by Kate Hewitt
She took a deep breath, willing the force of her emotion back, always back. She knew her mum didn’t mean the things she said. It was the mental illness talking. It was something she’d had to repeat to herself many times since she was seven, when a nurse had said it kindly to her. It was meant to help, but in the moment it didn’t, at least not much.
As Emily was buzzed out of the ward, she realised it wasn’t even eleven o’clock. She could be back at her desk a little after noon, working on the latest plans for the fundraiser, which included booking with a carnival company that provided high-brow arcade amusements. Another steadying breath, and she forced herself to focus. Onwards.
Then she saw Owen.
He rose from his chair, coming towards her with a kindly smile, forehead crinkled, eyebrows drawn together. “Emily…”
She stared at him stupidly. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to wait.”
And yet she’d told him to go. Emily just stared at him and Owen frowned, looking uncharacteristically and rather endearingly uncertain. “Is that…is that okay?”
“Yes.” The single word wobbled and then, to her horror, Emily felt her face start to crumple. Before she could haul it all back, Owen’s arms were around her and she was, amazingly, absurdly, sobbing into the steady warmth of his shoulder.
She didn’t do stuff like this. And yet somehow she was, and even more bizarrely, it felt good. It was what she’d needed, the pressure valve on her emotions blown right off, everything she’d held so closely to herself scattered to the winds.
Owen held her in his arms and patted her back and let her cry, all the while murmuring things she couldn’t understand—she had a feeling he was speaking Welsh—but sounded lovely and soothing anyway.
And then, after what could have been thirty seconds or five minutes, Emily came to and stiffened in his arms. She’d been making a spectacle of herself. There was snot on Owen’s shirt. And she had to look a frightful mess.
She raised her head from his shoulder and then stepped out of his arms. He let her go, his forehead still crinkled as he watched her uncertainly. “Emily…”
“Let’s go. I want to go.” She spoke abruptly, every instinct for self-preservation kicking in hard and fast. “I want to go right now.”
“All right.” Easy as always, Owen grabbed his jacket and then they headed outside, back to the van, while Emily wiped her wet cheeks and tried desperately to reassemble the shattered pieces of herself.
“I’m sorry about that,” she managed once they were in the van.
“You don’t have to be sorry. You’re going through something very tough.” A pause where she struggled with how to respond. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
The gentleness in Owen’s voice threatened to undo her all over again. She hadn’t told anyone about “it” in nineteen years. Her mother’s illness was the big, hulking secret she carried around always, lugging behind her, letting it control every choice she made. Whether it was kindly teachers, concerned neighbours, fledgling friends…nobody got to know.
Because if they did, bad things might happen. That was what Emily had believed as a child—she’d be taken away from her mummy, or her mummy would be put in a bad place. We’re all right, aren’t we, darling? We’ll always be all right as long as we have each other.
Except when they didn’t have each other, because her mum, her lovely mum, was in the middle of a psychotic episode, and Emily had to deal with it all alone.
Emily wiped her cheeks again; she realised she was still crying, tears silently slipping down her face as if they had a will of their own. Perhaps they did.
“I don’t know if I can,” she said.
“Try.” Owen smiled at her, his face so full of gentleness Emily let out a choked noise that sounded far too close to a sob.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” He reached across with one work-roughened hand and with the pad of his thumb he wiped a tear from her cheek. “I care about you, Emily David.”
Her heart contracted and expanded all at once. Everything felt impossible, so she just shook her head. Owen didn’t seem bothered by that.
He dropped his hand from her cheek and started the van. “We’d better get going before I get a ticket. You talk when you’re ready.”
Which would be never, and yet some desperate part of her wanted to talk. Wanted to tell someone everything, even as she writhed in shame at the thought. What would Owen think about her mother? What would he think about her?
They drove through the London streets full of traffic, the sky heavy and grey above. It was almost mid-April but it still felt chilly and unforgiving outside, spring a fragile hope more than a reality.
Emily watched the streets blur by as exhaustion crashed over her. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes, thinking she could fall asleep right there.
And perhaps she did, lulled by the movement of the van, the warmth from the heater, because her eyes fluttered open and she jerked upright, to see they were now on the motorway, heading back towards Wychwood. She glanced at Owen, who smiled at her. Again. He was full of smiles, this man.
“You snore,” he said, and Emily let out another choked noise, this one closer to a laugh.
“I don’t.”
“Just a little snuffle. Quite cute, actually. Like a kitten.”
A kitten. “Oh no,” she said, and Owen raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “I have a kitten. I hope he—or she—will be all right. I texted Alice last night…” She reached for her phone, only to remember the battery was dead. “I did text her…”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Cats are amazingly self-reliant creatures. I didn’t peg you as a cat person, though.”
“I’m not. It’s just this kitten was abandoned in my garden by its mmm—mother…” She trailed off, near tears again, and Owen didn’t reply. Emily drew a clogged breath. “I’m a mess,” she said miserably, and he reached over and placed one hand on her knee, a comforting touch she realised she craved.
“We all are.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Except he didn’t seem like a mess, and yet somehow she believed him. She blinked rapidly, drew another clogged breath. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”
Chapter Twelve
Owen waited, holding on to his smile, as Emily took another deep breath and readied herself to say—what? He didn’t know exactly, only that he needed to listen. That he needed to seem steady and safe and reassuring, and not freaked out like he actually was.
Because he’d been here before, and it hadn’t worked. Someone had trusted him with their pain and heartache and the mess of their lives, and he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing. His mother. His father. His sisters. Just about everybody he cared about, really.
Perhaps that was, at least in part, why he was here now, why this mattered so much to him. Why Emily did. Because here was another broken person, another mess, and maybe, finally, he could help.
Maybe he couldn’t.
Either way he was here and he was going to listen, because he cared about Emily.
“I don’t actually know where to start,” she confessed in a shaky voice.
“How about when you realised your mum was ill?” Owen suggested gently.
“I don’t actually know when that was. I don’t think I can point to a single moment when I realised that this—my mum, my life—wasn’t normal.” She paused, her head turned towards the window, her gaze pensive. Owen stayed silent, knowing he just needed to let her speak. “I must have at some point, though, because I know that I learned to—to hide it.”
“Hide it?” he prompted after a few minutes had slipped by without her saying anything more.
“My parents divorced when I was seven. There was a custody battle that my father lost. Well, he walked away from it, basically. He wasn’t willing to have a big fight about it, which he said for my sake. And it pro
bably was… Courts usually side with mothers, anyway.”
Even mentally ill ones? Owen waited for more.
“When he left, that was, I think, when life lost all sense of normality. I never knew what was going to happen next. What mood my mother would be in, what…what she might be capable of.”
Owen’s hands tightened on the wheel. That didn’t sound good at all.
“And yet sometimes she was so much fun. Imagine having a mum who wakes you up at midnight to make ice cream sundaes. Or takes you out of school to go to the zoo, just because. Or hugs you and tells you she loves you more than anything, and you really do believe her?” Emily gave him a trembling, heart-breaking smile that threatened to slide off her face. “My mum did all those things and more.”
“But the other times?” Owen asked after a moment.
“She was—is—bipolar. Severely bipolar, with psychotic episodes.” She let out a shuddering breath. “I know that’s a mouthful.”
It was a hell of a lot more than that. Owen pictured a seven-year-old Emily dealing with that on her own, and something in him wanted to rage.
“But she was treated for it?” he asked.
“Not for a long time. She didn’t want to be treated. She loved the highs, and sometimes they lasted a long time. And I think, when I was a little, maybe it wasn’t so bad. At least…my dad used to say that’s just how Mum was. Spirited. Emotional.” She let out a shuddery sort of sigh. “I suppose we didn’t have an awareness of mental health twenty years ago that we do now, and the truth is, she could be a lot of fun. She had all this energy…”
Even so. Owen stared straight ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. Hearing this was even harder than he’d expected. How could a father let his seven-year-old daughter deal with that on her own? “How long did that go on?” he asked after a moment. Emily shrugged.
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s all a blur in my mind. After the divorce, we moved a lot. I went to different schools. I became very good at pretending things were normal, which I suppose means I must have known they weren’t, but it’s hard to remember how I really was at the time, instead of looking back as an adult. At some point I must have realised—and I don’t know when—that I had to shield my mother. Hide her. I think I knew from a young age that it would be bad if people found out. I might have been taken away, or she might have… It had to be this secret.”
“That’s understandable…”
She nodded slowly before continuing painfully, “I still feel that way, to be honest. I hate the thought of you knowing any of this, and I don’t even know why anymore, because obviously it’s not like it was when I was a kid.” Her voice wobbled a little, and Owen wished he wasn’t driving the damned van. He wanted to take Emily in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he said, uselessly. “I’m sorry you went through all that, but I’m glad I know now.”
“I don’t know if I am. It feels…scary.” She let out a shuddery breath as she shook her head. “Anyway, when I was in Sixth Form, my mother had a psychotic episode that ended up with the neighbours calling the police. I won’t go into the details, but it meant she was hospitalised for the first time. As I was over eighteen, I wasn’t taken into care or anything like that. I just coped on my own, and in some ways that was a relief. To be alone. But I felt sad and scared, too. It was a strange time.” She gave herself a little shake, as if to rid herself of the memories. “Anyway, when she came out of hospital, she had a diagnosis and she was on medication, and life felt a lot easier, but also, if I’m honest, duller. The meds evened my mum out, and I missed her, if that makes sense, because of course it was better.” Another trembling smile.
“I can understand how you would feel that way.” Some parts of Emily’s story were strangely and uncomfortably close to his own. He thought of his father’s expansive moods, his generous bonhomie, the lightning shift to temper, the festering resentment, and then he pushed it all out of his mind. He couldn’t think about his stuff right now. He needed to focus on Emily.
“But at least it enabled me to go to university, because I felt my mum was well enough to be left on her own. And she was, although there were some ups and downs.” A pause, telling in its weighty silence. “Then, three years ago, she chose to go off her medication and had a psychotic episode, out of control and suicidal. She ended up in a psychiatric hospital like the one she’s in now, for six months. So I really should have seen this coming.”
“Emily, you cannot blame yourself for this.” She just shook her head, and Owen struggled with what to say, because he knew you could blame yourself. Easily. You could and you did. But even so, Emily shouldn’t.
“You can’t be your mother’s keeper.”
“Someone has to be.”
“Your mother is an adult—”
“You sound like my father.” From her tone he knew it wasn’t a compliment. “My mother is mentally ill, Owen. Seriously mentally ill. If I’m not responsible for her, who is? If I can’t help her, who will?”
Owen stayed miserably silent. He didn’t have the answer for that one. Not for Emily, and not for himself.
“Still,” he said, knowing it was unaccountably lame, and she let out a huff of sound that felt like disappointment. They drove in silence the rest of the way home, because although he had so many things to say, he didn’t know how to say them.
“Thank you for the lift,” Emily said as he pulled the van into the courtyard of Willoughby Close. She sounded horribly formal. “I really do appreciate it.”
“Don’t,” Owen blurted, and her eyes widened as she looked at him.
“Don’t what?”
“We’re past that kind of thing, aren’t we?”
She shook her head slowly. “Owen, you don’t even know me.”
“But what I know, I like.”
“Really?” She sounded both sad and disbelieving, and it made Owen ache even as he considered her point. Really? She’d annoyed him when he’d first met her, and although he understood her prickliness now, he still didn’t know that much more about her. Did he? Was he reaching out to her now simply because she was fragile, and here was someone he could finally save? Maybe this wasn’t about Emily at all. And maybe he couldn’t save her.
“Please don’t shut me out,” he said quietly. “I want to help.”
“Thank you, but there’s nothing more you can do. My mother will be in hospital for the next twenty-eight days. After that…” Emily shrugged. “I don’t know what will happen.” She opened the door of the van while Owen watched in hopeless frustration. “Thank you,” she said again, and then she got out of the van.
*
Emily could feel Owen’s eyes on her as she grabbed her bag and walked towards her front door. She was waiting for him to start the van back up and pull away, but he didn’t. What did he want from her? He’d been so kind, too kind, but there was nothing more he could do now.
She had to go to work. She had to live her life.
Even if you’re not sure you like the way you’ve been living anymore? Even if letting someone in just a little bit might have been both the best and hardest thing you’ve ever done?
Emily reached for her key and fit it into the lock. It wasn’t until she’d shut the door behind her and breathed in the quiet calm of her cottage that she heard Owen’s van start up.
A plaintive meow split the silence and Emily looked down to see her kitten—it still needed a name—inching forward.
“Oh, you.” She let out a little laugh as she bent down to scoop the little ball of fluff into her hands. The kitten came willingly, letting out a thrumming purr as Emily cuddled it close. The live contact felt good, grounding her in the reality that for once she wasn’t alone. She had a kitten.
And you have Owen.
Of course, she didn’t have Owen. She’d as good as pushed him away with both hands just a moment ago. And yet she knew that if she rang him now—not that she even had his mobile number—he’d come over in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t he? Or
was she being arrogant or maybe pathetic in even thinking that? Maybe she didn’t have Owen at all.
Emily let out a sigh as she let the kitten scamper off. It was only a little past noon and yet she felt as if the day had gone forever. She needed to get to work, to ground herself in the soothing routine of administration and order.
A knock at the door, a persistent rat-a-tat-tat, had her straightening again and going to open it.
“Emily.”
Emily stiffened as Alice enveloped her in a quick, tight hug before stepping back to scan her face anxiously. “I’ve been so worried. Is your mum okay? I fed the kitten. What an absolute darling. I didn’t even know you had one. Anyway, he’s fine. But what about you?” She let out an abashed laugh. “Sorry, I know I’m running on. I do that when I’m nervous.”
“I’m all right. I was just planning to come up to work.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t! I mean, you don’t have to. Take the day off…”
Emily shook her head. “My mother is sick, not me. I want to work. Keep busy.”
“Oh, of course.” Emily tried not to chafe at the blatant look of sympathy on Alice’s face. “I can understand that. I’m sure I’d feel the same.”
“Thank you.” She smiled stiffly.
“Are you going now? Shall we walk up together?”
“All right.” Emily wouldn’t have minded a little space, but she knew Alice meant well. She filled the kitten’s water bowl and glanced at the bag she’d left by the door; everything in her wanted to unpack it, sort laundry, and restore order, but Alice was waiting and so reluctantly she left it.
Outside the sky seemed to hang limply over the earth, flat and grey.
“It hasn’t been the best weather, has it?” Alice remarked with a sigh. “And they say more rain is forecast. I hope the Lea doesn’t flood.”
“Has it before?”
“Not since I’ve lived here, but people talk about it having happened in the past. I don’t think it would affect Willoughby Manor or the close, as we’re up high enough, but there are lots of houses alongside the river, and some shops too.”
