by Marian Keyes
‘Wouldn’t it have been far nicer to stand up straight and act proud to be with Luke?’ Josephine’s voice jolted me out of that nightmare. ‘Here I am, folks, like it or lump it.’
‘But… oh you haven’t got a clue!’ I was so frustrated. ‘You’d have to live in New York to understand, these people are important.’
‘They’re not important to me.’ Josephine smiled broadly. ‘They’re not important to Misty over there.’
Misty vigorously shook her head. But of course she would, the bitch.
‘There are millions of people the world over who are perfectly content without Helenka’s approval.’
‘Would you mind telling me,’ I said scornfully, ‘what any of this has to do with drugs?’
‘Plenty,’ she said, with an ominous glint. ‘You’ll see.’
After lunch Josephine started into me again. I would have given anything for it to stop. I was very, very tired.
‘You wanted to know what your low self-esteem has to do with your taking drugs,’ she said. ‘In its most basic form,’ she went on, ‘if you had self-respect, you wouldn’t fill your body full of harmful substances, to the point where you make yourself ill.’
I stared at the ceiling, no idea what she was talking about.
‘I’m talking to you, Rachel,’ she barked, making me jump. ‘Look at how sick you were when you arrived here. Your first morning on breakfasts you almost passed out from withdrawal symptoms from your beloved Valium!
‘We found the empty bottle in your bedside locker,’ she said, looking me straight in the eye. I turned away, dying with shame, raging that I hadn’t disposed of it properly. But before I had a chance to cobble together some feeble excuse – ‘It wasn’t mine’ or ‘My mother gave it to me, it had holy water in it’ – she started expounding again.
‘This goes for all of you.’ She nodded round the room. ‘If you placed a high price on yourselves, you wouldn’t starve yourselves or cram yourselves with too much food, or poison yourselves with excessive alcohol or, in your case, Rachel, put so many drugs into yourself that you had to be hospitalized.’ Her words rang out in the silent room and I had a fleeting rush of horror.
‘You were in hospital, close to death,’ Josephine pressed on relentlessly, ‘because of the drugs you put into your body. Does that strike you as normal?’
It was strange but I hadn’t given much thought to my so-called overdose until then.
‘I wasn’t close to death,’ I managed to scoff.
‘You were,’ Josephine riposted.
I paused. I had the briefest sliver of time in which I saw myself from the outside. I saw how everyone else in the room perceived me. How, if I hadn’t been me, I would have perceived myself. And to almost die from taking too many drugs seemed a shocking and horrific thing to happen. If it had happened to Mike, say, or Misty, I would have been appalled at how low their drinking had brought them.
But then the aperture closed up again and with relief I went back to seeing myself from the inside, with the contextual knowledge that I had.
‘It was an accident,’ I pointed out.
‘It wasn’t.’
‘It was. I hadn’t intended to take so many.’
‘You were living a life where the ingestion of powerful drugs was routine. Most people don’t take any at all,’ she pointed out.
‘That’s their problem,’ I shrugged. ‘If they want to struggle through all the crap life throws at them, without the assistance of recreational drugs, then they’re saps.’
‘Where did you get such a beleaguered attitude from?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Rachel, to get to the bottom of all this,’ Josephine smiled, ‘we’re going to have to look at your childhood.’
I elaborately threw my eyes heavenwards.
‘It’s hard being in a big family where you feel you’re the least talented, least clever, least loved member, isn’t it?’ Josephine loudly demanded.
It was as if she’d punched me in the stomach. My vision clouded with shock and pain. I would have protested, except my breath was gone.
‘Where your eldest sister is brainy and charming,’ she said cruelly. ‘The sister closest to you is a saint in human form. Your two younger sisters are more than averagely good-looking. It’s hard to live in a family in which everyone has a favourite and it’s never you.’
‘But…’ I attempted.
‘It’s hard to live with a mother who is openly disappointed with you, who has transferred her dislike of her own height on to you,’ she continued inexorably. ‘Other people can say you’re too tall, but it’s upsetting, isn’t it, Rachel, when your own mother says it? It’s hard when you’re told you’re not bright enough to make a career for yourself.’
‘My mother loves me,’ I stammered, cold with fear.
‘I’m not saying she doesn’t,’ Josephine assented. ‘But parents are human too, with fears and unfulfilled ambitions that they sometimes bring to play on their children. It’s obvious the poor woman has a massive hang-up about her height which she’s passed onto you. She’s a good person, but not always a good parent.’
I had a burst of wild rage against Mum. What a cruel old cow, I thought bitterly. For making me feel like such a clumsy oaf all my life. No wonder all my relationships with men were disasters. No wonder – I approached this idea tentatively – I had to take so many drugs!
‘So I can blame my mother for me being – if I am, I mean – an addict,’ I said, desperately trying to latch onto something positive.
‘Oh no.’
No? Well, what are you talking about then?
‘Rachel,’ Josephine said gently. ‘The Cloisters isn’t about apportioning blame.’
‘Well, what is it about?’
‘If we can locate and examine where your lack of self-worth comes from, then we can deal with it.’
I felt a surge of fury at everything. I was sick, sick, sick of all of this. I was tired and bored and I wanted to go to sleep.
‘How come,’ I forced a swagger, ‘I have your so-called low self-esteem and my sisters don’t? We all have the same parents. Tell me that, then!’
‘A complex question,’ she replied smoothly. ‘Which I have actually already answered for you on at least one occasion.’
‘Have y…?’
‘We form our initial picture of ourselves from our parents,’ she said with elaborate patience. ‘And your parents are – affectionately – dismissive of you.’
Don’t.
‘Some people take to heart the negative messages they get about themselves. Others, more resilient, shrug off any criticisms…’
Actually, I realized, some of this did sound familiar.
‘… You’re one of the sensitive ones, your sisters aren’t. Simple as that.’
‘Bastards,’ I muttered, hating everyone in my family.
‘Sorry?’
‘Bastards,’ I said, louder. ‘Why did they pick on me to be dismissive of? I could have had a lovely life if they hadn’t done that.’
‘OK,’ Josephine said. ‘You’re angry. But look at, say, how Margaret must feel, having been assigned the role of the “good” daughter. If she ever wanted to rebel, do something out of character, she’d probably feel she wasn’t entitled to. She could deeply resent your parents for that.’
‘She’s too much of a lickarse to resent anyone,’ I burst out angrily.
‘You see! You’re just buying into the stereotype too! But what if Margaret wants to resent people? Can you imagine how confused and guilty she would feel?’
‘Look, who cares about her!’ I exclaimed.
‘I’m simply pointing out that you and your sisters were subconsciously assigned roles. It happens in families all the time. You don’t like your role – that of the no-hoper, puppy dog – but your sisters probably find theirs as much of a bind as you do.
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, is what I’m trying to say,’ she finished.
‘I’ve eve
ry right to feel sorry for myself,’ I said, feeling very sorry for myself indeed.
‘You can’t go through life blaming other people for your faults,’ she said sternly. ‘You’re an adult. Take responsibility for yourself and your happiness. You’re no longer hidebound by the role your family gave you. Just because you were told you were too tall or too stupid doesn’t actually mean you are.’
‘I’ve been very damaged by my family,’ I sniffed, self-righteously, ignoring her galvanizing speech. I caught Mike trying not to laugh. And Misty was openly sneering.
‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded angrily of her. I’d never have confronted her, if I hadn’t been raging.
‘You? Damaged?’ She laughed.
‘Yes,’ I said loudly. ‘Me. Damaged.’
‘If you’d had your father coming into your bed every night from when you were nine years of age and forcing his dick into you, then I’d say you were damaged,’ she said quickly and shrilly. ‘If you had your mother calling you a liar and belting the crap out of you when you asked her for help, then I’d say you were damaged. If your older sister left home when she was sixteen and abandoned you to your father, then I’d say you were damaged!’ Her face was contorted with wild emotion and she was on the edge of her chair. Her freckles were almost hopping off her face and she was openly snarling. Suddenly, she seemed to realize what she was saying, stopped abruptly, sat back and lowered her head.
I could feel the frozen shock on my face. It was mirrored on the faces of everyone else there. Except for Josephine’s. She’d been expecting this.
‘Misty,’ she said gently, ‘I was wondering when you were going to tell us.’
No further attention was paid to me for the rest of the session. Misty had shamed me, but at the same time I couldn’t banish the resentment I felt at her because she’d stolen my thunder.
After group, when I went to the dining-room, Misty was crying and, to my great alarm, Chris was almost sitting on her lap. He looked up when I came in then turned back, very deliberately, to Misty and tenderly wiped her tears away with his thumbs. The way he’d once done to me. I was as jealous as if we’d been married for four years and I’d just caught him in bed with Misty. He looked at me again, his expression unreadable.
55
With Misty’s shock revelations, the huge amounts of attention that had been paid to me all week came screeching to an abrupt halt. Her childhood abuse was an all-singing, all-dancing production which took up both the Friday sessions and lots of the following week. Everyone’s focus was on her, as she raged and wept, screamed and howled.
Almost with a sense of anti-climax, I found that life in the Cloisters continued in much the same way as it had before the apocalyptic visit from Brigit and Luke. OK, so I constantly fantasized about killing them both. But I still went to group, ate my meals, bickered and played with the others. I went to my Narcotics Anonymous meeting on Thursday night, to cookery on Saturday morning and I played games on Saturday night. But mostly I kept a close eye on Chris. I was frustrated by his slipperiness because while he was nearly always nice to me, it was only up to a certain point. I’d hoped that at some stage he’d have cornered me for a clinch, but it never happened. And what really bothered me was that he was as nice – sometimes even nicer, I feared – to Misty.
Despite his elusiveness, he listened patiently when I screeched hysterically about what lying bastards Luke and Brigit were. In fact, all the inmates gave me airspace, even if I suspected they were humouring me. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the time Neil was furious with Emer. When he’d called her every name under the sun, and everyone had gently patted him on the back and mildly agreed with him.
Chaquie was the person who stopped me from going round the bend. She stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep from fury. Luckily, her great narkiness seemed to have passed. Which was just as well because there wasn’t room for two loopers in a room as small as ours.
I was much angrier with Luke than with Brigit. But I was also very confused. When we’d lived in New York, Luke had been affectionate and tender to me. I couldn’t come to terms with the change. The contrast was just too much.
With bitter-sweet torment, I kept remembering him at the zenith of his loveliness to me, the previous November when I’d had the flu. I couldn’t stop taking the memory out, unwrapping it as if it was a family heirloom and hugging it to me.
Brigit had been away for the week. In New Jersey, on a course to learn how to boss people around more effectively. An ass-kicking conference or something. Naturally, the minute she left, Luke arrived with a facecloth and a week’s supply of underpants. What was the point of having an empty apartment if you didn’t maximize your chances of sex in every room in the place without fear of interruption?
It was gorgeous. Nearly like being married, except I could still breathe. Each evening we rushed home to each other, cooked dinner, took long, leisurely baths together, had sex on the kitchen floor, the bathroom floor, the living-room floor, the hall floor and the bedroom floor. We left together in the morning and got the same train to work. He always had my subway token ready for me. When he got off first in midtown, he kissed me in full view of everyone on the A train and said, ‘See you this evening, my turn to cook.’ Domestic bliss.
On Wednesday, I felt dodgy all day. But I was used to feeling awful in work, so I didn’t pay much attention. Only on the walk home from the subway station did I really start to feel peculiar. Cold and hot, achy and fuzzy.
I staggered up the stairs to the apartment, my legs almost paralysed. At the top, Luke flung wide the front door, gave me a big grin and said ‘Hi honey, you’re home!’ He bustled me in and said ‘The takeaway is on its way. I didn’t know whether to get you chocolate or strawberry, so I got you both. Now, let’s get you out of these wet clothes!’
He often said that, even though, of course, my clothes weren’t wet.
‘Come now,’ he chided, unbuttoning my Diana Rigg raincoat, ‘you’re soaked through!’
‘No, Luke,’ I protested weakly, feeling like I might faint.
‘Not another word, young lady,’ he insisted, unzipping my jacket with a whizz, then pulling it off my shoulders.
‘Luke, I feel a bit…’ I attempted again.
‘Do you want to catch your death?’ he clicked. ‘Rachel Walsh, you’ll end up with pneumonia.’ By now he was down to my bra.
‘Wringing!’ he declared, deftly unhooking it.
Normally, by then, I’d be feeling pretty revved up, and might even start removing some of his clothing. But not that day.
‘Now for your skirt,’ he said, feeling for the button on the waistband. ‘My God, it’s sopping wet, the heavens must have opened out there…’
He must have noticed that I wasn’t responding with my usual enthusiasm because he faltered, then stopped. ‘Are you OK, babe?’ he asked, suddenly anxious.
‘Luke,’ I managed, ‘I feel a bit funny.’
‘What sort of funny?’ he asked, in alarm.
‘I think I might be sick.’
He put his hand on my forehead and I nearly swooned from the pleasure of his cool hand against my burning skin.
‘Christ!’ he declared. ‘You’re roasting.
‘Oh babe,’ he said, all abject, ‘I’m sorry, me taking off your clothes…’ He frantically draped my bra around my shoulders, then made me put my coat back on.
‘Come in to the fire,’ he ordered.
‘We haven’t got a fire,’ I objected weakly.
‘I’ll get you one,’ he offered. ‘Whatever you want, I’ll get it.’
‘I think I’d like to go to bed,’ I said. My voice sounded a long, long way away.
For a second his eyes lit up. ‘Great!’
Then he realized what I meant. ‘Oh yeah, of course, babe.’
I stripped off the rest of my clothes and just threw them on the floor. Although I didn’t have to be afflicted with flu to do that. Then I climbed in between the cool, cool sheets. For a
moment I was in heaven. I must have dozed off, because next thing Luke was standing over me with a selection of milkshakes.
‘Chocolate or strawberry?’ he offered.
Mutely, I shook my head.
‘I knew it,’ he said, smiting his hand against his forehead. ‘I should have got vanilla!’
‘No, Luke,’ I mumbled. ‘Not hungry. Don’t want anything.
‘I must be dying.’ I managed a weak smile.
‘Don’t, Rachel,’ he ordered, with an anguished face. ‘Mocking is catching.’
‘No, mocking is a laugh,’ I mumbled. That was what Helen always said.
‘Will you be OK if I go out for a while?’ he asked gently.
I must have looked distraught.
‘Only to go to the drugstore,’ he explained hurriedly. ‘To get you things.’
He was back about half an hour later with a huge carrier bag, crammed with everything from a thermometer to magazines to chocolate to cough mixture.
‘I haven’t got a cough,’ I said weakly.
‘But you might get one,’ he pointed out. ‘Best to be prepared. Now let’s take your temperature.
‘A HUNDRED-AND-TWO!’ he yelled in alarm. He began frantically tucking in the duvet all around me, even under my feet, so I was in a little cocoon.
‘The woman in the drugstore said to keep you warm, but you are warm,’ he muttered.
By midnight my temperature was a hundred-and-four so Luke got a doctor for me. It cost roughly the same to buy a three-bedroom flat as to get a doctor in Manhattan to make a house call. Luke must have really loved me.
The doctor stayed three minutes, diagnosed me with flu – ‘Proper flu, real flu, not just a bad cold’ – said there was nothing he could prescribe for me, cleared Luke out of funds, then left.
For the next three days I was in bits. Delirious, not knowing where I was or what day it was. Aching, sweating, shivering, too weak to sit up unaided to sip the Gatorade that Luke kept pressing on me.
