As I’m putting thegalatobourekoin the fridge, I realise I went through something very similar, after Leo died. I kept thinking it was up to me to stop anyone else I cared for dying. Not by doing anything practical – my compulsion was endlessly doing my thirteen times table before bed. Some nights, I didn’t sleep at all. That’s how obsessed I got.
Thank God my parents found me a therapist who specialised in grief for children. I was younger, and I grew out of it. But it hasn’t occurred to anyone that Pen’s problem might be just as serious – after all, doesn’t everyone get anxious around exams?
Mark returns just as I’ve finished tidying up the kitchen.
‘I’ve got the gin,’ he says, putting the bottle on the counter. He looks at me. ‘You okay?’
‘I think so.’ Except, as soon as I’ve said it, I suddenly realise I’m not. ‘She’s been misdiagnosed this whole time, and I feel so bloody guilty.’
‘Why?’
‘If I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own stuff, I would have seen that something was wrong. At the very least, I could have checked how she was getting on with her anti-depressants. Turns out she stopped taking them because they gave her side effects, and she can’t see her doctor now for a couple of weeks.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. You’ve had a lot on your plate. It’s been the perfect storm for her – Yan’s focused on the restaurant and Tig on the wedding.’
‘It’s funny, everyone always thinks the youngest child ends up the brattiest and most spoiled, but Tig takes that trophy in our family, while Pen just gets … forgotten.’ I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘I was twelve when she was born. I moved out when she was six. And Tig left when Pen was ten. She’s more like an only child. Getting on with things by herself, not assuming anyone around her will help.’
The lump in my throat gets worse. Mark closes the distance between us and wraps me in his arms. I lean into his comforting warmth and take deep, calming breaths until the urge to cry subsides.
His chin is resting on the top of my head, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it, he just let’s mebe.
After a few moments, he says, ‘I bet I could make you feel better.’
‘How?’
‘I could give you a long, slow, comfortable screw.’
I pull back, smiling in spite of my tears.
‘Oh my God,howlong have you been planning that joke? Did you buy sloe ginjustso you could say that?’
He tries to look offended. ‘I happen to like sloe gin.’
‘Why don’t you ask me later when Theo’s here.’
He grins. ‘You are a wicked, wicked woman.’
‘Only because you’ve corrupted me.’
In my room, I open up my laptop. I want to get the ball rolling with Rich’s dad. And the obvious place to start is with an email to Rich.
I tap out a quick summary of what I learned today and what Pen’s current and past treatment has been. The waiting time to see Dr Benson can be as long as a year, but I’m hoping he can squeeze her in sooner.
When I reread it, the email feels a little cold. I’m asking Rich a favour, after all. I ask him how he is and tell him I would appreciate any help he can offer, even if all his dad can do is recommend another OCD expert.
I hit send, then lie back on the bed. Inevitably, I start to think about Rich.
If he hadn’t left his phone at home that day, I would be engaged to him now. I let the thought sit for a while, testing my feelings like I would a wobbly tooth. Would I be a blissful bride-to-be? I know the answer immediately, and it shocks me.
No.
What did Mark say earlier?Some people aren’t cut out for marriage.
Am I one of those people?
At least Mark knows that about himself. Is there a chance I’m the same, but I’m just too chicken to admit it?
Rich and I were together five years, and although we always talked about a future together, we never specifiedquitewhat that future would look like. Neither of us ever talked about kids, for example. Was that just because it didn’t occur to us, or was it more conscious than that? A couples’ counsellor would have a field day with us.
