“You’re the one who walked out on us.”
“I thought that you might actually get out of bed and start looking after your children. Instead you just shoved your head inside a bottle. And what’s wrong with Elsie? You’ve been letting her drink again.”
“He needs his father,” my mother hisses. She doesn’t look at me.
Dad clenches his fists and draws in a very long, slow breath. Mum stares at him, her eyes glistening. Their eyes remain locked until the doctor steps in.
“Excuse me. Your son . . .”
“For God’s sake, do what you have to,” my father says to Dr. Shaw. “Sort out the tube.”
“Okay, the problem is we’ll need to restrain him to do this. We managed to get some fluids in him last night via a drip, but he’s pulled all the tubes out, and now we can’t get near him. He’s very upset,” she says. “We need your permission to restrain him.”
“Restrain? There’s no way you’re touching my son. Let me speak to him. I’ll talk some sense into him,” Mum says.
“I’m afraid he’s asked not to see you. If you’re not able to give permission, we may have to resort to an involuntary admission.”
In the end my father gives permission.
Dr. Shaw explains that they will insert a feeding tube, which goes up his nose and down his throat into his stomach, and then they will pump liquid food into him.
“You’ll be gentle, won’t you?” I ask. Dr. Shaw nods.
The three of us stand in the corridor outside Dillon’s room and listen to Dillon scream and thrash about. Something metallic falls to the floor, and then I hear Dr. Shaw say, “Swallow, swallow. Keep swallowing.”
2
AFTER THREE DAYS, WE’RE FINALLY ALLOWED TO SEE DILLON. He has his own room away from the younger children so that he doesn’t upset them with his screaming. This means that I can talk to him without anyone listening. I need to know if he was telling the truth. I leave Mum in the hospital gift shop, and I run upstairs so I can get to Dillon first.
Dr. Shaw waves at me as I come up the stairs and takes me into Dillon’s room.
“I went down there,” he slurs. “And it was goooood. Come w’me. . . . And we can eat spaghettiiiii . . .”
I look at Dr. Shaw, confused.
“He’s been sedated, so he’s a bit woozy. It should be wearing off now, though. He pulled out his feeding tube and kicked a nurse in the groin as she tried to restrain him.”
“He’s never been violent, Dr. Shaw.” I feel like a mother defending her naughty child to the headmaster.
“Where’s your mother? Is she coming?” Dr. Shaw asks.
“She’s gone to the shop.”
Dr. Shaw hesitates and pulls me outside into the corridor.
“How are things at home? Are your parents separated?”
She studies my face. I know she’s looking for clues, just like the doctors did when Dillon and I stopped talking. She wants to know if Dillon stopped eating because of my parents. She won’t find anything in my face or in my voice. I keep my jaw clenched shut.
Before I have a chance to speak to Dillon alone, Mum walks up the corridor with a white carrier bag full of sweets and magazines.
“Mrs. Main, I’m sorry to say that we’ve had to sedate Dillon. I have to let you know that the CAMHS team will send him to a more secure unit if his behavior continues to be unmanageable without medication.”
“The what team? Can you speak English, please?”
“Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services.”
“Dr. Shaw,” my mother says loudly, “you’re part of this team, are you?”
“I am,” Dr. Shaw replies. “Look, spend some time with Dillon, and then perhaps before you leave, we can have a chat?”
“Fine,” Mum says, but I can already tell she has no intention of staying for a chat. She heads into Dillon’s room and starts talking nonstop about completely pointless stuff, like how warm it is, what a nice day for a walk in the glen it would be, how the birds have taken over the cathedral ruins.
Dillon barely looks at her. He lies in the bed, measuring his arms with his fingers and sighing. Eventually, he interrupts her to ask me how school is.
“It’s holidays,” I say.
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he replies. “Happy holidays.”
Later that night, I sneak out of my father’s flat and get a taxi to the hospital. I have to hide in the toilets for half an hour, but eventually I get into Dillon’s room and shake him awake. He smells of vanilla and stomach acid. The skin around his nose is red from where he ripped the feeding tube off.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” I whisper. “They’re going to lock you up.”
Dillon looks at me wearily. The blue light of the moon shimmers through the window, making everything look dusty gray.
“I’m already locked up,” he replies, rolling away from me. I walk around to the other side of the trolley bed.
“What you said before about Mum, is it true? Did you just make it up? Do you mean Dad was having an affair?”