Don't Be Afraid

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  Isabel

  How ironic. A fire started in my house and people thought I’d tried again to top myself. All because I was trying to make hot chocolate for Clara. It gave a whole new meaning to the expression “death by chocolate”.

  “Did you see Clara?” I asked anxiously as soon as Angus stepped in, while Morag slipped out with a murmured goodbye. Angus went straight to the bathroom and I followed suit, trying not to look at the darkened doorstep of my kitchen. There was less damage than we’d thought; later on, work would begin to clean up and replace the burnt units. I shuddered at the idea of having people in the house, of course, but it could not be helped – and I wanted my kitchen back. I wanted to forget all about what had happened.

  “She’s okay. I can’t believe it, Bell. I can’t believe this happened,” he said, rummaging in the bathroom cupboard. Finally, he took out a blister pack of something and swallowed two pills, dry.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Never been better.” He sounded like he hated me. Like he blamed me for the fire.

  “Look, Angus, I told you what happened! Clara must have told you too! I had nothing to do with the fire. I was making hot chocolate for Clara and I, and the gas ring—”

  “I know,” he said, stepping into the living room. He leaned against the mantelpiece, one hand massaging his temple.

  “So . . . what is this all about? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m going to phone Dr Tilden and organise hooking you up with the Crisis team.” The expression he used. Hooking me up. I had a sudden vision of me being pierced in the middle, wiggling on a hook like bait.

  “Why? I’ve been feeling so much better. Every day a little more. And now you want to go and spoil everything . . .”

  Angus had his back to me. Just in front of him on the mantelpiece lay a framed picture of our wedding. “Bell. She told me.”

  “What . . . ? Oh.”

  The medicines. The one secret I’d kept from Angus.

  And now it was out.

  Silence. I could find no more words to justify myself. Angus turned around, his ice-blue eyes on me with all the weight of his pleading.

  “We can’t keep going on like this, Bell. Tell me you understand. Tell me you’ll work with the Crisis team and—”

  “Angus. Please, I’m not recovered yet. But I’m on the right track. If you force me to speak to strangers, I—”

  “How can you tell me you’re on the right track when you haven’t been taking your medication? I’m an idiot for not checking! But you promised you would. And you are an adult. I didn’t think I had to supervise you like a ten-year-old!”

  “I’m sorry.” What else was there to say?

  “You should be. This not taking meds is the most stupid thing I ever . . .” He began to pace up and down, his arms crossed, his face hard. Tears gathered in my eyes, threatening to spill. “I just don’t know what to do any more. I’ve tried everything. I begged you. And you promised, you promised me—”

  “It’s my father!” I burst out. “It’s my father . . .”

  He stops in his tracks. “What?”

  I shook my head. Angus came beside me and took me by the shoulders. “Bell. Please, talk to me. Tell me. What did your father say to you?”

  And now the tears were flowing down my cheeks, unstoppable, unchecked. “He always said the medication killed my mum. The pills made her ‘crazy’, he used to say.”

  Angus just stood there, his mouth open.

  “Your father said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I was a little girl, Angus. I didn’t know any better. And then when I got sick . . . his words came back to me, and . . .”

  Before I knew it, he’d taken me in his arms.

  “My poor, poor Bell. Your father was talking nonsense, do you hear me? It was him who needed treatment, for God’s sake! I can’t believe you’ve had to carry this on your shoulders for so long. Had I known . . .” I could feel him trembling with anger. “Well, I know, now. And we are going to sort this together. I promise.”

  “Please don’t phone Dr Tilden. I really am on the right track . . .”

  He pushed me away gently, so he could look me in the eyes.

  “Fine. But you know what I’m going to say.”

  “You’re going to say that there will be no more excuses, now. That I have to take my pills.”

  “Yes. I promise you that what your father said is nonsense. Complete nonsense. God, your father was the sick one! Not your mum!”

  Those words were too painful to reply to.

  Because I had come to wonder that too.

  That if my mum had had the right support, the right help, she’d be alive today, but all she’d got from her husband was blame.

  She didn’t have any of that, but I did. I had a chance. And I had to take it.

  “I’ll be there when it’s time to take your pills. And when I’m not, I’ll ring Clara, at nine on the dot, no matter what . . . unless I’m in the middle of playing – in that case I’ll ring the second I’m finished.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes. Yes.” I was going to say “I promise”, but I had promised before and it hadn’t worked out. No more promises. I would just do it.

  “I’m not going to Prague.” Angus was due to go to the Czech Republic with the orchestra. “I can’t leave you, not this time.”

  To my shame, I was relieved.

  And then I realised the implications of it.

  He couldn’t miss such an important concert. I couldn’t allow it. I couldn’t have the guilt of wrecking his career on my shoulders, on top of everything else.

  Angus was looking down. And then he raised his head and gazed at me with eyes that said, Please, say I can go.

  I knew him too well.

  “You need to go.”

  “But—”

  “You need to go. Angus, we both know that if I try to keep you here with me all the time you’ll be miserable. You need to do your work. You need to play your music. We can’t have it any differently. You can’t have it any differently, and neither can I, because when I married you I knew this was the deal.”

  “But you weren’t ill, then.”

  “And I won’t always be. Please, go to Prague. We’ll do the phone thing, won’t we? Every morning at nine, and if you can’t, as soon as you’re finished. I’ll take my medication. Clara will be here. We’ll get through this.”

  “Yes. We’ll get through this.”

  And then I looked up, just for a moment.

  I looked up to the ceiling – through the layer of bricks and mortar lay all my dreams. My studio. My work.

  Because Angus wasn’t the only one who had a passion in our little family. Except I had nearly lost mine. And it could never happen again.

  And so he left, in the middle of the night. He kissed me softly and we murmured a goodbye, and then he was gone. Clara was sleeping in the spare room. Later on, the workmen would come and restore the kitchen to order.

  Clara and I were to be alone for four days. The worst thing for me was thinking of her hurt, in a hospital bed. And that it had been my fault.

  “You were hurt, pet,” she said to me as we sat in the conservatory, the lushness of my plants and flowers against the backdrop of the barren winter scene. “And I know it was an accident, I was there, remember? We were just trying to make hot chocolate and that gas ring was faulty. We both knew it and neither of us called Dougie to fix it. So it’s both our faults.”

  “I know,” I said, still consumed by guilt. “But you could have run out and you wouldn’t have ended up in hospital.”

  “And leave you there? No. But maybe now I’m in a position to ask you to do something for me.”

  “Of course. I’ll do anything. Anything to make amends. I’m so—”

  “No. No more I’m sorry. This is what we’re going to do. I spoke with Angus; he said he’s going
to call me every morning at nine. So I’ve set the alarm on my phone to ring at exactly eight thirty. At that time, every morning, you and I will try to take the meds. I’ll be here to help you.” She disappeared into the hall and came back with a Boots bag. She lined up the medicines on the low wicker table, right in front of me, deliberately. A dark little bottle, replacing the one I’d broken, and a white box labelled with my name and address.

  I took a breath so deep it seemed to come from my toes. I looked at my watch. A quarter to nine.

  I had to do it.

  Though I thought those things would poison me, I had to take them, because I’d always tried to do it all myself, without help – and look at all that had happened. I couldn’t make it by myself: it was as simple as that. I needed help. And help was there for me, there for the taking. I didn’t have to keep fighting alone. If only I could overcome this one obstacle, it would be a new beginning.

  Clara poured me two glasses of fresh water, and then sat across from me, still and silent, with her usual serenity. Without a word, I opened the bottle and dosed the right amount carefully, drop by drop. I brought the glass to my lips – my hand was trembling. I closed my eyes for a moment.

  This won’t kill you. It won’t poison you.

  This will save you.

  And so I drank.

  I felt panic unfurl in my stomach, the monster about to bite me and send me into a world of pain – Clara was holding her breath as I swallowed the last gulp, and then, finally, she let herself sit back in the chair with a barely perceptible sigh.

  I ignored the monster. I closed my eyes to it; I closed my ears to it. As much as it screamed and clawed at me to listen, I ignored it. And my father’s voice, I ignored that too – no, I would not pay heed to what he had said.

  “I’ve done it,” I said, the sickly taste of the drops in my mouth.

  “Not yet. You have to do this every morning,” Clara said mercilessly. “The doctor said you’re going to feel a small difference after two weeks. And after six weeks, I promise you, things will be a lot better then.”

  Six weeks? Six weeks of this, every morning. And more. My heart pounded – the monster uncoiled its spikes, and I was afraid, so very afraid.

  “Is that a deal?” she insisted.

  I nodded, at a loss for words.

  And then I threw myself into her arms and I breathed in her scent of lavender and talcum powder and Christmas, and she rocked me gently as I cried and cried.

  “Oh, Isabel,” she said with that soft voice of hers, that calming, comforting voice. “I’m so proud of you.”

  And for once in my life, instead of feeling guilty or ashamed or inadequate – for once in my life, I felt proud of myself too.

  Sure enough, the mobile rang at nine on the dot – I jumped out of my skin. “Yes, hello Angus. Yes, she took them both. Right in front of me.”

  “Tell him I’ll text him!” I couldn’t speak to him yet. One phobia defeated was enough for one day, in my book. But I would get there. I would use the phone again; I would get out of the house; I would be myself again. All those fears, I would beat them all, one by one.

  “She says she’ll text.” Clara was beaming. “No problem. Speak soon. Bye.” Clara put the mobile down triumphantly and I grabbed mine.

  I did it!

  I took the medicines!

  It was hard but I did it. I can’t wait to see you.

  The reply came at once.

  I’m insanely proud of you. I can’t wait to see you too.

  All my love

  A xxxxxxxx

  The monster conceded me a moment of happiness.

  45

  Sunflower

  When I stand right

  At the edge of the abyss

  Angus

  It felt wrong to leave Bell when she was hurting so much, but I only had a few more concerts left before my trial with the orchestra was finished. If I held on long enough, if I managed to clear my mind of all worries while I was playing, if I gave my all in spite of what was happening at home – I would make it.

  I landed in Prague just in time to call Clara. My heart was in my throat.

  “Clara?”

  I stood and listened while Clara told me that finally Bell had taken her medicine. The relief was immense. And then Bell’s text came – her loving words, her triumph.

  We had taken a step. It might have been a small step, but it felt like conquering a new continent.

  And there I was, later that morning, sitting in a small coffee shop outside, in the winter sun. We were taking a break after a spot of sightseeing. Bibi held court, as ever. She was beautiful, with a silken sleeveless dress and black sunglasses, and a woollen shawl draped around her shoulders.

  “I was in Barcelona for the weekend with a crowd of friends. It was crazy. Really, really good. I’m still catching up on sleep. There was so much to see, so much to do . . . and so much music around, Barcelona is just amazing for that . . .”

  As she was talking, I looked at her face – animated, full of life. She made me think of a sunflower, drinking sunlight like she drinks life. But she wasn’t just charismatic – there was substance to her. She was a fantastic, dedicated musician and practised like a woman possessed. When she played, she left me speechless.

  She reminded me of Isabel.

  Before she got sick.

  There was something in my heart, a little bloom that I needed to squash. But I couldn’t.

  I sent Isabel picture after picture, text after text, like a secret, silent apology.

  46

  Alchemy

  The fragile chemistry

  of all our minds

  Isabel

  Cold winds were blowing in from the Atlantic, and I shivered in the morning and sat close to the fire at night. I missed Angus so much. After Prague there had been a few days at home, and then he was away again, to London and a tour of England.

  But there was something good. Something so good, I nearly couldn’t believe it. For nearly two weeks I’d been taking my medicines religiously. For the first few mornings drinking those drops and swallowing the pill had been a battle, but I’d done it. And then it got easier and easier, until it was nearly as natural as drinking my coffee.

  And I could feel the change in me, as if slowly the chemistry of my mind was changing, as if what had been frayed and fractured was repairing itself, bit by bit, hour by hour, day by day. As if the pieces of my identity, scattered and lost, were coming back together.

  One morning I woke up to a grey light streaking in from the window and an empty bed – and as usual, I waited for the familiar hit of panic, for my heart to race like every time a new day began. But it didn’t happen. The drops were supposed to relax me, and they did. For the first time in months I felt like my muscles weren’t constantly contracted, and so I began to sleep nearly every night: a dreamless, restful sleep that restored my body and my mind.

  I blinked over and over again, stretching under the duvet, brushing the hair out of my face. A new day was dawning, and it didn’t seem so bad. A parade of soothing thoughts moved through my mind, tentative, like toddlers taking their first steps – sometimes swaying, sometimes falling, but there: it was cold in my room, but the duvet felt lush and comforting around my body – the muted light of winter was beautiful in a calm, sleepy way – a cup of coffee and a chat with Clara were awaiting me downstairs – Angus would be back soon.

  I felt better.

  For the first time in months, years even, I didn’t start the day with dejection. It was like a different world, like a veil had been removed from my eyes. The change was subtle and yet so deep it had me sitting up in bed, hugging my knees, feeling wave after wave of relief sweeping over me. Why had I allowed my father’s lies to deceive me for so long? Why had I followed the voice of my anxiety instead of listening to the doctor, to Angus, and Torcuil, and Clara, and all those who loved me?

  It wasn’t joy, not by a long shot, but it was the absence of despair – and it mean
t everything to me. Instead of shedding tears, I was ready, maybe, to smile.

  I threw a cardigan around me and went downstairs. Clara was in the kitchen already. My new, gleaming kitchen was a sight to behold – and having the workmen in the house hadn’t been as traumatic as I’d feared. Because Angus had been away, Torcuil had had my illustrations reframed in Kinnear, and they had taken their place again on the kitchen walls.

  “Morning!” I said brightly. I could see Clara’s face lighting up, mirroring mine.

  “‘Morning, Isabel. How did you sleep?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I said, and I sat down in front of the coffee Clara had prepared for me.

  I could feel Clara studying me, but I didn’t say anything. She took a breath and I thought she’d speak, but she didn’t. We were both frightened of breaking the spell of my morning smile, I think.

  And then, as I looked out of the kitchen window to the white sky and the frozen ground, where there was a soft white mist draped on the hills – I said it.

  “Clara.”

  “Yes, pet.” It was funny how she called me pet, though she was only a few years older than me.

  “I want to try to go outside.”

  The moment those words came out, I regretted them – it seemed impossible. Like stepping on a rope bridge, suspended on an abyss and blowing in the wind. And then, I steeled myself. I would at least try. I would try with all I had.

  Clara was silent for a moment, and then she smiled. “Let’s go, then.”

  The few steps between the wicker chair and the conservatory door were like a pilgrimage between two wings of scented flowers. I opened the door and stood there, trembling with cold and sheer panic. I could feel Clara’s hope, her expectations, as she stood firm beside me, solid, ready to catch me if I turned back and to accompany me if I walked on.

  I took a deep breath; the air of early winter, biting my hands and my face, smelled like icy grass. It smelled like the future. I wrapped the cardigan around me tighter and took another breath.

  One step. Just one step.