The Things You Didn't See(12)

6

Cassandra

Waiting. Watching through the café window at every doctor who passes, lifting my head every time a nurse in squeaky shoes walks along the corridor.

Waiting to know if you’ll survive.

Then, suddenly, Clive is crouched beside me, holding my wrist and peering carefully into my eyes. Dr Clive Marsh, esteemed psychiatrist and – I like to think – my friend.

‘Cassandra? Daniel called me, and I drove straight here. Oh, love, I’m so sorry about what’s happened to your mum.’

He hugs me, and I breathe in the barky scent of pipe tobacco, my chin against the tweed of his jacket. I can’t let go, can’t cry. I’m still too stunned. I didn’t ask Daniel to contact him; it makes me nervous that he did.

That was two years ago – a bad time, I tell myself. He’s not here to lock you away. He’s your friend.

‘They’re saying Mum shot herself,’ I tell him, as if hearing the words out loud will make me understand. Dad’s still outside, standing in the cold air. He’s chain-smoked since we arrived, and I feel like he’s avoiding me.

‘I’m so sorry, love. Why do you think she did it?’ Clive releases me and lowers his rather bulky frame gingerly onto the plastic chair. His battered jacket smells of cold air and smoke, familiar and comforting. His kind, crinkled face, his unkempt beard, his round glasses behind which twinkle gentle brown eyes. He’s here to help me. I don’t need to be scared any more. And I need to talk to someone.

‘I don’t believe she did. Yes, she was angry about everything that’s been happening with the farm, and I know she’d had a big argument with Dad about it, but she wasn’t depressed.’

Clive is turned to me, twisted in his chair despite his girth, so he can hold my hands. His assessing gaze scrutinises my face. ‘Suicides aren’t always the result of long-standing depression – it can be much more impulsive than that. You know this, Cassandra.’

He pauses. I feel the fingers of my right hand moving to the wrist of my left, where the old scars are. Yes, I know this, better than most.

‘Mum thinks suicide is a sign of weakness. Even back when she was first diagnosed with cancer, she never spoke about giving up. She’s a fighter: she tried everything to save herself. That’s how she met Daniel, how he came into my world.’

Clive knows the story of how Daniel cured you – most people in Suffolk do, since Daniel talks about it on his radio show most Fridays. I was away at university when you were first diagnosed, so I didn’t see your daily struggle, but you’d tell me when I called about this amazing man who was healing you using ancient ways. When I came home, fatigued and stressed with finals looming, you made an appointment for me. You introduced me to Daniel, and he became mine instead of yours.

‘Mum’s a fighter. She always has been.’

Clive looks unconvinced. ‘Hmm. It’s not always possible to predict things like this. A suicide attempt knocks any family sideways, but your mum is alive, and you’ve said she’s a fighter.’

I remember something then. It comes to me in a hot flush of panic. ‘Clive, I’ve forgotten Victoria! She’ll be waiting at school to be collected for half-term. I don’t know if Daniel will have remembered to call her. If not, she’ll just be stood there, waiting for me.’

‘I’m sure he’ll have sorted it out – he sounded very calm when we spoke. He was organising everything so he could come here as soon as possible. But I can check if you like?’

He slides his Nokia from his pocket and begins to search for the number in his contacts. I place my hand over his to stop him. I want him to understand, because panic is rising in me.

‘What will happen to Victoria’s cake?’

He frowns, the phone in his hand forgotten. ‘What cake, love?’

‘Daniel will bin it – you know how evil he thinks fat and sugar are. Her homecoming will be ruined!’

He takes my hand in his and I see him contemplating me afresh. ‘Cass, you’re displacing your anxiety. Remember how you did that before? The cake isn’t important. You’re feeling overwhelmed and I’m here to help you. I think you should take something. I could prescribe a small dose or tranquilliser, just to get you through this. You’re in severe shock . . .’

‘I took trazodone,’ I confess. As far as he knows I haven’t even got any, but my GP keeps prescribing it and I have a secret supply. ‘Last night.’

He removes his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose where the skin is red. I can see his disappointment that I self-medicated without checking with him first. ‘How much?’

‘One, maybe two tablets. I keep a bottle in my car for emergencies.’

Before last night, I hadn’t taken antidepressants for two years, not since that terrible September when I was confined at the Bartlet Hospital. I’ve kept well all this time, with only the blood in my body, the air in my lungs, to tell me how I feel and keep me going. Mindfulness and clean food have cured me – Daniel healed me just like he healed you. But yesterday, I couldn’t see past my delusions, my grasp on reality slipped and it terrified me.

I’m lying to Clive: I took the whole bottle.

If you hadn’t found me, Mum, and made me purge, I wouldn’t be here at all. So, yes, I know how suddenly suicidal thoughts can come, just like they did two years ago, and I’m not strong like you. I can’t stop thinking about that iced pink cake going to waste.