‘I need you to eat something. A shake? Crackers?’ Freya pushed.
Lexi began to cry.
It was hard to explain the bitter joy she felt at the sight of her daughter’s tears; a happiness, at least, that she was showing some emotion. It made her seem human.
Lexi took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes, Mum, I feel like I’m on the planet, but not part of it.’
‘In what way?’ Freya leant forward from the edge of the bed, tucking the two thick duvets over Lexi’s legs.
She shrugged. ‘It’s hard to explain, but it’s like all the things that fill up everyone else’s head don’t bother me, not even a little bit. And the things that fill up my head feel too big to ever sort out. It’s like I’d be better off not being here. I think it would be simpler, less tiring.’
‘Don’t you ever think that.’ Freya swallowed her terror at Lexi’s revelation, suppressing her first reaction to shout and allow her fear to manifest itself as anger; it took all her concentration to keep her voice level. ‘Don’t ever think you are not valued or valid, because you are! And your life will get easier, and you will come out of this dark time, Lexi, and you will be stronger because of it. I want you to believe that.’
‘But I don’t believe that,’ Lexi admitted. Her voice was clear and calm. ‘And the idea of not being here . . . it doesn’t frighten me, Mum. Not at all.’
Freya felt the knock of fear in her chest. It took all her remaining strength not to go hysterical. The idea, the very thought, of her baby girl wanting to give up on life was unbearable. She opened her mouth to speak, but the ball of fear blocking her throat made speech impossible.
Four hours . . .
‘It must be time for more tea?’ Charlotte sniffed, disengaging herself from her mum’s embrace.
‘Definitely.’ Freya nodded, retaking her place at the desk as Charlotte slipped from the room.
She coughed to clear her head and continued writing.
I think about something you said to me once, Lexi. You said that the idea of not being here anymore didn’t frighten you. I didn’t say anything at the time. Frankly I was shocked and wary of my reaction. It felt like an axe blow to my heart. I am your mother! And to have held you in my arms and watched you grow, knowing at that moment that you had lost interest in the life I gave you? It’s hard to put into words the wave of grief that threatened to pull me under.
I went away and drew up a list of all the things you wouldn’t have to suffer if you weren’t here anymore. It was something like this:
No more illness, no more struggling to be healthy. No struggling – period.
No loss: you would never have to grieve the passing of another.
Heartbreak! How lovely not to have to wake in the morning with a heart full of fragments and eyes full of grit.
No ageing – here’s a universal truth: the older you get, the more life loses its sparkle, loses a little of the magic. The endless, wonderful possibilities of youth where everything and anything feel possible – that fades . . .
But then I considered all the things you would not experience:
Falling hopelessly in love.
Your wedding day.
Knowing the blessing of a child.
Seeing the sunset in places far and wide.
Earning the right in old age to become eccentric, even cantankerous.
Getting properly drunk on champagne.
Sleeping in a meadow, by a brook.
Decorating a room.
Waking wrapped in the arms of the one you love.
Fresh caught lobster, eaten on a dock.
Being old enough to know better, but still laughing so hard at nothing much that you feel dizzy with happiness.
Oh, my darling, this list is endless, it stretches on for infinity . . .
And then I thought about what it might feel like from my perspective not to have you here anymore, and I got so mad at the waste of it all that I shredded that list and balled my fists and vowed that no matter what anorexia threw at me, I would fight, fight, fight to keep you with me.
I had been lying: there was no good trade-off; the idea of losing you – well, it was quite simply more than I could even bear to contemplate.
Then and now.
TWELVE
Lexi had refused food for two days.
This single fact spun around inside Freya’s head like a frantic spider weaving a web from the idea that covered every other thought and action. She still sipped water, almost continually, but anything more substantial had been rebuffed in the strongest terms.
The conversation between her and Lockie was one she would never forget: stumbling from Lexi’s room and having to repeat the fact that their child wanted to give up on life, saw death as a kind of relief, was horrific. He had clung to her, crying and asking over and over again, Why does she want to leave us? We love her so much! Our baby girl! And in the dim light of the early hours, she had, as now, no answer to give. Instead, she stroked his hair and cooed empty words of comfort, their purpose purely designed to help him hang on until the dawn with the hope that the rising sun might bring some clarity.
Iris spoke to Lexi on the phone, explaining, as agreed with Freya and Lockie, that a persistent refusal to eat would result in hospitalisation, where forced feeding would be the only option. Her stern words had made Lexi cry.
‘Don’t you get it, Iris?’ she stuttered through her tears. ‘I can’t! I just can’t!’
‘I think what you don’t get, Lexi, is that you have to! You just have to! Because if you don’t, things are going to get a lot worse very quickly and you will lose all control over the situation. Do you think the team in hospital will let you pick and choose what you eat, and when, and run up the stairs with different-flavoured shakes or a different type of cracker? They won’t. It will be a nasal tube feeding you with calories pumped directly into your stomach. I shall leave it with you and will be checking in with your parents later. If we are in the same situation, then make no mistake that I will make that call, Lexi.’
Freya had been slightly horrified and at the same time delighted by Iris’s very direct message, delivered with an undercurrent of irritation, as if to say Enough is enough: words she was not yet brave enough to deliver herself. The woman was sufficiently removed emotionally for this to be possible. Easy to picture the troubled girl she was dealing with, and not the crochet-wrapped baby who had lain in her mother’s arms.
‘I hate Iris! I hate her! I won’t talk to her again and I don’t want to see her!’ Lexi yelled.
Half an hour after the phone call, after Lexi had screamed and cried, her actions best described as a tantrum, she appeared in the kitchen and requested a slice of toast with a thin layer of honey, no butter.
Freya could never have imagined taking such joy from the sound of bread popping in the toaster, as she stood eagerly by the countertop, waiting with knife and honey primed, wanting to serve it quickly, lest her daughter change her mind.
Lexi sat at the table and nibbled the toast, taking minute bites, and chewing, and chewing some more, as if trying to delay the inevitable.
‘It tastes super sweet and horrible.’
Freya kept her eyes averted, listening, as her child struggled to swallow. After she managed a whole slice, Freya decided to push her luck and took a leaf from Iris’s book.
‘Anything else?’ she suggested. ‘What about some yoghurt or an apple?’
Lexi shook her head. ‘I can’t, Mum, but I will have something later.’
‘Okay, deal – if you have at least one of your shakes now.’
To her surprise, Lexi nodded, without offering a single word of protest. Good to her word, she managed a few sips and then stood slowly on creaky knees, placing the remainder in the fridge for later.
Freya watched as her child, who had not so long ago loved the sourcing and handling of ingredients, now eyed the butter dish, wax-wrapped cheese, streaky bacon, eggs and milk on the shelves with a look of total disgust. It was her defa
ult setting to pull this particular face when she came into close contact with food. Freya had seen similar looks when others discussed human waste or decay, something so offensive that noses wrinkled and eyes closed and the mouth produced saliva to wash away the vomit that threatened. This was how Lexi reacted when standing only inches away from the beautiful produce she used to thrive on.
Freya arranged the freesias in the bowl on the table. She wanted the house to look as welcoming as possible. Lockie came up from the studio.
‘Any chance of a posh coffee?’
‘Every chance.’ She smiled and proceeded to push the buttons that always left him mystified.
‘He’ll be here any minute.’ She gave a nervous shrug.
‘Don’t worry. I have been fully briefed.’ He sighed. Their conversation about allowing Toby back into the house had been fraught, but even Lockie had yielded at the simple fact that Lexi needed someone.
‘We just need to remember. This isn’t about what we want, but about what will make Lexi happy,’ she reminded him.
‘Uh-huh.’
His muted response told her he was simply toeing the line; whether he agreed with it or not was another thing entirely.
Freya handed him his coffee as the doorbell rang. She gave him a parting look as she went to answer the door.
‘Toby’s here!’ she called to her husband, as if his arrival were a complete surprise.
Lockie strolled over with his hand outstretched towards the boy whose hair had grown in length since they last saw him. He looked a little lankier; his skin was just as pale and greasy, and his trousers now sat on his ankle bone, ‘half-masters’, as her dad would have called them.
‘Hello, Toby, good to see you.’ Lockie pumped the boy’s hand, making his arm wiggle up and down like spaghetti.
‘Hello, Mr Braithwaite. I would like to apologise for what happened the last time I was here.’
He instantly brought to the fore the very topic she was hoping they might avoid, might gloss over in a soap-opera fashion. But no: Toby was not practised in artifice – unlike Freya herself, who had spent the last few months presenting a particular face to Lexi, another to Charlotte, and a very different one to Lockie and the rest of the world. None of which truly represented what churned inside her.
‘Please, don’t mention it!’ Lockie raised his palm, as if hoping the boy would take the instruction literally.
‘I would like to tell you that I would never do or suggest anything that would bring Alexia harm. Never.’ He stared at Lockie, unblinking, steadfast and sincere.
Freya smiled. He might be a funny old fish, but he was no Fickle-Fennella.
‘That means no looking at those sites, not encouraging any behaviour that you know we would disapprove of. Is that clear?’ Lockie kept a steady tone.
The boy nodded.
‘Come up, Toby!’ Lexi called from the upstairs landing. He gave a brief nod and made his way up the stairs.
The fact that she sounded so bright and glad of his visit, Freya found heartening.
‘What do you think they are talking about?’ Lockie asked casually, after a while.
‘I have no idea.’ She swiped her iPad, pausing Eastenders, which she was watching on catch-up. ‘But whatever it is, I’m just glad that she seems to have a bit more life in her, more energy. I keep picturing her face on Saturday, she looked . . .’ Freya shook her head, afraid to voice the fear that Lexi’s cold, blank stare had filled her with.
‘I know.’ Lockie squeezed her hand. He too was still reeling from the revelation.
‘And if Toby is the means to give her an interest in life . . .’
‘I suppose so,’ Lockie conceded reluctantly. ‘I’m off to B&Q. Going to get the glass to fit the window. About time I got that replaced. The girl needs a view.’ He smiled.
‘She does indeed.’
When Toby hovered by the doorway a couple of hours later, Freya sat up straight and smiled at him. ‘Are you off, Toby?’
‘Yes.’ He stared at her, unsmiling.
‘Thank you so much for coming to visit Lexi. I know she will feel much better for seeing a friendly face. Please come anytime, don’t wait for an invite, just pop in whenever!’ She gave a single clap, trying not to sound too desperate for her child to have company.
He nodded at her, turning as if to leave, before looking back at her and Lockie, who, fresh back from his trip empty-handed, unable to source the glass he needed, stood grinning falsely.
‘I . . . I think . . .’ Toby shook his head, thinking better of it; he closed his mouth tightly to prevent the words from escaping. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What were you going to say?’ she pressed him, wary of his leaving without imparting whatever sliver of wisdom he might have gleaned. ‘I remember you told us that you don’t believe in lying through omission.’ She paused. ‘What did you want to say, Toby? It’s fine,’ she pushed. ‘Whatever it is.’
Toby faced her, as if wondering how much to disclose. ‘I don’t think Alexia is quite as well as I might have hoped.’ He looked at the ground and flicked his head to move the long fringe from his eyes.
‘In what way?’ Lockie sounded curious as to what this fresh pair of eyes had seen.
Freya held her breath. Until the boy began to speak.
‘She doesn’t look very bright. A bit grey . . . but she used to look rosy, and she used to talk a lot about what she would like to do when she got better. But today she says she doesn’t know if she will get better. And that has made me feel quite worried.’
The fact that someone as aloof as Toby had made this observation sent a new ripple of fear through Freya’s bones.
‘Thank you for being so forthright, Toby. It helps us. Sometimes, when you are very close to someone or a situation, you can’t see the wood for the trees,’ Lockie offered the insight to the boy who had the courage to talk so openly.
‘Yes. I understand.’ He nodded. ‘I told her it is her sadness talking and that once she has overcome that, her sunniness will return.’
‘That was a good thing to tell her, thank you. She’s had a tricky few days.’ Freya spoke freely, fighting her tears. It was one thing to privately fear for Lexi’s mental decline, but quite another to have it confirmed by Toby.
‘Fennella and her little gaggle are garbage,’ he spat. ‘They have zero concern for anyone, they hurt people and have brains the size of peas.’ His nostrils flared, his eyes blazed, suggesting that he too might have been on the receiving end of that hurt.
‘My dad used to say to me, “If you have one friend, consider yourself lucky, because one good one is all you need.”’ Lockie spoke calmly. ‘I always think that people who are capable of being nasty in that way must have a kernel of something dark inside them, something that makes them deeply unhappy, and I feel sorry for them, because that must be a terrible way to live. Who wants that going on inside?’ Lockie looked at the boy. ‘And for what it’s worth, I think Lexi is very lucky to have a friend like you.’
‘I suppose that’s us burying the hatchet.’ Toby gave his tight-lipped smile before treading the stairs in his soft-soled shoes to let himself out.
Lockie smiled at his wife. ‘I suppose it is.’
Her friend’s visit seemed to have sparked something in Lexi, which lifted the whole house. Lockie whistled as he poured his cereal into the bowl.
‘You sound very chirpy this morning – not that I am complaining.’ Freya laughed, wiping her hands dry on the thighs of her jeans. ‘It makes a change from the old grump I usually have to face over the breakfast table,’ she teased.
‘I am chirpy.’ He beamed. ‘I told Lexi she needs to get some fresh air and she agreed, just like that! Hurrah for the Toby effect!’ He carried his breakfast to the table. ‘I think a walk around the block might be good: a bit of fresh air, inhale the real world for a while . . .’
‘Well, clever old you. I’ll take her out this morning. Where are you working today?’
‘London. A
n agency portrait shoot for an article. Seven women of different ages who have all experienced grief. A moody sepia tone should do the trick. I’ve worked there before; the lighting is great. Won’t be too late either – home by four, tops.’
‘Can you drop me at school, Dad?’
Charlotte rushed into the kitchen, heading straight for the cupboard. She grabbed a box of crackers and the butter and cheese from the fridge. Rather than waste time in transporting her breakfast, she stood at the counter and loaded the crackers one by one with what looked to be equal amounts of butter and cheese and popped them into her mouth while she prepared the next.
Freya was tempted to suggest it wasn’t the most elegant way to eat, or the most mess-free, as Charlotte sprinkled the area and floor with crumbs, but the fact that she ate so keenly, without prompting, was good enough.
‘I got an email this morning inviting me to go on the Geneva trip with the orchestra. We are visiting with three other schools and staying with host families, and then we are going to, like, jam for four days and put on an informal concert on the fifth.’
She paused to shove another cracker into her mouth.
‘That sounds great!’ Freya enthused. ‘When is it?’
‘Leaving in two weeks,’ she managed, holding her hand over her mouth as a crumb-guard.
‘Two weeks? That’s not much notice!’ Freya was thinking of logistics and money.
‘I wasn’t supposed to be going . . . They offered it to the pupils in the year below me because it’s our exam year, but Harriet’s got glandular fever and had to drop out, so they’re cello-less unless I can make it. School will pay half, and I need to pay one hundred and sixty-four pounds by tomorrow – if I can go?’ She looked at them with a downturned expression, as if she expected to be told she couldn’t.
The Food of Love Page 20
