Queenie(75)

On Friday morning, after our porridge, I decided that after I’d taken a letter to the postbox for my granddad would be the time to tell first my grandmother about it, and then, judging from her reaction, navigate how to tell my granddad.

“I heard you fall out of bed last night,” my grandmother shouted from the kitchen as I walked down the stairs.

“Sorry,” I shouted back. “Second time that’s happened this week. Maybe I should put some pillows on the floor!”

“You’re not putting anyting from the bed on the floor,” came the expected response. “And what’s this?”

“What’s what?” I said, walking into the kitchen. She sat at the table, arms folded like a mob boss.

“Close your dressing gown when Granddad is around.” She tutted, unfolding her arms and sliding a letter across the table toward me.

I picked it up and saw the National Health Service header. An apology left my lips before I could read any farther.

“You trying to shame all ah we?” she asked. Her eyes burned like hot coals.

“No, but I need help, don’t I?” I half-asked her. “And a-a nurse referred me, and I didn’t want to do it, because I know that we should just be strong and try to get through these things bu—” This one wasn’t going to go well.

“You know how much pain me carry?” My grandmother slammed her hand on the table. “You know how much pain I have to tek tru’ my yout’ and my twenties and beyond? You know what my madda, your grandmadda, woulda said if me did tell her me ah go seek psychotherapy? You mus’ be MAD.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I need to go and speak to someone, Grandma. I feel ill, I have this weight on my chest, I lost my job, I’m not well.”

“None ah we well. Look at yo’ mudda, livin’ in hostel after that man bruk up her life and beat ’er and tek ’er money. Yuh tink she ah go psychotherapy? Ah you mek yourself lose your job becah you nah hold it together. You are nat going.” My grandmother was shaking.

“Maybe I should leave here, then, and go—”

“Where you ah go stay? Cyaan stay wid yo’ mudda, yo’ fadda swannin’ around in Jamaica wid young gyal, Maggie cyaan tek you in. Das why you’re wid us, under our roof.” My grandmother’s accent had become so thick I had to work hard to keep up with what she was saying.

“I’ll go and stay with friends, then,” I said. “Grandma, I never ask anything of you, I never do anything to bring shame on anyone!” I tried to say calmly, to not anger her any further. “I was the first person in this family to finish school, to go to college, to get a degree, to get a full-time job—”

“Yes! And di firs’ person to go to psychotherapy!” My grandmother hit the table again. “I am telling you. You are nat going.” She folded her arms. The conversation was over. “And dat is dat.”

“What’s going on, Veronica?” My granddad shuffled into the kitchen, trailing his walking stick across the linoleum. “What coulda ’appen to make you speak such strong patois and bruk up di table?”

“Let yo’ granddaughta tell you,” my grandmother said, kissing her teeth and pushing herself up from the table. She went over to the sink and started to wash up so furiously that suds splashed onto the ceiling.

“Well?” my granddad said, looking down at me. I gulped and handed him the letter. He took it from me and surveyed it, slowly. My heart was going to beat out of my chest.

“I don’t have my glasses, Queenie, what it say?” He handed it back.

“It’s an appointment.” I said, wincing.

He stared at me. I’d never known him to pay this much attention to anything but the news, and this turn of events was terrifying. “Appointment? Fi what?” he finally asked.

“To go and get some counseling. Like, talk therapy. Because—” He lifted his hand and I stopped talking, my breath catching in my throat.

“Let her go, nuh?” he said to my grandmother. She stopped washing up immediately, but carried on looking into the sink. “Maybe if all ah we had learned to talk about our troubles, we wouldn’t carry so much on our shoulders all the way to the grave.” He turned to walk out, his stick hitting the floor with purpose. “Maybe we haffi learn from this new generation, Veronica.”





chapter


TWENTY-THREE


“. . . AND SO, what brings you here today? If you could explain the events that have led you to seek talk therapy?” I looked around the room I was sitting in with a woman I’d never met before but was expected to tell all of my secrets to. “Take your time.”

The room was cold, clinical. It didn’t have the smell that hospitals had, the smell of illness and disinfectant; instead it smelled of darkness, sadness. It smelled like the sort of space that doesn’t see light or air, candles, flowers, anything that gives a room the sense that somebody cares for the person inside it.

“Well. I didn’t seek it,” I said finally.

“Well, your file says that you were referred from a sexual health clinic, is that right?” I was asked.

“This nurse, Elspeth. She thought I was being pimped out, but then realized that I was just having sex with basically everyone.” I rolled my eyes and threw myself back into my chair. “Stupid.”