Don't Be Afraid (2 page)

 

Isabel

I can't remember much of what happened after. I had been falling, falling, when a stranger had come to see me and comforted me in a way nobody had been able to do in years, not even my Angus – and then I had fallen asleep. Except it was heavier than sleep, deeper – deadly.

Things happened after that – people touched me all over and shouted in my ears, calling my name, and then there was something on my mouth and I couldn't breathe, and the sky was purple, and there was the sound of a siren and all I could see was black . . . then nothing.

I was at peace for a while, floating in a medicated haze, drifting in and out of consciousness, all the anxiety gone. I had a vague feeling of cool, cool sheets under my back and my legs, and a cool, cool liquid being pumped into my veins. I wanted to stay there, but I was somehow aware that things hadn't worked out the way I had planned, that soon I would have to wake up. I wanted to cry but I couldn't.

I was swept away by emotion, a sense of relief because I had survived, in spite of my carefully thought-out plan; then despair, because I didn't want to live any more; and guilt, wave after wave of guilt. But all these emotions were as far away as clouds in a bright-blue sky, as if someone else was going through all that, not me.

The sense of detachment didn't last long. Now my exhaustion was ebbing away and the meds were wearing off, and already my hands were beginning to shake. My heart jumped like a rearing horse as everything became sharper, harder. My stomach burnt and the corners of my mouth were cut and my throat felt bruised, and there was not a part of me that didn't hurt. Pain had come to remind me what I'd done.

All of a sudden, I realised that someone was beside me – Angus. I managed to turn my head enough to look at him, waves of nausea sweeping over me as I did so. My husband's face was white and his eyes were shadowed with blue. He looked crumpled, broken.

That was
me
, that was
my
fault – I was doing nothing but damage to the people I loved, I was causing nothing but trouble. Just like my father used to say.

And then, as I woke up another fraction, a million more sensations overwhelmed me. The room smelled wrong. The walls and the bed and the furniture and the air were dirty. The smiling nurse who'd come to check on me – thinking I was asleep and exchanging a few words with Angus about me as if I were a thing and not a person – was hostile. She pretended to be kind, but I knew she wanted to put me away forever.

Panic began to rise – I needed my home and I needed my window on the loch, I needed the kitchen table I sat at and I needed the way things were set up just how they should be, to keep me calm and keep this dangerous universe in check.

I needed to keep everything in the house the way it should be or who knows what might happen? The house could go up in smoke. It could crumble around me, or sink into the loch.

I knew it couldn't
really
sink into the loch, I wasn't delirious – I knew that all these horrific scenarios were creatures of my mind, but it
felt
like they could happen, and as I listed fear after fear in my mind I started crying and tossing and turning.

“Angus,” I whispered – I would have screamed, had I been able to.

He held my hands, warm against my cold skin, and called my name. And then the nurse was back and more cool liquid filled my veins. Calm filled me once more almost immediately, and Angus sat down again beside me, still holding my hands. The nurse left again, with words that simply didn't register with me. I began to beg and plead with Angus, my words slurred because of the medication.

“Take me home.”

“Bell, not yet.”

“I must go home. You don't understand . . .”

“They say they need to keep you here for a little bit. You damaged your stomach . . . They want to keep an eye on you. There is nothing I can do.”

“Take me home!” I pleaded again and again.

“Bell, I can't. Please,” he said, locking his eyes on mine, his hand on my forehead. Oh how good it felt to have him near – and still, I had been willing to leave him forever. I was so torn between my distress and the instinct to keep living, my despair and my love for Angus, I couldn't make sense of my own feelings. Everything was confused.

I only knew I wanted to go home, back to my cottage on the loch with its blue door and the rose bushes and all I knew, all that was familiar to me.

“I'm fine. I'm not sore,” I said desperately. I needed to put on an act and pretend I wasn't hurting any more. I needed to lie. I needed Angus to lie for me and tell them I was all right, perfectly all right, so they would let me leave the hospital. A sudden blade in my stomach made me double over.

“What's wrong?” Angus leaned towards me. “I'll call the nurse.”

“No. I'm okay.”

“You are not. Let me call—”

“They won't let me go home! That's all is wrong with me! I want to go home! Here they're just going to hurt me!”

“Nobody is going to hurt you. They
saved your life
. They pumped your stomach,” Angus said, and he let himself fall back onto the chair, a hand massaging his forehead. My eyes swelled with tears once again, but it wasn't because of my stomach hurting so badly, or the line in my hand nipping every time I moved. It was
guilt
, the guilt I felt when I saw Angus so upset, and that was a lot stronger than any physical pain. There was a moment of silence as the medicine in my system made me more and more dazed.

“What's going to happen now?”

“I don't know. I've never been in this situation before, have I?” he snapped. And then, softly. “Why did you do it, Bell?”

The question took my breath away. For a moment I lay suspended, breathless – and then my tears broke free.

“I don't know. I don't want to die. I just want to stop living like this.”

“But you
can
! You
can
stop! We can go back to the way we used to be . . .”

The way we used to be. Before I got sick.

I used to be myself.

I used to be Isabel and draw and paint and laugh and make love and feel the wind in my hair and walk under the rain and I was Angus's wife and I was
alive
.

“I tried . . .”

“No, you didn't! You always refused any help. You refused your medicines—”

“I
tried
to take them. I really tried. But they're not good for me. They turn me into a zombie . . .” It was difficult to string words together when the sedative was pulling me down, down.

“It's
your mind
that tells you that, and remember what the doctor said? Your mind is playing tricks on you,” he explained patiently, like a million times before. “And even if this crazy idea of yours was true, if the medicines were bad for you – which is rubbish – look at the alternative!”

I nodded, pretending to agree. I was so tired, so tired. I wanted to go home. I wanted to sleep. I wanted him to stop talking, but at the same time I wanted to listen to his voice forever, because it tethered me to
something
, it stopped me from sinking.

“The doctor explained,” he continued, placing a warm hand on my forehead, slick with cold sweat. “It's just the side effects in the first few weeks that make you feel rubbish, then the medicines start to work and—”

“Please, Angus. Just take me home.”

He sat back and took his face in his hands. He was exhausted, I could see it. I closed my eyes, so I wouldn't see any more. My Angus, what I was putting him through.

He gave a heavy sigh. “I'll speak to the doctor and see if I can take you home. But you need to promise me you'll take your medicines.”

Silence.

He didn't understand. He didn't understand how those medicines made me feel. How many times I'd cried because I wanted to get better so badly, but I couldn't take those pills, I couldn't put myself through all those horrific side effects. When I first told the psychiatrist about them he changed the medication, and he promised me the shaking and the sweating and the anxiety would not be as bad, and they would last only a short time. But by then I was too terrified to take them again: they were poison.

I couldn't take them.

The doctors were wrong and Angus was wrong.

“Isabel. If you promise me you'll take your pills, I'll do my best to get you home,” he repeated.

I had to get home. I wanted it enough to lie, not only to the doctors but to Angus too. I would have said anything.

“I promise,” I said, with my eyes still closed.

“Fine. I'm going to see if I can find your consultant. A Dr Tilden, they told me.”

After a few minutes Angus was back. He looked terribly upset, even more than before. He sat on my bed and I saw his face working, like he was trying to break something to me and he didn't know how.

“Look, Isabel . . .”

“They won't let me go home,” I said, in quiet panic.

“I tried to convince Dr Tilden to let you go, but he said he needs to keep you in at least for a week, to keep an eye on you.”

“What? One day. One day at the most,” I said. “No more! I'm not staying any longer than that!”

“Listen. Bell, listen.” Another deep breath. “He told me about your care plan, and it's going to be tough.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're going to be assigned to a psychiatric team. They're going to come and see you every day, and phone you several times a day—”

“What? I can't have that! I don't want them in my house! I don't want strangers to phone me!”

“Bell, listen, try to understand. It's for your own good . . .”

I laughed a short, bitter laugh “No, it isn't.”

“Why do you think they would do it then? Because they think it's fun? Because they hate you? Because they have some weird agenda? It's all in your head, Bell! These people want to help you. And so do I. Please, please, accept their help!”

In my confusion, I was convinced that there was only one way out of this: taking the lying up a notch. And if I insisted enough, if I were adamant about it, they would have to believe me.

“It was an accident. I was tired, and I didn't feel well, and I took too many pills by accident,” I said, my voice cold and toneless.

“What?”

“I said it was an accident. This is all a big misunderstanding. I want to speak to the consultant myself.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Isabel . . .”

“I need to go home and I need to be left alone, Angus.”

“So you can try it again?”

“I never tried anything. It was an accident. I need you to stand by me in this.”

“You want me to lie for you.”

“It's not a lie.”

“It
is
a lie! And if I do this you won't get the help you need!”

“I will. I will,” I begged, suddenly vulnerable again. “We can decide together what I need to do. But please, Angus, having strangers coming up to the house and phoning me is not going to help, it's just going to upset me more.”

Angus paused. I studied his face – maybe that had been the right thing to say. Maybe I had found an opening. He looked down and then rubbed his forehead once more in a gesture so despondent it squeezed my heart.

“Fine.”

“It was an accident,” I repeated.

“You are going to take your medication.”

“I never meant to do anything stupid.”

“You promise me—”

“I'll promise you anything, as long as you keep them away from me.”

“Just remember, Bell.”

“What?”

“If you kill yourself, you'll kill me too.”

 

Isabel

I had convinced Angus. We would lie together, and they'd have to believe us. They would have to send me home and leave me alone. Not completely – I couldn't hope for that – but at least I wouldn't have people coming to see me every day.

Dr Tilden was due to see me any minute now. I struggled to open my eyes through the sedative they'd given me. The pain in my stomach was now a dull ache. And finally, there was a knock at the door. A consultant – Dr Tilden, presumably – followed my husband into the room, and all of a sudden I felt a lot more awake. Would he agree to send me home? I blinked, trying to focus – the doctor was tall, and he seemed even taller because I was lying down, powerless. I sat up, Angus arranging the pillows behind my back. The doctor had a shirt and tie under his white coat. He and Angus spoke like I wasn't there, just like the nurse had. He mentioned therapy; yes, I had agoraphobia, which meant I couldn't get out of the house, but they could come to me.

And, of course, the medication. He could see what I'd been prescribed . . . and he listed the poisons I was supposed to take.

“Have you been taking them?”

A pause. I could see Angus was torn between his desire to take me home, to protect me, and the impulse to tell the truth. Because that would be protecting me, too. He settled for a compromise.

“Not as regularly as she should have.”

That was my cue.

“I'm going to take them every day,” I swore. Angus looked into my eyes. I realised I was not lying any more – I realised my promise was truthful. I'd try, I'd try as hard as I could. For Angus. For myself.

And then, it was time for my big act.

“It was an accident.”

“I don't think this is what it looks like,” Angus reiterated, reading once more the unspoken prayer in my gaze. “She didn't mean for this to happen.”

Dr Tilden looked from Angus to me for a moment.

“I'd like to speak to Isabel alone, if I may?” he said.

“I would prefer it if my husband stayed,” I demanded. I wasn't going to let this doctor decide how things would play out.

Dr Tilden and Angus exchanged a look, and the consultant nodded.

“All right. Isabel, I spoke to your husband about where we go from here. You were clearly greatly distressed yesterday, and I would have preferred to keep you here. However, your husband explained that he feels it would actually be detrimental to your well-being, so we decided you can go as soon as your stomach recovers – which will probably be a couple of days.”

“It's true. I need to be in my own home. I want to go home tomorrow.”

“Let's see how your stomach is and do a few tests. We can decide tomorrow, okay? But I can tell you already I think you should stay here at least one more day.”

I was quiet. Two days was better than a week. I didn't think I could haggle for more.

“My condition, though, is that we follow you at home, like I explained to your husband. I have referred you to the Crisis team, and they will be visiting you—”

“But this has been a misunderstanding!”

“Isabel, I don't think I can believe that.”

“I think it's true, Dr Tilden. I know my wife, and this was completely out of character . . .” I was surprised at how well, how smoothly he could lie. I didn't think he had it in him.
The things he'
ll do for me,
I thought, with yet another pang of guilt.

“I'm sorry I made everyone worry this way, but I didn't mean it. I had forgotten about how many pills I had taken, and my head was killing me. I had this terrible migraine; it was horrible. I fell asleep, and then when I woke up the pain wasn't gone so I took some more . . . and I hadn't eaten since yesterday because of the nausea.”

“Isabel.” I wished he would stop saying my name. Like he was trying to soothe a child, make her see reason. “The Crisis team is there to help. You don't need to worry—”

“I'm not worried, I just don't need it.” He didn't believe me. Of course. He'd seen through my story.

“I think the level of support offered here is a bit too . . . intense. I think Isabel would benefit from a gentler approach,” Angus said softly. Once again, the doctor looked from Angus to me.

“Isabel.” Again, his voice was like nails down a blackboard. “I need to speak with the team, and we'll decide together. However, I want to let you know that I'm certainly taking your point of view on board. We want you to feel comfortable with the care you'll be receiving from us.”

“What does that mean?” I asked anxiously.

“That we'll look into a care package that is in harmony with your needs.”

“And what would that be?” I insisted.

“As I said, I'm going to put this to the team. Laura, our social worker, will want to speak to you as well. But as far as I'm concerned, if you assure me that you really lost track of how many pills you were taking . . . and if you promise me you'll seek appropriate medical attention and appropriate medication for your migraine . . . we can maybe think of visiting you once a week for a month.”

“I don't like having strangers in my home,” I said, and immediately regretted it. It sounded like I needed help. “I mean, I'm very shy. I don't like talking to people I don't know.”

“I see. Who is your GP?”

“Dr Robertson, in the Glen Avich Health Centre,” Angus said. “She's known my family for a long time. We would feel more comfortable with her.”

“I know her, yes. Well, I'll put it to the team. And I'll give Dr Robertson a call. Is that fair, do you think, Isabel?”

Patronising so and so,
I thought, and I immediately felt bad. After all, he did want to help me. And his eyes were kind.

Still, I hated every minute. If only I hadn't called all that attention to myself, I could have been left alone.

“Yes. That's okay. So when can I go home?”

“Like I said, tomorrow, if your stomach behaves, or the day after. I'll let you know about the care package later today.” He nodded briefly to both of us. “Take care. I'll see you both later,” he added, and smiled a smile I had to admit was warm.

I'd made it. I was going home. But I had won a battle, not the war. I had to convince the social worker to let me be under Dr Robertson's care, then convince Dr Robertson I didn't need to be seen – that would be near impossible, so I might as well resign myself to a visit from her and be prescribed pills for imaginary migraines.

Most of all, I had to keep my promise to Angus – that I would take the medication. I couldn't let Angus down, I couldn't. My heart began to pound again as I pictured myself sitting at the kitchen table, those terrible white pills in front of me . . .

“So, it's sorted,” he said weakly.

And now we were alone again, Angus and I. He sat on the edge of my bed, with his five o'clock shadow and his hair sticking up on one side. He looked immensely old and just like a little boy at the same time.

I love you
, I thought, but somehow I couldn't say – I was too ashamed. It seemed like a contradiction –
I love you, but I'm putting you
through this.

No, I couldn't say it, not then.

At least if the tests went well, I had only one night to spend in hospital. It made me feel a bit calmer, that there would only be one sleepless night in here – watching the tops of the trees sway from the hospital window, gazing into the night, seeing it bleed into dawn. And then it would be morning and then they'd do the rounds and sign me off and then I could go home. If I closed my eyes I could picture my house, my bedroom . . .

Wait. There was
somebody
there, somebody who wasn't Angus or Morag. In my house, I mean. Or at least, there had been while I was lying semi-conscious in the unmade bed, among the orange pills. It was a vague memory, something I couldn't completely recall . . .

“Angus,” I began, and then, as I assembled the thoughts, an image exploded in my mind. The memory came back, whole and disconcerting.

In my mind's eye, I saw the woman who'd come to visit me – I recalled her hand in my hair, the way her voice had slowed my heart. Her mossy eyes, her calm, calm smile – and then sleep, and the first peaceful dream I'd had in a long time. The ponds of shimmering water and the multicoloured clouds. The sense of contentment.

“There was someone with me,” I said tentatively.

“Earlier on? A nurse, you mean?”

“No. I mean at the house. A woman
was inside the house, in our bedroom.
I don't know who she was.”

“It must have been Morag. She found you.” He rubbed his eyes with his hands once again – every gesture suggested his lack of sleep.

“No, it wasn't Morag. It was someone else.”

“A paramedic, maybe . . . Or either you were dreaming.”

I thought for a moment. Of course, I must have been dreaming, or hallucinating. And still, it had felt so real. “Angus?”

“Yes, my love,” he leaned towards me and caressed my face in a way that broke my heart – how, how could I make him suffer this way?

“I won't try it again,” I said. The words came out by themselves, from the bottom of my soul. In my husband's eyes I had seen a reason to live, a reason to be.

He placed a light kiss on my forehead. “Bell?”

“Yes?”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?” he asked, and his face was so full of pain, I couldn't take it. He was desperate for a promise. And I
could
, yes, I could promise. Because I really, really, really wanted to try to live. Most of all, I didn't want to hurt him, ever again.

“Because I promise you,” I said, and I meant it. Unexpectedly, unbelievably, I meant it. I'd gone from despair at being alive to relief for having being given another chance in the space of a few hours. Somewhere inside me there was a spark that refused to be extinguished. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be with Angus.

Still holding my hands, he locked his ice-blue eyes on mine. “I want to believe you, Bell, but I don't know if I do.”

I took his hand and I placed it on my chest, right over my heart, right where the black flower was. “I'll try. I'll try so hard to recover,” I said. I'd even try to take the medicines, every last one of them.

“I know. I believe in you,” he replied. But that was another lie, like the ones he'd told the doctor to help me come home. Because in his eyes I didn't see belief – I saw fear.