Good Me Bad Me(76)

Josie, out of Milly’s room please, one of the nurses said.

Quick, she said, give me your hand. She guided my finger through a hole in the rabbit’s fur, another belly full of pills. But really it’s because bunny likes Prozac too, she said, winked and pirouetted out of my room.

Little blue pills, gifts from the gods or the psychiatrists who prescribe them who think they are gods. I want to tell her to take them, do as they say, but I used to be her, squirrelling them away. Take them, don’t take them, placebo spelt backwards is Obecalp. 10mg of Obecalp for the girl in room five please. I learnt fast at the first secure unit I stayed in, became wise to the language they used to try and fool us. Looking back, maybe I was the fool because after almost a week of staying here, taking my pills and talking to the nurses, I feel better.

Almost okay.

The discharge panel happened today. Mike and Saskia, June came too. A panel in psych is circular so you feel part of it, not like an interviewee. No uniforms either. Equals. Who decides who’s mad, your words but I didn’t want to hear them so I focused on telling the staff I felt safe. When they asked me, out of ten, how safe do you feel? A nine out of ten, I replied, I’m working on the last one. Smiles around the table, my attempt at a joke appreciated.

The overdose was attributed to delayed stress from the trial and lack of sleep. No need to focus on it, let’s move forward, the senior nurse said to Mike, this wasn’t anybody’s fault. Discharge granted, I get to go home, Friday 25 November, one week until I’m sixteen. I go to my room and pack up my things, no nurse at the door, I’m alive, no need to tick any more. A boy I’ve hardly seen enters my room, rushes at me, my back against the wall. His mouth is gluey with saliva, side effects from his pills, not a nice feeling when he’s trying to get better. He tells me they’re after me too, the men who come into his room at night. He whispers, looks behind him, don’t let them in, he says. Even with the vulgar mess of his lips, the madness in his eyes, I fantasize about kissing him, telling him afterwards I’m dying. From what, he’d ask, did they do something to you? I don’t know, I’d answer, something that happened a long time ago, I think. I want to tell him it won’t be men that come for me in the night.

It’ll be you.

How safe do you feel now?

One out of ten, maybe two.





35


Yesterday, Mike cancelled his Saturday clients and took the day off. He made everybody pancakes with bacon and maple syrup for breakfast, we all ate together and for once it went okay. Phoebe seemed happy, smiling. A glimmer of hope inside me, maybe she’s decided to let go of the idea I’m something to do with you, or maybe she knows but feels sorry for me, wants to make it work between us. She and Saskia went out for the morning, a shopping trip, Mike looked so pleased. The simple things.

He supervises my medication closely now. The staff at the unit advised him to give me my pills with a warm drink, make me stay in the room long enough for the heat of the liquid to dissolve the drug into my bloodstream, and he does, which is fine. I want him to know he can trust me. I want to stay.

Once Saskia and Phoebe left we met for a session, he asked me what I’d like to talk about. I wanted to tell him I’d spent most of the week in the unit thinking about what Phoebe knows and what she’s going to do about it, but instead I told him about being in the hospital room where my bed was a boat and how a whale swam underneath. I told him I’d imagined you on TV, the word ‘escaped’ on the screen. He explained it was the sedatives I was given, that they can create hallucinations. He also said he wanted me to come to him if I ever felt unsafe. That I was to stop bottling things up. We don’t want you ending up back in hospital. Okay?

At the end of the session he handed me an envelope. I opened it, a get well card from Ms James. Mike explained he’d told everybody, not just Phoebe, that I had appendicitis, didn’t feel it necessary to inform the school exactly what had happened given that the end of term was coming up. He asked if I thought I’d be ready to go back on Monday. Yes, I told him, I really like it at Wetherbridge, it’s the best school I’ve been to. I’m also aware Miss Kemp knows, he said, Ms James emailed me, but you needn’t be concerned, she won’t tell anybody. No, I thought, but your daughter might.

Today, Mike and I decide to walk to the markets. On the way he tells me he’s sent an email out about my birthday, arranged a tea at home next Saturday, there should be a good few folk popping by. I thank him but find myself lost in thoughts about what my sixteenth would have been like had I been with you.

We buy hot chocolate from one of the stalls and the lady who serves us asks me if I’m looking forward to Christmas. Yes, I tell her, but it’s my birthday first. She looks at Mike, tries to guess my age. Looking at your dad I’d say you were seventeen. I smile, almost right, I’ll be sixteen. I didn’t care that she got it wrong because when she said ‘looking at your dad’, Mike didn’t correct her. I go to smile at him but he’s looking the other way, he didn’t hear what she said.

After we get home I text Morgan to see if she’s still coming over later. I wasn’t allowed my phone in hospital, so by the time I was discharged there were loads of messages from her. She thinks it was my appendix too, and I’m hoping she won’t ask to see the scar. I’m really looking forward to seeing her, making sure she’s okay. The house is quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Phoebe’s out, probably at Izzy’s, and Saskia’s having a lie-down. Mike’s in his study, catching up with work, he said. Writing about me, maybe.