right?’

‘That’s not what I meant. Look, I’ll talk to her, just not tonight.’

‘Perhaps if you spent more time with your own daughter things would improve.’

A low blow, she’s sorry as soon as she says it, apologizes immediately. I stare at her thin body, not much different in size from Phoebe’s, same hair, eyes. Much like a teenager herself but out of her depth in a house with us teenage-for-real girls. The lessons these days, faster. Cruder.

On the way to Mike’s study he explains that the psychiatrist from the unit called him today, checking in about my current medication regime. I remember his office well. Walls full of framed degrees and certificates. The questions, the same every week. Appetite. Headaches. Flashbacks. And finally, sleep. How are you sleeping? Every night’s different, I told him. Yes, to be expected, he replied. A rip of a pad, another cocktail of pills ordered. Blue for the morning, white for the night. Pink, if I didn’t want to think at all. One of the other teenagers showed me how to hold them in the side of my mouth, spit them out in the toilet afterwards.

Taking them felt like cheating.

A kindness I didn’t deserve, still don’t when I think back to what I let happen to Daniel the night before I handed you in.

‘How would you feel about increasing your night-time dose?’ Mike asks.

I tell him I feel groggy at school, first thing in the morning.

‘Still? That’s not great, let me note that down so I remember to mention it when I call him back tomorrow. We’ll arrange a full review once the trial’s over.’

Mike, so diligent at dispensing my medication. Not so at making sure I take them. A sock full of tablets in my top drawer. He opens his diary, writes a note in it, then sits down in the chair opposite me.

‘Ready?’ he asks.

‘Not really.’

‘This is important work, Milly. There are parts of your mind we need to access in order for you to be able to move on. For example, the night-time episode you had a few days ago in the cellar when you were dissociating is linked to guilt, and how you feel about the things you did that weren’t your fault.’

Fear inches up from the lower part of my stomach, moves into my throat.

‘You need to address these feelings, you need to feel secure in the fact your mother can’t control you any more.’

Mike said yesterday he knew what he was doing, he’d been doing it for a long time, so why can’t he see the strings, yours, attached to me still? Why can’t he see what’s going on?

‘Let’s do some relaxing and we can talk more at the end.’

He makes me visualize my safe place but all I can see are faces of ghosts, forming in smoke. The cigarette you enjoyed afterwards. The little ghosts swooping still. They can’t rest in peace, they don’t like where they are.

Where they were put.

‘Describe what you can hear,’ Mike asks.

‘Somebody calling for help.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Somebody in the room opposite mine.’

‘Did you go and look, see who it was?’

‘I knew who it was, I recognized his voice, but the door was locked, I couldn’t get to him.’

‘It wasn’t your job to help him, Milly.’

‘The next morning he was crying, asking for his mummy, but the door was still locked so I couldn’t help him then either. Then we left the house and she drove me to school, sang the same song every time.’