“Can’t you say something?” she said.
He shook his head, unable to lift it. “I thought I had time. I was always going to stop bingeing and get fit the next Monday, and the next Monday, and the next. Then Michael, and … and, I don’t know … I couldn’t let it be for nothing. I had to make some kind of sense, some good, come of it. He died and I couldn’t save him, so I wanted to save myself, save what remained of this family. Then I realized I could save others, too, while I was at it.” His head jerked up. “Michael saved me. My own son saved me, and believe me, if I could have it any other way, if I could bring him back and trade my life for his, I would in a heartbeat.” He pressed his fist to his mouth, afraid he would get sick, would cry and not be able to stop.
She crossed the floor and hugged him, pressed his head to her rib cage. Astonished, he wrapped his arms around her waist. She was all loose bones against him. He tightened his hold.
*
Days later, amid the gray and drizzle, Billy hurried toward the Red Café, reminding himself again of the woman’s name. Nell Riordan. She had phoned him at the factory, asking to meet, saying she’d seen him on Matters with Maeve. “Your courage, the way you just told out everything and how much it all means to you, it inspired me, so it did,” she’d said. He’d felt a rush of pleasure, but also a small disturbance. He’d been able to talk freely about the hard things in public, in front of tens of thousands of viewers, and yet there was so much he couldn’t bear to tell himself, or those around him.
He entered the café, wondering again why exactly this Nell Riordan wanted to meet. His heart surged. A part of him couldn’t help but hope she was here to tell him she’d felt suicidal and his appearance on the show had swayed her. If he could just know with certainty that what he was doing mattered. That he was making a difference. That he’d saved even one life in Michael’s name.
A woman waved from a table by the sunny yellow wall and stood up to greet him. Middle-aged, she wore her beige coat cinched tight at the waist and her face bloomed round and pretty. He pulled down on his tracksuit top—still in the habit of trying to cover himself.
They shook hands. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?” Billy asked.
“Not at all. I just got here.”
After some small talk about the traffic and her drive up from Glendalough, they studied their menus. Despite the wonderful waft of deep-fried, home-baked, vanilla, almond, and sweet, sweet cinnamon, Billy wasn’t all that hungry. Dessert, all his old favorites, no longer held the same power over him. These days, his hankerings were more for foods like the delicious salad and salmon he’d enjoyed at the Granary Restaurant. The nutritionist up at the hospital had assured him his taste buds and cravings would continue to change for the better.
She also said it wouldn’t take much to reignite his bad habits and send him right back to where he started, or worse. He couldn’t risk that, so now he avoided sugar whenever possible and had cut out everything deep-fried. Anytime he felt tempted, he reminded himself how those minutes of release and rapture felt like nothing next to the awfulness he experienced once he came off that high, stuffed and sickened.
Nell seemed in no hurry to break the silence. Unable to stand it, he lowered his menu to the table. “So, you wanted to chat?”
“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to thank you so much for what you’re doing, all the people you’re inspiring and the lives you’re trying to save. You’ve shown me the importance of coming out of hiding and breaking the silence.” Her round cheeks turned scarlet. “I wondered, for your documentary, if you have anyone on board who tried…” Her eyes filled. “Who tried and survived.”
“No,” he said, barely breathing. She was exactly what the documentary needed. Wait till he told Adam Simon.
The waitress appeared. Nell licked her lips, her eyes darting over the menu. Billy ordered a pot of tea. “The same for me, please,” Nell said.
He felt she wanted more. “Feel free to order whatever you want, don’t hold back on account of me.”
“That’s okay,” she said. The waitress moved off and they smiled uneasily at each other. Impossible as it seemed, Nell’s cheeks burned harder. “I’d like to take part in your documentary, if that’s okay? I’m hoping it will help others to hear how I tried, and how I’m glad I survived.”
“It will, absolutely.”
Her hand tugged at her hair. “An overdose, that’s what I did. We had painkillers lying around the house for years, from the dentist as well as the doctors. I put the whole lot into me, washed them down with vodka. If my husband hadn’t found me when he did…”