The front door opens and closes, opens and closes. But one of them is always here. The shower runs. The TV talks. The washing machine buzzes. Mum cleans my bedroom around me as I stare at the wall until I fall asleep again.
Even when it’s quiet, there’s no quiet in the house.
People come to see me every day. Strangers. Home Treatment Team. Different strangers every day. A tall lady with long dark hair and a deep, sleepy voice. A guy with no hair and a round stomach, who keeps telling me to smile … Mum gently pulls me out of bed to see them. She wraps my dressing gown round me and leads me to the living room. They’re always sitting on the sofa, sipping tea. ‘You’ve been through a lot,’ they all say. ‘Just take it a day at a time.’
I nod. It seems the right thing to do.
They talk to me about illness, about broken legs and broken minds, and how they really aren’t that different. Both take time to heal. They say I’ve had a ‘psychotic episode’ and tell me about the importance of positivity. I’m on the road to recovery, they say. They want me to talk. And they assure me that they’re listening. But it’s hard to talk when everything feels so heavy inside. My thoughts aren’t racing any more. Instead, they’re so slow they’re almost still, barely thoughts at all. Nothing feels real. All I want is sleep.
Then, one day, I hear Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen. My bedroom door is open, and they’re whispering loudly.
‘I just don’t understand!’ Dad says. ‘It’s been days now – what’s going on? All she does is sleep!’
‘She’s ill,’ Mum says. ‘It will take time.’
‘What kind of illness is this?’ Dad says. ‘She needs to get up. Get dressed. She’s not helping herself.’
‘It’s … it’s an illness of the brain,’ Mum says, and her voice is urgent now. ‘These things happen! And please, keep your voice down!’
I block out their voices. I don’t want to hear about how broken I am. I close my eyes tight.
In the seconds before sleep hits me, I think of Josh’s warmth.
‘You’ve been inside for four days,’ Mum says, crouching next to my bed. She slides her hand under the duvet and grips my fingers tight. ‘Come, sit in the garden with me. It’s a lovely evening. Fresh air will help.’
She’s left the bedroom door open and the smell of fresh paint is drifting in from the hallway. I try not to think about what it means, that sharp, new smell.
‘Tired,’ I tell her.
‘Raheela rang again,’ she says, her voice still upbeat. ‘Why don’t you let her visit? It will be good to see your friends.’
I get a waft of sweat as I pull the duvet tighter round me. I know it’s not Mum. It’s me. I’ve been here before. ‘Not ready,’ I say.
Mum is quiet. I wait for her to leave, but she keeps hold of my hand. After a few minutes, she squeezes my fingers so tight it hurts.
‘Come on, betee,’ she says, and her voice is desperate now. ‘You have to find strength inside. Dig deep, bring your strength to the surface.’
I don’t say anything. I don’t have any strength. I don’t have anything inside.
‘You think I find it easy whenever I go outside now?’ she continues. ‘Well, I don’t. Some days I want to hide in the house again. I want the world to continue without me. But I get up, get dressed and step out. Courage, betee. You must find your courage.’
I pull my hand away from Mum’s grasp.
‘Maybe … maybe we should get someone in to pray for you?’ she says. ‘Whatever this thing is, we can fight it together.’
‘Tired,’ I manage to say. I feel so drowsy. ‘Rest. I need rest.’ My body is heavy but I manage to turn over. I cover my head with the duvet. Close my eyes. I give in to the exhaustion. I let sleep take me.
I’m standing in our hallway at home, but it’s long, narrow, too brightly lit. Like the hospital corridor. There are no family photos on the walls, no paintings, just chipped pale-yellow paint. I’m wearing an extravagant salwar kameez, the kind you’d wear to a wedding: a red silk dress embellished with jewels; shimmery gold trousers fitted at the ankles. My feet are bare. Live music is playing, thrumming through the house: the tuck-tuck of a tabla and the soft tinkle of a tambourine in the background.
People move around me but I’m perfectly still. Their mouths open and close as they talk and laugh, but I can’t hear them. All I hear is the music, the beat of the drum. Tuck-tuck-tuck. Like my heartbeat.
My eyes are fixed on the doorway at the end of the corridor.
Josh. He’s looking at me. Grinning. He stretches his arms and holds on to the top of the door frame. He lifts himself up, swings in the air, and I see his gold embroidered salwar kameez. The tabla beat gets louder, faster. My heart races.
I try to walk towards Josh but my feet are stuck. I try to call him but no voice comes out. I peer around, desperate for help, but no one’s paying me any attention. I try to grab hold of Mum’s friend, Aunty Roxanna, from our old neighbourhood. But my hands slip through her arms. She’s a ghost.
Or am I?
I look back at Josh, but I can’t see him properly any more – there are too many people in the way. I keep trying to move my legs, my feet. I try to call out to him. Wait for me, I want to say. I’ll find a way to reach you.
Next to the doorway, Mum and Dad are shaking hands with people. Mum’s slim, like she used to be, and she’s dressed in an embroidered full-length pink skirt suit and heels. Round her neck is a silver dupatta. She glances at me but then quickly looks away. Dad’s wearing a suit like he wears to work, but he has a pair of gold khussa on his feet, with tips that curl upwards.
The doorway sways. I catch a glimpse of Josh. He holds on to the frame and stumbles.
The music gets even louder, faster. Tucktucktucktucktucktuck tucktucktuck. The tambourine bashes against the sound of the drum.
And then Josh fades, ghost-like, translucent. He disappears.
The crowd turn to face me. Their outfits shimmer; their jewellery glistens. Gifts appear in their hands, wrapped in shiny paper and ribbon in red, green, blue.
The drumming stops.
Aunty Roxanna, who’s much older than Mum, is holding a box of mithai. She presses her hand against my head – a blessing – and smiles her toothless smile. Then she opens the box and takes out a golden ball of the sweet dessert. Pushes it into my mouth. I bite into the soft, gooey sweet. It’s sickly and stings my throat. Everyone cheers.
I realize that this is a wedding. And I’m the one getting married.
Where Josh stood minutes ago, a guy appears. He has golden brown skin, like mine, and he’s wearing a man’s version of my outfit. Red and gold. Long tunic over trousers. He has the same hair as Josh, curled up into a wave at the front, but his is black.
My clothes suddenly feel too heavy.
The tuck-tuck of drums starts again. Dad starts clapping. Everyone joins him. I stare at Mum, my chest bursting from all the things I want to say to her. Help me, I say with my eyes. Please. But she just smiles. There’s a huge gush of wind and her dupatta flutters violently; it extends from her neck and waves like a flag, as if she herself is the pole.
‘Josh,’ I say, opening my eyes. I expect it to be dark outside – it feels like I’ve only been asleep for a little while. But it’s light. Morning. The next day.
‘Jaan?’ Mum says. She’s sitting on a dining chair next to my bed, wearing a nightie. Her duvet’s wrapped round her legs. It looks like she’s been there all night.
I cover my mouth with my hands and stare at her. Did she hear me? Does she know?
‘What did you say?’ she asks, her voice sleepy.
‘I … I thought you’d be at the hospital …’ I say, wishing I could be alone to call Josh.
She yawns. ‘Dad’s gone this morning. I’ll go a bit later …’ She closes her eyes again.
I relax a bit. I don’t think she heard anything.
But now, like old times, all I can think about is Josh. His soft green eyes, his dark brown ha
ir, his sweet smell. I remember our lunchtimes beneath the willow tree, his lips against my ear, the warmth of his breath, his touch. And I remember how tightly he held my hand when we were standing in that long yellow corridor at the hospital.
I’ve been avoiding seeing anyone, but I’m now desperate to talk to him. And, as I look at Mum, I know that I can’t lie any more.
‘I have to tell you something,’ I say, before I lose my nerve. ‘And you’re not going to like it.’
Mum opens her eyes. Her gaze doesn’t quite meet mine. ‘Is this about your boy?’ she says, and her voice is hard even though she’s whispering.
My skin turns cold. I sit up. ‘You know?’
‘Of course I know! I’m your mother. I know my own daughter!’
My body feels weak. I pull my duvet tightly round me. ‘I can’t believe you know. When? How?’
Mum takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve suspected for a while,’ she says, looking down at her lap. ‘I noticed a change in you. Little bursts of joy, like I hadn’t seen since … since before everything.’ She looks up at me now. ‘And I thought, “Oh dear. That girl is in love.”’
I nod. Tears sting my eyes. ‘His name’s Josh,’ I say, trying to hold on to my bravery. ‘And you’re right, I love him.’
Mum’s lips tighten. A deep frown creases her forehead. My stomach goes hard, the anxiety making my body tense up. But I know I need to finish what I have to say.
‘I know you and Dad want to take me to Pakistan this summer to get married,’ I say, as calmly as I can. ‘But that won’t “fix” me. I’m not going to go.’
Mum looks shocked. ‘Married? What?’
‘You don’t need to pretend, Mum. I heard you and Dad talking and I figured it out. I’ve watched the films. I’ve heard stories!’ The tears come now and I can’t stop them.
Mum covers her hand with her mouth. She comes to sit on the side of my bed, taking my hand in hers. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Neena,’ she says, her eyes also filling now. ‘We did want to take you to Pakistan,’ she says. ‘But for a holiday. Like we said. And I admit – we thought it might help you connect with our culture a bit more. We felt you were … lost … looking for answers in the wrong places. But marriage at such a young age? No, never, Neena!’
Mum seems so upset that I believe her. Have I got it all wrong? ‘So you weren’t going to trick me into getting married once we were there?’
Mum shakes her head. ‘No! I can’t believe you would think that. Have you been thinking this all the time?’
I nod and her face falls.
‘Oh, Neena, I wish you’d talk to me!’ Her face is full of so much pain. ‘I know we’ve been more traditional since Akash passed, but you’re too young to get married, and we want you to study first.’ She touches my cheek. ‘And to focus on getting better.’
I frown at Mum. ‘First? No, Mum, I don’t think you understand. What I’m saying is I never want an arranged marriage. It’s not for me.’
She sniffs. ‘It’s this boy, isn’t it?’
‘No! I’m not saying I want to marry Josh either. Just that I want to choose. One day. That arranged marriage stuff, it’s your culture, not mine.’
Mum’s lips are tight but she nods. ‘I understand.’
‘I’m really not trying to hurt you. And of course it’s part of my heritage. But I was born here. I should be allowed to choose what feels right for me.’
Mum nods again. ‘I know. And I always thought that way too. I wanted you to have a choice over everything, Neena,’ she says. ‘But your brother, he was “in love” too. Sneaking out. Fighting with us. That’s why we were arguing that night. He wanted to see her. She even came to the house – some nerve that girl’s got! I sent her away, but not before your dad saw her.’ Mum huffs. ‘If he’d found a nice girl, that would be different. She’s bad news. Took your brother down the wrong path. And I see that she’s after you too!’
I pull my hand away from hers. ‘Nothing is Fi’s fault, Mum. Any path Akash or I went down has been our own choice.’
Mum’s quiet now.
‘She loved Akash!’ I continue. ‘And he loved her. Maybe if you’d listened to him …’ It’s all coming out now and I don’t think I can stop it. ‘Maybe if you’d let him go he wouldn’t have been so upset that night, wouldn’t have got so drunk, and he wouldn’t have done it, he wouldn’t have –’
Mum lets out a deep, long wail. I gulp in air and cover my mouth with my hands. Tears drip down Mum’s cheeks, and mine too.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble through my tears.
But Mum looks down at her lap and nods. ‘No, no. You’re right. I think about that every day. If only … if only we hadn’t argued that night … But it was the drugs, all the drugs – we just wanted him to stop before something happened!’
She looks up and we stare at each other.
‘But he hadn’t taken anything that night, Mum. The … the report showed that. He’d been trying to change,’ I add, remembering Jay’s words.
But Mum shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know what to believe any more. Things were very bad at one point.’
I look down at my feet. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I say, but it makes sense now. It’s why Mum and Dad were so strict with him.
If only I’d gone to the party with him. If only I’d answered the phone later. If I’d been there to stop him getting so wasted, to stop him on the bridge …
Mum rubs her temples. ‘No, we wanted to protect you from all that, Neena. But we were beside ourselves with him. We … we’d tried everything. And I guess it seemed he changed when that girl came into his life. But you’re right. It was always there – we just didn’t see it, didn’t want to see it.’
We’re silent for a while. All this time, I’ve been angry with Mum and Dad. But now I see that there was so much I didn’t know, or understand. I lean forward and hug Mum. She hugs me back tightly.
‘Anyway …’ she says, when we finally stop hugging. ‘What do you want, betee? I don’t understand.’
‘Didn’t you ever have a crush, Mum? Someone you liked before Dad?’ It feels like a weird thing to say, but I need to make her understand.
‘Of course I did, Neena. All teenagers do. But you grow up, and you realize there’s so much more to love than “crushes”. We’re just trying to protect you.’
I press my hand against my heart. ‘I know, Mum. But you don’t need to protect me any more. I need to find my own way.’
My eyes fill now because I’m realizing the truth of what I’ve just said. Mum’s eyes dart around my face. She looks very worried. ‘Shhhhh,’ she says. ‘It’s OK.’ And her eyes soften and she reaches out and touches my arm. ‘I want you to be happy more than anything, my jaan. And healthy.’
I take some deep breaths. I just want her to hug me again.
‘No one’s going to force you into anything. Let’s forget about the marriage stuff, until you want to get married one day? And then we can talk and I promise I’ll listen. Does that sound OK?’
I nod. Mum looks as relieved as I am.
‘One more thing,’ I say, ignoring the nerves making my stomach flip. ‘I want to meet Josh over the next few days. But I don’t want to lie any more. I don’t want to hide.’
Mum frowns a bit. But she nods. ‘OK. But don’t tell your dad.’
My heart sinks. ‘More secrets? Is that really the answer?’
‘No, my jaan, it’s not. But this … this would be too much for him right now. These things, they take time. I’ll work on him. Until then, this is my secret, not yours – you don’t need to worry. Understand?’
I’m still not convinced this is the answer, but I do feel a bit lighter. And it means I can see Josh. ‘Yes. Thanks, Mum.’
She manages a smile. ‘Be careful,’ she says. ‘The heart is a fragile thing.’
After our talk Mum gives me my morning medication and goes to the kitchen to make breakfast. I hear her singing hymns and praying for me loudly. Igno
ring her, I look for my phone, finally finding it in my bedside drawer. I haven’t messaged Josh or spoken to him for days – I’ve been too embarrassed and haven’t felt myself. Plus I’m still trying to make sense of everything. But I need to speak to him, I realize now. Need to know what he’s thinking and feeling.
I turn on the phone but it’s out of juice, so I plug it into the charger and try again. After a few minutes, it turns on and the messages come in. A few from Raheela, about five hundred from Fi, the rest from Josh. I scroll through his, reading the oldest first.
You OK Neens? Want to see you – your parents at hospital? Call when you can. X
Trying to call you but don’t think you got your phone?? J x
Let me know when safe to visit you – really want to see you. x
How are you today? Worried about you. Sorry keep messaging. Don’t know what else to do. Tried emailing too. Love, J x
Hi, Neens, really want to talk. You getting my messages? x
School’s crap without you. Teachers stressed. So much revision. Had lunch under willow tree on my own today. The tree misses you & so do I. J x
Josh’s messages make me smile and cry at the same time. He loves me. He’s missing me. I quickly message him to explain that I haven’t had my phone but that I’m OK and will call as soon as I can.
Mum comes back into the room with toast just as I send the message. She sits on the edge of the bed and watches me eat. ‘You’ll be up and about soon,’ she says. ‘You look a bit better today.’
I suddenly feel sweaty, sticky. When did I last wash? I push the empty plate into Mum’s hands. ‘I’m going to shower,’ I tell her, pushing my phone under my pillow and pulling the duvet off me.
Mum’s face brightens. ‘Oh, Neena,’ she says, smiling. She draws me in for a hug. ‘That’s wonderful, my jaan. Wonderful!’
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 20