Don't Be Afraid Page 13

  “When did you say that to him?” she asked gently.

  “The day they let me out of the hospital.”

  “That was weeks ago, Isabel.”

  “Oh . . . I must have forgotten,” I said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll take them tomorrow morning.”

  “Would you like me to remind you? If you show me what you have to take—”

  “No, thanks, it’s okay. I’ll do it myself. I’m tired now,” I said and stood up. “Goodnight, Clara.”

  Her eyes studied my face. “Goodnight, Isabel.”

  The next morning I got up when it was still dark, so that I could try to take my meds before Clara woke up. There was no way I could tell them my secret, Clara or Angus. There was no way I could explain to them I couldn’t take my medication and ask for help, though I was desperate for someone to help me overcome this. A part of me, the lucid part of me, the one that whispered among the screams of my panic, knew that I had to take my medication and was desperate for help, that taking it could really improve things for me. Make me better. Maybe even make me recover.

  I lined up the bottle and the blister pack. I prepared a glass with water in it.

  But I couldn’t get past the idea they were poison – my panic screamed too loud for my rational mind to be heard. Drying my tears, I replaced the cap and threw out the pill. I knew it was going to be a bad day. A blue day, I called it in my mind.

  Defeated, I just sat and cried and cried, until Clara came to find me.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, alarm painted all over her face.

  “Nothing. Just a moment. Just a moment.”

  “Are you okay? You got too tired yesterday. I knew you shouldn’t have worked so hard. Have you taken your medicine?” she said, gazing at the bottle and the little box.

  “Yes. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

  She just gazed at me, uncertain as to what to say next – I could read it in her face.

  “I’m just going to sit here for a bit, Clara, if that’s okay. You just . . . do your thing . . .”

  “Of course. I have some laundry to fold; I can do it here and keep you company.”

  “Oh, please, you’re not here to do the housework,” I protested.

  “It’s no trouble. Maybe you could come upstairs with me and we could put the clothes away.”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m just going to sit here for a while.” I knew there would be no work today.

  I had this thing: if I was immobile, if I moved as little as possible – barely enough to go to the bathroom or grab a glass of water – the universe wouldn’t notice I existed and it would not send some terrible catastrophe to me. So I did that. Even when Clara tried to get me to do things and stand up, I sat at the table like a limpet clinging to its rock, refusing to move.

  I know. Weird. But it was one of those rituals that kept me going and helped me deal with panic when it struck. Sometimes I sat at the kitchen table, sometimes in the living room, hugging my knees on the sofa and watching day turn into night. Sometimes I curled up in the bedroom, gazing at the loch – looking at it for hours on end, without moving.

  Thinking of my mum.

  Clara went about her business without bothering me; I preferred it that way, and I was grateful. She made me lunch – I had explained that a cheese and ham toastie and a hot chocolate was what would get me through a blue day, no other food would do – and occasionally she touched my shoulder, and I was so grateful for that contact, in the painful rigidity of my panic, I could have cried. Finally, the sun set and it was dark. Thank God, the blue day was ending. Angus came back and it was time for Clara to go. I heard them whispering in the hall.

  I tried to forget I was deceiving them both by not taking my medicines.

  I tried to forget that I was deceiving the love of my life.

  I don’t know what to do, I thought in dismay and felt the tears swell in my eyes once more – no, he couldn’t find me crying.

  “Hey, baby . . . Clara said you had a bad day . . .”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Just . . .” I wracked my mind for an excuse and I couldn’t find one. “Just one of those days. Blue. I’m sorry.”

  He held me in his arms and I just stayed there, in the comfort of his woollen checked shirt, breathing in the scent of Angus, the scent of comfort and home.

  “Don’t apologise, my love,” he said, and rocked me gently, like you would rock a child who’s had a nightmare. “You even worked again, didn’t you? Remember, your butterflies . . .”

  I sighed imperceptibly, thinking of how much I would have loved to spend the day in my studio, instead of immobile and frozen at the table, desperately trying to disappear.

  “You’ve been taking your meds for weeks now, so soon we’ll see some improvement, the doctor said, remember?”

  Six weeks, and the medicines should work. Yes, the doctor had said that. But for that to happen, I had to take them.

  If only I could force myself to down them, I thought, burying my face deeper into his chest. If only I could dissolve this idiotic belief that the pills would kill me like they’d killed my mother, or so my dad said. But Dad’s voice still resounded in my ears and I couldn’t silence it.

  I waited until Angus was upstairs getting changed, and then I stood up.

  One last try.

  One last try.

  Again, I poured the drops; again, I took a pill out of the blister pack.

  My hands shook so much I could barely hold the glass . . .

  And then I poured all my drops down the sink, tears streaming down my face.

  29

  Poison

  Like climbing

  A smooth wall

  Like drinking

  A butterfly’s tears

  Isabel

  I tried again to take my medicines. Twice. And again they ended up down the sink. But I was telling everyone I was taking them, and the deception was killing me inside.

  My father’s voice was stronger than ever.

  Sometimes I think of those terrible stories of children being hit, abused, and my heart goes out to them: my father never laid a hand on me, and still he damaged me more deeply than I can ever say.

  “So, what’s the plan for this morning?” Clara asked softly, shaking me out of my thoughts. Once again I was sitting at the kitchen table, my medication laid out in front of me. I jumped at the sound of her voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I’m okay. Just a bit . . .”

  I put all the medicines away. The liquid in the little bottle was going down steadily, and the blister pack was nearly empty – it was time to get some more – but none of it was ending up in my body.

  “I think I’m going to do some work on Chrysalis,” I said. I didn’t meet Clara’s eyes as I hurried upstairs into my studio.

  I knew Clara could sense that something was off, but she couldn’t tell what – yet. Something told me that she would soon begin to suspect I wasn’t taking my medicines, if she didn’t already.

  30

  Life in a fishbowl

  Within you I found

  Peace

  Torcuil

  It was a Saturday morning, and Leo and I had dropped in to La Piazza to visit Margherita, who was working. Lara was, as she often was now, hanging out with her new friends from school. Lara had felt isolated and misunderstood in her school in London, so when she’d moved up here it had been a relief for her and her mother that she got on so well with the local kids. She also often spent time with my cousin, Inary, with whom she shared a passion for writing.

  Things had changed for me too in the past year – life had turned upside down with Margherita’s arrival, in a way I couldn’t have imagined. For the better, in every way. In the past, on a Saturday morning I wouldn’t have been just sitting and chatting – I would have been rushing about with a long to-do list. I was on a hamster’s wheel, but, looking back, it was me who couldn’t stop. Now I was even busier with my work and the riding
school, and Ramsay Hall was now open to the public, not to mention living with a four-year-old whom I loved dearly – but everything was calmer. I could just sit and watch the flames in my fireplace, in silence, because Margherita was at my side and grey thoughts and sad memories were kept at bay. Yes, she had changed my life.

  “You okay?” she asked me suddenly.

  “Yes, why?”

  “You were staring at me.”

  ‘Sorry,” I said, and looked into my coffee cup. I wasn’t about to start gushing in front of Debora. But Margherita must have read my thoughts, because she smiled. And then, her face became serious again.

  “Did he call this morning?” I knew who she meant. Angus and I had spoken nearly every day, since Izzy . . . since she’d done what she did.

  “No . . .”

  Kate, Aisling’s sister, cut in. “He hasn’t called for two days now! I’m in bits.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Sorry?”

  “Kate, Margherita wasn’t talking about Pablo,” Debora explained patiently.

  “Oh, I thought you’d want to know if he’d called. Well, I’ll let you know all the same.”

  I stifled a laugh. “So how are things with you two, Kate?”

  “We broke up. Last time we broke up we were back together by the evening, so now I’m worried,” she said, looking at the phone she carried in the pocket of her apron. “It’s when you know he’s the one . . . When you know he’s your destiny . . . that’s when things become complicated. You have to treat your love like a precious flower,” she said solemnly, and this time I couldn’t help laughing openly.

  “Kate. You are sixteen,” Margherita said.

  “Juliet was a teenager when she fell for Romeo,” she replied.

  “Juliet ended up dead in a crypt. Now clear those tables, Kate,” Debora called from the counter, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Anyway,” I continued. “No, we didn’t speak this morning. I’ll phone him later.”

  “Okay, let me know what he says, if there’s any news. I need to go back to work, I’m up to my eyes here! I’m catering for a wedding and my filo-pastry brie tartlets just burnt to a crisp,” she said. She looked unfazed, though. Margherita seemed to be always chilled, whatever the circumstances. “Come with me to the kitchen.”

  A sudden thought came into my mind. “I was hoping you’d write a recipe for me,” I said, following her through the back.

  “Sure,” she said, taking a sweet-scented tray of meringues out of the oven. “Anything in particular?”

  “Apple and cinnamon cake. Isabel loves it when you send it . . . I was thinking maybe she and Clara could make it. But don’t worry if you’re too busy.”

  “Not at all,” she said kindly, and grabbed a pad with a shopping list and some notes on it. She scribbled the recipe on a fresh page, tore it off and gave it to me. “For her eyes only. Burn after reading. It’s a secret recipe.”

  “Is it really?”

  “Of course not! Let me know how she gets on.”

  “Thanks. I’m off then. I’ll phone Angus and give you a ring if there’s any news.”

  “Of Pablo, you mean?” she said, and giggled the way she does, like there is so much to laugh and smile about in this world.

  Margherita had the sun in her heart.

  I went to Peggy’s shop with Leo and bought the ingredients listed in the recipe, but she didn’t have any apples, so I walked back to Ramsay Hall and drove to Kinnear. There I bought some apples and then, at the post office, a cardboard box and some twine. I put all the ingredients and the recipe in the box, tied it with the twine and left it in front of Debora’s house, so Clara would find it, with a little note: For Isabel and Clara.

  Like opening a little umbrella in the middle of a typhoon.

  But it was something. It was all I could do, these little things that lay between being looked after and being forgotten.

  31

  Cinnamon

  The times when I try

  To change the past

  The times when I try

  To lead you home

  Isabel

  Once again, Angus was away in Glasgow. I remember at our wedding a friend of his, Margaret, joked that you should never marry a musician – you’d end up being a sort of widow, losing your husband to music. It was a bit late to warn me, considering I had just pronounced my vows and was standing in front of her in my white, lacy dress, a bouquet of yellow roses in my hands, tipsy with champagne and happiness.

  I was unafraid, then – there would never be a time when I resented his work, his passion, because he’d never resent mine.

  I would have never thought, back then, when I was strong and independent, that I would feel so lost whenever he went.

  But that cold, cold morning, I only had a moment to be sad as he pulled away from the driveway, because Clara arrived with a big smile and a cardboard box, her silver earrings swinging as she walked, a bright-red scarf around her neck.

  “Look what I’ve got!”

  “Oh, what is it?”

  “Come and see,” she said, placing the box on the kitchen table.

  “Oh, it’s food . . . There’s a note!”

  Clara read it out to me: “All you need to make apple and cinnamon cake.”

  “There are all the ingredients . . . Look . . . Apples, flour, eggs . . . She even put in a little bag of cinnamon sticks with a tiny grater!” A little spark of joy ignited in me. “Okay. I’m not the best at cooking, but I swear I’m going to do my best,” I said. “What about you?”

  “Not a clue about baking either . . . but we’ll make it.”

  “My mum was the same,” I said, and there was a little silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She hated cooking, or so I was told.” I shrugged. Talking about her was hard, and at the same time so sweet. “My sister said that once she gave us hot chocolate and marshmallows for dinner. My dad was furious – he was all for stodge, you know, a roast dinner and that kind of thing. But I think it must have been so much fun. If only I could remember . . .”

  Clara was quiet for a little while.

  We spent a wonderful hour, laughing and cooking together. It was one of those moments when, miraculously, I forgot all about my predicament and I was just . . . myself. It happened very rarely, that I could forget what was going on in my head and stop listening to the constant panicked inner dialogue. When it did, it was like a precious gift.

  I thought of Margherita and how thoughtful she’d been.

  “Margherita always has these little gifts for me,” I said thoughtfully. “I’d like to paint a picture for her.”

  “That’s a lovely idea. But it wasn’t her, this time. Debora told me it was Torcuil.”

  Torcuil.

  It was my turn to be quiet, now. And then, as I switched one of the gas rings on to melt some sugar for the caramel topping, the flame fizzled and danced so high it nearly burnt my fingers.

  “Ouch!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “We need to ask Dougie to fix this ring,” she said. “It burns all wonky.”

  “Maybe it just needs cleaning,” I replied hopefully.

  The idea of having someone other than Angus or Clara in the house horrified me. I would put it off as long as I could.

  We just worked together and I wanted nothing to break the spell . . . but just as I was putting the cake in the oven, Clara’s phone rang.

  “It’s Debora,” she mouthed. “Yes? Oh, that’s wonderful news! And how is she? Great. Thanks for letting us know. That’s absolutely wonderful. I can’t wait to see them. Yes. Bye!”

  She pressed the red button. She was beaming. “Aisling had a baby boy. They called him Eoin.”

  “Oh, congratulations . . .” I said. To my surprise, my mood had clouded over all of a sudden. I forced a smile. “That’s wonderful! Babies are not for me, though,” I said, trying to sound flippant.

  “But why? Having a child
is wonderful, Isabel, and it’s all ahead of you!” she said, and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. It was such a cliché. Having a baby was wonderful – for other people. And it certainly wasn’t a remedy for all ills.

  I closed the oven door, maybe a bit too forcefully.

  “No, you don’t understand. I can’t possibly have a baby.”

  “There is no reason why you can’t—”

  “Because then I’ll leave it, like my mum did.” I shrugged, and the cruelty of those words, and the truth of them, cut deep.

  “I think you’d make a wonderful mum, Isabel. And however you feel about your mum, it doesn’t mean you’ll be the same,” she said gently.

  “My mum was wonderful.” I defended her. I couldn’t help it. “Too wonderful for this world,” I said, and all the sadness in the universe was weighing on my heart.

  “That looks good,” Clara said calmly, gesturing to the cake baking in the oven. “Angus will love it. If there’s any left by the time he comes home!”

  That was Clara. When sadness threatened to overcome me, she didn’t fall into the hole with me – she offered me a hand to climb out of it.

  “Maybe we can send a few slices to Margherita. So she can see what we’ve made out of her parcel,” I said.

  “That’s a lovely idea. I bet it’s as good as the ones she makes.”

  “We can make it again. We can try new recipes . . .”

  “Yes. I’d love that,” she said, and the darkness, somehow, seemed to have been diffused once again. Strange, how Clara seemed to have that effect on me – like a candle in the darkest of nights.

  32

  All about your colours

  Under a foreign sky

  I think of you

  From Emer88@iol.ie

  To Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  I’m back. It was just five days but very eventful. India is incredible; you have to go. Anyway, straight to the point. I met someone.

  And he came back with me to Ireland!