‘I’m sorry,’ Josh says, reaching for my hand. ‘I’ll call you later?’
I still can’t speak. My mouth won’t work. Even my hand feels floppy, like it’s not my hand at all. I try to squeeze his fingers to tell him I love him, but my fingers don’t seem to work either. Nothing works. My eyes are too heavy to keep open.
I close my eyes; slip back into sleep. Back into my dream.
The church is quiet. The church is cold. It’s winter in the church. We’re in the front row: Mum and me.
I’m wrapped up in layers of black clothes: black dress and tights, jumper, coat, scarf, gloves, long black boots. But still my face is frozen from the cold. I can’t blink. I can’t move my lips to speak.
Around us, a sea of black. Heads bowed.
Out of the window, the actual sea. It’s summer out there. The sky is bright and the sun is making everything shimmer. The church floats steadily on glimmering water.
Ding. Ding. Ding. The church bells ring.
I manage to move my neck enough to look up at Mum. I touch the thick black cardigan she’s wearing over her black salwar kameez to get her attention. But she doesn’t turn to look at me. She’s frozen too.
Ding. Ding. Ding. The church bells ring.
Footsteps echo through the church. It takes a while, but slowly we all turn to face the aisle. It’s Dad. He’s dragging a huge casket towards the front of the church. His black suit is hanging off him, far too big; his heavy black coat drags along the floor. His face and body are thin and frail. Finally, he reaches the altar.
Ding. Ding. Ding. The church bells ring.
Dad falls to his knees and presses his head against the casket. There’s movement around the church. Cries. Moans. Dad looks up. His hands are blue-black. His eyes are red and bulging.
Ding. Ding. Ding. The church bells ring.
Row by row, everyone visits the casket. They silently wipe tears from their faces. Then it’s our turn. I hold on to Mum’s arm as we walk to the front. Our legs are so stiff it takes a while. When we finally reach the front, we peer into the casket.
It’s empty.
Mum falls to the floor. Her frozen face cracks all over and she lets out a wail. I shiver. I shake so hard that Mum takes my hand to calm me. Dad puts his arms round us both. We hold on to him as we stumble back to our seats.
Ding. Ding. Ding. The church bells ring.
The low hum of the organ vibrates through the air. Out of the window, waves crash and calm, crash and calm. And I spot Akash there, swimming in the ocean, his body strong against the tide. Alive! I press my palm against the window and try to open my mouth to call him. But my lips won’t move.
Ding. Ding. Ding. The church bells ring.
The organ drones on. Through the ringing and the droning, we hear the piercing cries of a baby. The church sways. People stumble. Fall. The empty casket slides back and forth on the altar. Water drip, drip, drips through the ceiling. It pours through the windows. The baby cries and cries.
We grasp hold of the pews as everything – as we – slowly sink.
I open my eyes to the same small sky-blue room. But now Dad’s here, standing next to the bed I’m lying in, his arms folded tight across his chest.
‘You’re not welcome here,’ he’s saying to someone. ‘I’ve asked you three times now. Please leave.’
I follow his gaze. He’s speaking to Fi, who’s sitting at the end of the bed, next to where Dr Evans is writing something on a clipboard. Fi stands up and adjusts her dress. It looks like she’s about to say something, but instead she nods, gives me a small smile, and leaves.
I glance around the room. Josh and his mum have also gone.
Dad sits down on the black chair next to me, and Dr Evans comes and stands next to him.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks. ‘You’ve been sleeping so well – Dad’s been waiting patiently all morning to see you.’
‘Neena, betee,’ Dad says, touching my arm. His face looks thin and his eyes look sore.
The dream comes back to me. The empty casket. The baby’s cries. ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Where’s Akash? Is he gone?’
Dad looks so sad. He nods.
‘And the baby?’ I ask. ‘Is the baby OK? And Mum?’
Dad’s eyes fill with tears as he nods. ‘The baby came last night. He’s in intensive care – very small and we just have to hope he’ll be OK.’ He looks very, very lost. But then he smiles. ‘Mum’s doing OK though. She’s still here, in the hospital, but very weak. She’ll visit as soon as she can.’
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The baby is OK. I want to sit up but I’m too exhausted.
‘Time for your medication, Neena,’ Dr Evans says.
‘Medicine? Am I sick?’
She nods. ‘Do you remember? You’ve been very ill, Neena. You’re in hospital.’ She helps me sit up and adjusts the pillows behind me. Dad stares at me like he’s looking at a ghost. I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I do feel ill, weak and tired and confused. So I swallow the tablets and Dr Evans leaves. I want to talk to Dad, ask him about the baby. But my eyelids are too heavy; I can barely keep them open.
‘Sleep,’ Dad says. He presses his hand against mine. ‘Don’t worry about anything, betee. You’re going to be OK. Everything will be OK.’
When I wake up again, Mum’s next to the bed. Mum! Where has she been? She’s stroking the back of my hand. The mattress I’m lying on is thin and hard. The sheets are rough. They smell of disinfectant. There’s a black chair next to the bed and it’s empty. Akash’s cap is on the bedside table.
‘Am I in Pakistan?’ I ask, remembering the film I once saw with Raheela. Have Mum and Dad taken me there?
Mum frowns. ‘No, my jaan! You’re in hospital.’
‘Oh!’ I say, remembering now. ‘Yes, of course.’
Images flash through my mind. The bridge. Dark sky. A car. A woman with a clipboard. Tablets. Josh’s arms round me. A sign: PSYCHIATRIC UNIT.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I ask Mum.
She continues stroking my hand. A bit of rough skin on her fingertip catches on mine. ‘You’re ill, my jaan,’ she says quietly. ‘Just rest.’
‘How long have I been here?’
Mum doesn’t look too well herself. Dark shadows hang from her eyes like half-moons. Her hair’s tied back messily, more grey than black, and she’s wearing a dark purple salwar kameez that’s too big for her. She peers at me like she’s in pain. I see that she’s in a wheelchair.
‘Mum! Are you OK?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘It’s OK, Neena. The baby, do you remember? He’s here … I’m still recovering from the birth, that’s why I’ve got a wheelchair.’
I nod. I vaguely remember about the baby. Dad said he’s doing OK.
‘You’ve been here since yesterday,’ Mum says, brushing some strands of hair off my face. ‘Resting mainly. I came to see you before, but you were very drowsy. They’re giving you something to help you sleep. You’re very tired. But I’m taking you home soon. I’ll look after you there.’
‘Home,’ I say. ‘That’ll be nice.’ I wish I was there right now.
Mum grasps my hand hard. Her eyes fill. ‘Oh, my jaan! What happened? How did it get to this?’
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ I tell her truthfully.
Her face is full of emotions that I don’t quite understand. Her chest rises and falls heavily. ‘When I had you, I felt like my life was complete. I thought I’d never want anything ever again,’ she says. She lets out a small laugh. ‘I know it sounds silly. But I had everything. My babies. You … and Akash.’
She stares into my eyes and my breath stops. I know she’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what I should say.
‘Maybe … Maybe a part of me was trying to replace Akash,’ she whispers. ‘It’s a terrible thing to say, but I thought I wouldn’t miss him as much if I had another child. That things might return to normal one day.’ She shakes her head. ‘I knew that wasn�
�t true deep down, that it wouldn’t bring him back. But I didn’t know what else to do … Can you understand that, Neena?’
I still don’t know what to say, so I just say: ‘Why am I here? What happened?’
‘You tried to jump off a bridge, Neena.’ Mum’s voice is so tight, so desperate, that for a moment I wish I could change it all, the lying, the hiding, the bridge. Josh.
But at the same time I don’t. ‘I was with Akash,’ I explain.
Mum looks away. Wipes tears from her cheeks. She doesn’t say anything for a while. Then she holds my hand again.
‘It was easier when you were younger,’ she says. ‘You always worried about things, but I knew how to reach you. And you talked – you always talked to me.’ She swallows. ‘I want to reach you now, Neena. Are you listening? Are you understanding me?’
I stare at her. I think I understand but I’m not sure. It’s all so confusing. ‘I don’t know. I’m just really tired,’ I say.
‘Oh, Neena, my jaan,’ she says. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. And that I love you. I need you.’
Dr Evans smiles and crosses her legs. Mum and I are sitting opposite her, me on a blue chair and Mum in her wheelchair. We’re in a room with peach-coloured walls and bright lights. It feels familiar. Mum’s hand is on my back, gently rubbing. It’s soothing.
‘We’ve had a good talk with your mum,’ Dr Evans says. ‘And we’re happy for you to go home; it’s a much nicer environment for you, rather than joining the main ward, and we can see you’ll get good support there.’ She brushes a hand through her short hair. ‘You’ve reacted well to the medication, so we’re pleased about that, and please remember you’re not alone. Our Home Treatment Team will visit you every day – we’ll monitor your medication and make sure you’re OK. And they will formulate a relapse plan with you.’
She looks at Mum. ‘With good support, I’m confident she’ll make excellent progress.’
Mum sighs. ‘That all sounds good,’ she says.
Looking back at me, Dr Evans smiles again. ‘When you’re ready, you’ll be offered CBT – cognitive behavioural therapy – where you’ll learn to challenge your thoughts to take control of your anxieties. We’ll also introduce you to relaxation methods and some talk therapy with our wonderful psychologist, Laura.’ She takes a breath and peers at me. ‘I know it’s a lot to take in, but how does that all sound to you? We’ll be available twenty-four hours a day. So if you feel anxious, and need to call us, you can at any time.’
I don’t really understand all she’s saying, but it seems to mean I can go home, so I nod.
‘So you’re happy to go ahead with that?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Mum says. She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Let’s go home, my jaan.’
I push Mum’s wheelchair as we follow Dr Evans down a long corridor with pale yellow walls. ‘Dad’s waiting in the car outside,’ Mum tells me. She’s carrying my overnight bag on her lap, which I didn’t even know I had with me. And I notice I’m wearing black jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt that don’t belong to me. They smell of Fi. ‘We’ll pick up some takeaway pizzas for dinner,’ Mum goes on.
I feel in a daze, far away, somewhere outside my body, but I nod along to everything Mum says.
We pass a few nurses and then we reach some double doors. Dr Evans punches in a code and the doors slowly open. We step out into a cafeteria area. There are shiny steel chairs and tables attached to the floor and a single vending machine in the corner. Through the windows I can see the outside.
‘So we’ll see you tomorrow,’ Dr Evans says, holding her hand out for Mum to shake. ‘And please remember – if you start feeling unwell or anxious, call us.’
Outside, warm air hits my skin. The sky is blue and bright, and so comforting after being inside. It’s a bit easier to breathe. Dad is waiting right outside the building, at the front of a huge car park, the car engine running. I climb into the back seat and Dad gives me a tired smile as he helps Mum get in next to me. She holds my hand tight. As we drive away from the hospital, I look back at the building like I’m in a dream.
I’m ill. That’s what everyone keeps telling me. And although I don’t want to believe them, I’ve got a horrible feeling they’re right.
As we join the main road outside the hospital, I turn my back on the building and look ahead. The world slides past as the car drifts along the road. Trees. People. Traffic. I press my forehead against the window. It’s all here, just as I left it, rows of shops and restaurants, people strolling in and out of them, the whole world continuing without me.
Nothing’s changed. But, at the same time, everything’s changed.
‘Things have changed a bit at home,’ Mum says, squeezing my hand.
I feel suddenly alert. ‘Can you hear my thoughts?’ I ask, panicked. What if something about Josh pops into my head?
‘What?’ Mum frowns. ‘No, betee. It’s just that …’ She trails off. Dad glances over his shoulder, nodding at her in encouragement. ‘Your little brother will hopefully be coming home soon, from hospital – just like you. So we had to prepare, make space for him. And Dad did that earlier today.’
‘Oh.’ I look into the distance. The noise of traffic grows louder. I’m still not really sure what she’s getting at.
‘We thought it’d be better to do it when you weren’t there,’ Mum says, but her voice is muffled. The noise of the traffic is drowning her out and taking up all the space in my head. My ears ring.
‘We kept everything,’ she continues. ‘And all his artwork – that’s for you. I’m going to put it all in the shed, safe, as soon as I get a chance. He loved doing his painting in there …’
The traffic gets quieter as I tune back in to Mum.
‘They’re all yours,’ she says. ‘Keep them in there, hang them up in your room, or maybe around the house. It’s up to you.’
My throat aches.
Akash’s room is gone.
Akash is gone.
The house smells of disinfectant and potpourri. I feel like I’ve been away for months. We take off our shoes in the hallway and Mum hugs me tight. She looks more like herself now that she’s out of the wheelchair, even though she’s weak.
‘I’m so glad you’re home,’ she says. ‘We can’t wait for you to meet your baby brother, but Dr Evans thinks you should take your time and get a bit better first. OK?’
I nod. Baby. I have a baby brother. Everything really has changed.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Dad says, handing me my holdall.
Mum smiles at me. ‘Are you hungry? I bought a carrot cake. Your favourite. Let’s all have a cup of tea together and then we’ll order pizza later. I need to go back to the hospital soon – I don’t want to leave him alone too long, it’s still early days …’ She suddenly looks shy, and hopeful. ‘Do you … do you want to know what we’ve called him?’
But my face must do something weird because she looks panicked and immediately backtracks.
‘It’s OK, Neena, don’t worry – if it’s all too much, we can just wait to introduce you properly.’
We walk up the hallway and I hover outside Akash’s room. Which isn’t Akash’s room any more. The door is shut.
Mum rubs my back. ‘You want to go in?’ she asks, sounding nervous.
I shake my head.
‘Whenever you’re ready. Come, let’s have tea.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ I say, looking at my bedroom door.
‘Of course, betee.’
I slip into my bedroom and shut the door. My room’s as it’s always been, just neater. Did Dad tidy my room? My desk is clear. My shoes are lined neatly against the wall. The bed is perfectly made. I touch the books on my shelf, my paints, my easel.
Then I sit on my bed and open up my overnight bag. I pull out Akash’s purple-and-yellow cap and press it against my face. It smells of cigarette smoke, and I wonder if it will always smell this way, of him. I
think about putting it on but I don’t. I bury it back in my dressing-table drawer.
And then, I don’t know what makes me do it, but I look under my bed. I find a grey wicker basket full of containers of food. Oh God. I remember that I believed I went on a picnic with Josh. I thought we ate this food. That he said he loved me. But that didn’t happen. All the food is here.
I don’t know what has happened, or what hasn’t. I can’t trust my memory.
Everyone’s right. I am ill.
I feel further along the bed. I find three empty bottles of whisky. I thought Akash was drinking them, but no. I now know that I drank these myself.
Akash is gone. My brother is gone. He’s been gone for … for a long time.
I feel a familiar urge to pick up my paintbrush, let everything I’m feeling out. But I’m tired. So tired. I sit down on my bed instead, thankful for the comfortable mattress and soft sheets. I hear Mum outside my bedroom, the creaking of the floorboard. But then her footsteps fade as she wanders back towards the kitchen.
I’m glad to be home, but the reality of everything is hitting me.
I lie down on my bed. My whole body aches. I want Josh. I want him to hold me, and I want to hold him. To hear his gentle voice. Feel him next to me.
I want Raheela, wish she was sleeping on the floor next to me, like she used to when we were kids.
I want Fi. I want her to tell me that I can fight all this. That I’ll be OK.
But, at the same time, I don’t want to see anybody. What must they think of me?
A howl leaves my body, dragging itself out from somewhere deep inside.
I climb under my duvet and press my face into my soft pillow.
And I will sleep to come.
I sleep all day and all night. Mum goes to hospital and comes back. She brings me tablets and pizza, boiled eggs and creamy porridge. I’m not hungry, but I eat everything and swallow my medicine to get her to leave. I want to be alone. I want to sleep. I do not want to talk. I do not want to think. Days pass.
I hear Mum and Dad in the corridor. Whispering. Rushing around. Dad doesn’t seem to be going to work. They talk about going to the hospital. He’s doing OK, they say. Feeding. Putting on weight. Mum makes shopping lists and reads them to Dad: milk, eggs, ready meals for the freezer; garam masala and fresh ginger in case she has a chance to cook. Nuts. Neena needs almonds: they’re good for the brain.
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 19