By the time we get home I’m in such a state that
Matthew calls Dr Deakin, who offers to come out. Even for him I can’t stop crying. He asks about my medication and, when Matthew tells him that I haven’t been taking it regularly, Dr Deakin frowns and says that if he prescribed it, it’s because I need it. Under his watchful eye I gratefully gulp down two of the pills and wait for them to take me to a place where nothing matters anymore. And while I wait, he asks me gentle questions, wanting to know what triggered my meltdown. I listen as Matthew explains about me barricading myself into the sitting room while he was at work and, when Dr Deakin asks if there’s been any other worrying behaviour on my part, Matthew mentions that the week before I’d become hysterical because I thought I saw a huge knife lying on the side in the kitchen when in reality it was only a kitchen knife. I sense them exchanging glances and they begin speaking about me as if I’m not there. I hear the word ‘breakdown’ but I don’t care because the pills have already begun to work their magic.
Dr Deakin leaves, urging Matthew to make sure I rest and to call him if I deteriorate further. I spend the rest of the evening lying drowsily on the sofa while Matthew watches television next to me, my hand in his. When the programme comes to an end, he turns off the television and asks me if there’s anything else worrying me.
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‘Just all the work I’m meant to do before school starts up again,’ I say, tears welling up in my eyes despite the pills.
‘But you’ve already done quite a lot of it, haven’t you?’
My lies have caught up with me. ‘Some, but there’s
still a lot to do and I’m not sure I’m going to get it done in time.’
‘Well, maybe you could ask someone to help you.’
‘I can’t, they’ve got enough of their own work to do.’
‘Then can I help?’
‘No, not really.’ I look at him hopelessly. ‘What am I going to do, Matthew?’
‘If you can’t get anyone to help and you can’t do it on your own, I don’t really know.’
‘I just feel so tired all the time.’
He smooths my hair off my face. ‘If you feel you can’t cope, why don’t you ask to work part-time?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’ll be too late for them to find someone to replace me.’
‘Nonsense! If something happened to you, they’d
have to.’
I stare at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that no one is indispensable.’
‘But why did you say something might happen to me?’
He frowns. ‘I was making a point, that’s all – as in, if you broke a leg, or got run over by a bus, they’d have to replace you.’
The Breakdown
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‘But you said it as if you knew something was going
to happen to me,’ I insist.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cass!’ His voice is sharp with annoyance and I flinch, because he doesn’t often raise his voice. He catches the flinch and sighs. ‘It’s just a figure of speech, OK?’
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. The pills are chasing the panic
away, bringing sleep in its place.
He puts his arms around me and draws me to him
but it feels awkward.
‘Just think about speaking to Mary about going back part-time,’ he says.
‘Or not going back at all,’ I hear myself say.
‘Is that what you want, to stop working altogether?’
He moves back and looks down at me in puzzlement.
‘On Thursday, you said you were looking forward to
going back.’
‘It’s just that I don’t know if I’ll manage to do
everything that’s expected of me, not when I’m feeling like this. Maybe I could ask for a couple more weeks off and go back in the middle of September, once I’m feeling better.’
‘I doubt whether they’d allow that, not unless Dr
Deakin says you’re not fit to go back just yet.’
‘Do you think he would?’ I say, even though there’s a part of me telling me to stop, to remember the phone calls, to remember Jane, to remember that I’m not safe at home. But I can’t hold on to those thoughts long enough to focus on them.
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‘He might. Let’s just see how you get on with the
pills you’re taking. There’s two weeks until school starts.
Once you’re taking them on a regular basis, you’ll probably feel a lot better.’
FRIDAY AUGUST 28th
The front door closes behind Matthew. From the
bedroom I listen as he starts the car, drives to the gate and disappears down the road. Silence settles on the house. Struggling into a sitting position, I reach for the two little peach-coloured pills lying on my breakfast tray and scoop them into my mouth, washing them down with orange juice. Ignoring the two slices of toasted brown bread, sliced down the middle and arranged artistically rather than just stacked, and the little bowl of Greek yogurt and granola, I lie back against the pillows and close my eyes.
Matthew was right. Now that I’m taking the pills