‘That’s true,’ I said, feeling a jolt of relief for my wise, generous older sister and the fact that it was her in the car with me rather than my mother. ‘I guess I’m just not sure what I’m meant to say. What do you say to someone who’s so depressed they’re suicidal?’
‘Tell them you love them,’ Tarin said, like it was nothing. Like it was everything. ‘Be supportive. Look, what you need to understand is, you won’t be able to single-handedly stop her wishing she was dead, if that’s even what she still thinks, which I doubt. What you can do, as her friend, is make sure she knows you’re glad she’s not. Does that make sense?’
‘It doesn’t seem like enough.’
‘There is no enough.’ Tarin flicked her indicator on, the clicking noise filling the car as she merged on to the motorway. ‘You seem to be forgetting that she’s in a clinical facility getting professional help. Which is great, obviously. Let them worry about how to deal with depression. You’re going to visit your friend, remember? Yes, she’s a patient, but she’s not your patient. So for God’s sake, don’t treat her like one.’
We got to Gwillim House a little after 2 p.m. It looked more like a residential community centre than the hospital I’d been expecting, which made me feel much better about Suzanne living there. At reception, a friendly Scottish woman called Yvette signed me in, talking too fast for me to really follow what she was saying. She led me down a corridor of magnolia walls and propped-open doors, taking it slowly because of my crutches, until we came to an empty room furnished with aggressively bright sofas.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Yvette said, then glanced at my leg. ‘If you can. I’ll go and tell Suzanne you’re here.’
Suddenly alone, I stood uncertainly in the doorway for a few seconds before hobbling over to the window, which looked out on to a large, beautifully landscaped garden. I pressed my forehead against the glass, taking in the flowerbeds and ornate, mosaic path winding away from the building and into the distance, trying to figure out why this garden was such a surprise to me. I felt the wedge of my crutch digging into my skin as I stood, thinking of gardeners and flowers and Suzanne and unexpected things.
‘I planted the irises,’ a voice at my side said. ‘Those blue ones.’
‘They’re pretty,’ I said, even though I could see at least three different blue flowers and I had no idea which ones she was talking about.
‘It’s not exactly subtle, as therapy techniques go,’ Suzanne said. Her voice was casual, musing, as if we were picking up a conversation we’d been right in the middle of. ‘Plant something, watch it grow. But you’re right – they are pretty.’
Keeping my forehead up against the glass of the window, I turned my head slightly so I was looking right at her. She smiled at me, the spontaneous, instinctive smile of a friend to a friend. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
My immediate thought was that she hadn’t changed at all. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a simple ponytail, slightly longer than I remembered but still the whiter shade of blonde that I had come to associate with her. Her eyes still sparkled, her smile still shone.
But after the first happy kick of familiarity, I registered that there was a slight strain in the corners of her mouth when she smiled; that she wasn’t wearing any make-up and her face was pale. Where her hair was pulled back at the sides of her face I could see darker roots that were almost, but not quite, hidden by the rest of the blonde. She was thinner than I remembered, the simple black T-shirt and grey zip-up hoodie she was wearing hanging slightly loose around her. Her neck, for so long framed by her dove necklace, was bare.
As I took all of this in, I could see her eyes searching my face and then dropping to my plastered arm and leg as she ran the same checks on me. We stood in silence for at least a minute, just looking at each other, each of us half smiling in the sudden awkwardness of reunion.
‘Last time I saw you, you had cuts all over your face,’ Suzanne said.
‘Last time I saw you . . .’ I began, then stopped. What was the right way to end that sentence? She looked at me, waiting. For God’s sake. Not even two minutes in and I’d already shoved my foot right into my mouth.
‘It’s OK,’ she said finally, a small smile hovering on her face. ‘I know. Do you want to sit down?’ She gestured to one of the sofas. ‘Can you sit down? With the leg, I mean.’
‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ I said, adjusting my hand on my crutch and then starting towards the sofa. ‘I’m used to it now.’
‘How much longer will it be before you can walk properly again?’ Suzanne asked. She sat down and then pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them close with both arms.
‘The cast will come off my leg in about a month,’ I said, settling myself back against the sofa. ‘And then I’ll have physiotherapy and stuff. But I get the one off my arm next week.’ I smiled. ‘Progress!’