Saving Grace (20 page)

Grace takes a deep breath and looks at Sybil. ‘You know I’ve been having a hard time lately? I started seeing a doctor, a psychiatrist, a few months ago, and after a while he told me that there’s a reason for all the . . . mood swings, and lack of sleeping, and losing my temper. Well, you know. All the stuff I’d been going through.’

Sybil nods. ‘Hormones?’

‘Well, no. He’s pretty clear that I have bipolar disorder.’

There is a shocked silence as Sybil just stares at her.

‘What did you just say?’ says Sybil eventually.

‘I have bipolar disorder.’

Sybil just stares at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ Sybil says. ‘Did you just say you have bipolar disorder?’

‘Apparently,’ Grace says. ‘I know. I didn’t believe it either.’

‘Grace!’ Sybil barks. ‘Bipolar? Are you nuts? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I meant . . . I know someone who’s bipolar and they are cuckoo. You are not cuckoo. In any way, shape, or form. There is no way in hell you’re bipolar. That’s just not true.’

‘Syb, there are apparently two kinds of bipolar. I should know. It . . . it runs in my family.’ For a second, Grace thinks about telling Sybil; what a relief it would be to let someone else in on her secret, let someone other than Lydia and Patrick, so far away in England, know the one secret that has always defined her.

But no. Even with Sybil, who she trusts implicitly, she is only able to be vague, to talk around it

‘You never told me.’

‘I never told anyone. I don’t talk about it because it’s just too damned painful. But I grew up with it and it’s . . . genetic. But I don’t have exactly the same thing, the kind of bipolar we immediately think of when we hear the term: celebrities going off their meds and suddenly getting caught with prostitutes, or going on mad spending binges, or just being completely manic in every way. That, sadly, was my experience growing up, but apparently there’s another kind, which is what I have. Bipolar two. Which is when you don’t have mania, you have something called hypomania, which is less dramatic, but still bad.’

‘I don’t care!’ Sybil is getting in a rage. ‘Hypo, hyper. You don’t have mania. Grace? This is wrong. There’s no way you’re bipolar. I’ve known you for years and this just doesn’t fit. It doesn’t feel right in any part of my body, and you know I would tell you if I thought it did.’

Grace gives a sad smile. ‘I know. I feel the same way much of the time, but he’s very sure, and I trust him. He’s a psychology professor at Columbia, and up to date on everything that’s happening in the psychiatric world. He was involved in the new
DSM
. . .’

‘
DSM
?’

‘The
Diagnostic and Statistic Manual of Mental Disorders.
He knows his stuff, Syb. Really. I feel much the same way as you do about this, but I have to trust him.’

‘Oh, Grace.’ Sybil’s face starts to crumple. ‘Really? You really think he’s right? He could be head of psychology at Harvard for all I care, but you really think this is a correct diagnosis?’

‘Yes. No.’ Grace sighs. ‘Most of the time I don’t, but he says that’s incredibly common. Apparently all newly diagnosed people question it; we all feel that this is wrong, and that’s when people get into trouble.’

‘So . . . what are you doing about it?’

‘Other than getting fat? Taking medication. That’s been part of the problem – the weight gain and then this utter exhaustion. Honestly, that’s why you haven’t seen me these past few weeks. No one has seen me. I’ve barely got out of bed.’

‘Grace! That’s terrible. You? Not get out of bed? You have more energy than anyone I know!’

‘That’s the hypomania, apparently. I certainly don’t have much energy anymore, but he keeps reassuring me that will pass. Everything will supposedly settle down, but it’s really difficult. He’s given me different pills to try and help with the tiredness, and more to try and cut my appetite, because I am starving. Literally, all the time I am hollow with hunger.’

‘Do you want some cheese and crackers?’ Concerned, Sybil leans over the coffee table and pulls the tray of cheese closer.

‘No, I’m fine,’ Grace says. ‘I’m trying really hard to get back on track. Nothing fits. Honestly, if I wasn’t depressed before, I’m definitely bloody depressed now.’

‘Tell me about it,’ says Sybil, slicing a thick chunk of cheese, laying it on a cracker, and slathering it with fig jam. ‘At least you know you can borrow anything of mine, and you’ve got pounds and pounds left before my dresses will fit you. Are you sure you won’t have some cheese?’

‘Maybe just a small bit,’ says Grace, reaching for the knife and making herself a cracker of her own.

‘G
ood Lord!’ Ted walks into the living room. ‘Where’s all the cheese?’

‘We were hungry,’ says Sybil. ‘Sorry. There’s more in the fridge. Let me go and get it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ says Ted. ‘We’re probably better off without it.’ He catches Grace’s eye, and Grace wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

So much for turning over a new leaf.

L
ater that evening, when food has been eaten, bottles of wine consumed, conversation and laughter bouncing off the corners of the dining room, Sybil whisks Grace into the kitchen, ostensibly to help her wash up, wanting to talk to her privately.

‘I don’t like it,’ Sybil says. ‘I don’t feel good about this whole bipolar thing, and I don’t feel good about you.’

‘I don’t like it either,’ says Grace. ‘But not liking it doesn’t make it go away. And what do you mean, you don’t feel good about me?’

‘You’re just not yourself. You’ve been here all evening, but I feel like you’re a shadow of your former self.’

‘Hardly a shadow when I’m twice the size.’

‘That’s not what I meant. You’re here physically, but I don’t feel like you’re really here. I have this really weird sense that you’re completely disconnected from everything. You’re talking a bit, and smiling in the right places, but you seem so unhappy. If this bipolar disorder thing is correct, then these pills surely aren’t the right pills, no? Isn’t any medication of this kind meant to bring you back to yourself? Make you
more
of yourself? It’s not supposed to eradicate you.’

Grace feels her eyes well with tears as Sybil puts the plate down and wraps her arms around her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace says. ‘It’s just . . . you put it so well. I know it has only been a couple of months but I feel eradicated. That’s exactly right. I feel like a facsimile of myself, and I hate it. I keep telling Frank, my doctor, that I feel awful, but he says this is what it’s like to be calm, this is normal. He says I’m so used to being in a state of hypomania, that what other people consider normal feels flat to me.’

‘Grace!’ Sybil steps back, holding Grace by the arms, staring intently into her eyes. ‘I have known you for many, many years, and I have never known you to be manic, in any way, shape, or form. Yes, you have more energy than anyone I know, and that is part of your charm. It is why we all love you. What does Ted say about all this? Surely he doesn’t agree with it? Surely he’s concerned?’

Grace doesn’t want to admit that she has barely seen Ted these past few weeks. He seems happier than he has for years, is entrenched in his new novel, is finding the writing process more fluid than it has ever been. Beth is there and able to attend to his needs, so Grace doesn’t have to worry. In many ways, having Beth there has been a huge relief through this; it has meant she has been able to disappear for hours at a time into her bedroom, knowing Ted will not be making demands of her.

They still have dinner together, at the kitchen table, but not every night. Grace just doesn’t have the will. She can’t think of anything to talk about anymore, and frankly, it’s much easier to stay in bed, or have – gasp – the unthinkable: TV dinners in front of one of the news shows he loves to watch.

Last week they discovered
House of Cards
on Netflix, and both spent four evenings in a row watching as many hours of Kevin Spacey as they could physically manage. It was a relief to Grace to be able to curl up on the sofa with her husband, yet not have to talk. They could delight together in the brilliance of the show, bond affectionately in the soft blue light of the television screen, barely needing to say a word to each other.

And when the show was over, they could softly pad upstairs to bed. They have only made love once. Ted has reached for her many times, but Grace is mortified at how she looks naked. The one time they did make love, she kept her nightgown on, refusing to pull it up farther than her hips, terrified he would see the rolls on her stomach, her cushiony breasts flattened to either side of her body as she lay down.

She loves her husband, but she is ashamed. She loves her husband, but is convinced that if he sees her like this, he will no longer want to make love to her. May, in fact, start looking for a younger, trimmer model.

How is he supposed to keep loving her when she can barely get out of bed and looks so terrible?

And the worst thing of all? She doesn’t even care.

M
any months ago, when Grace was still leading an active life, going to dinner parties, charity luncheons, accepting speaking engagements, she had agreed to introduce a charity lunch that helps dress underprivileged women in business clothes – usually designer cast-offs – in order to help them at job interviews.

Grace is on the board. This is one of her pet charities, and she is there every year. She is a pro at this, has done these speeches many times before, knows how to sit at a table with a group of women she does not know and be gracious, and interested, and kind.

She is able to do this because Grace has always carried a quiet confidence. Until today. All week she has been desperately trying to think of ways to get out of today’s luncheon, knowing all the while that it would be absolutely the wrong thing to do. However much she hates the prospect, it is something she has to do, an obligation she has to fulfil.

Today’s luncheon is at the Cosmopolitan Club in New York. It will only be an hour, an hour and a half at the most, because all the women who have bought tickets to the event are ambitious, driven New York women who are only able to leave their high-powered jobs for an hour and a half at the max, and only then for ‘lunch’.

Grace is used to walking into this luncheon with her head held high. The room is filled with people she knows – not friends exactly, but many people she enjoys hugely, from the world of media and magazines – and everyone knows Grace.

None of the confidence she usually feels is with her today. Walking up the stairs, Grace avoids looking in the mirror. She is dressed in a cashmere poncho, newly acquired at Bergdorf’s just the other week, for she is spending her days in stretchy yoga trousers and oversized sweaters and had nothing dressy that would fit. The shopping trip was compulsory rather than fun. Grace bought two good outfits to see her through, determined these would be the last clothes of this size she would ever buy.

Her hair has been styled and she is wearing far more makeup than usual, in a bid to disguise how much weight she has put on, how badly she feels about herself. The skirt she wears is floor-length, pleated silk and the poncho the softest cashmere, and beautiful.

Standing before the mirror in her dressing room was the first time she felt, if not beautiful, then passable. These days she avoids mirrors, avoids seeing people as much as possible, but given she has to be seen in public today, she has made enough of an effort that perhaps people will be fooled.

‘Grace!’ Ingrid, the publisher of one of Grace’s favourite magazines, swoops upon her and kisses her on either cheek. ‘You look magnificent! I love this!’ Grace smiles as Ingrid fingers the poncho. ‘It suits you! You look statuesque and strong, like the Statue of Liberty.’

Grace laughs nervously, not at all sure whether to take this as a compliment or not.

‘Beautiful,’ Ingrid murmurs, fingering the Fortuny-style pleats on the skirt. ‘Just lovely,’ and Grace relaxes.

‘You must meet Annette,’ she says, gesturing to a tiny, impish woman in one of those black dresses that is so deceptively simple, it must have cost a fortune. She is carrying a power bag – alligator, oversized, shockingly expensive – that elevates her outfit to a level where everyone who looks at her will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is superior to them.

‘Annette is the new editor-in-chief. Annette? Do you know Grace?’

‘Grace?’ Annette looks surprised.

‘Grace Chapman? Our wonderful speaker,’ Ingrid persists as Grace watches the shock flit through Annette’s eyes.

‘Oh God!’ Annette forces a recovery. ‘I’m so sorry. I have only ever seen pictures of you. You look so . . . different from your pictures. I’m so sorry. I just . . . I would never have thought it was the same person. I would never have recognized you.’

Grace stands there uncomfortably, knowing what this woman is saying, able to hear the message loud and clear.
In your pictures you are slim and beautiful, but look at you! Look how fat you are! You are unrecognizable.
Shame fills her from head to toe as she struggles to find a response.

‘Oh?’ is all she can manage, desperate to get away, wishing she could hide, wishing she were anywhere else right now than here.

Annette just looks at her, clearly struggling to get out of this mess, to make it right, as Ingrid glares at her.

‘You’re much more beautiful in real life,’ Annette stammers eventually. Lamely. Grace forces a laugh and, much to her relief, is steered away by Ingrid.

‘Are you okay?’ Ingrid does not take her into the room that is already filled to bursting with excited, chattering women, but instead to a quiet corridor.

Grace takes a few deep breaths. ‘I know I look different. I haven’t been . . . well. One of the unfortunate side effects of the medication I’ve been on is this tremendous weight gain I haven’t been able to do anything about. I’m sure Annette is lovely, but I can see what she is thinking, what everyone is thinking: God, doesn’t she look awful! What’s happened to Grace Chapman? Look at how much weight she’s gained!’