I roll my eyes. ‘Calm down! It’s just a shower, Mum.’
But she grins back at me and I think maybe she’s right. I do feel a tiny bit of my old self fighting to come through. I do feel a bit better.
I hurry past Akash’s room without looking at the door. I ignore the sharp smell of paint that stings my throat. In the bathroom, I peel off my pyjamas and get straight into the shower. Then I relax as warm water glides over my skin.
It feels like a huge weight has been lifted, telling Mum about Josh.
I close my eyes and imagine lying next to him on his bed, his body pressing against mine. But what does he think about what happened, I wonder? I shampoo my hair; the smell of orange and cinnamon comforts me. I lather myself in too much shower gel and imagine the soap washing my illness away.
My tears merge with the water and my heart skips beats, as if it’s forgotten how to work.
Psychosis. It’s such a big word. Amid all the noise of that word, how will I ever find myself again?
Then I think about Akash. My brother. He was my rock. Losing him is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. But somehow I need to piece myself back together. I understand that now.
The skin on my fingertips is wrinkled by the time I get out of the shower. I wrap a soft towel round me and walk over to the mirror. I can’t see myself because it’s misted over. But I press my fingertips against the glass and draw circles for faces, dots for eyes, curves for smiles. I swallow. I want to be happy but maybe Mum’s right. Perhaps I’ve been searching in all the wrong places.
Neena Gill, I write in the middle of all the smiles. Sometimes you need to remind yourself who you are, don’t you?
My bedcovers have been changed when I return from the bathroom. It’s like Mum was just waiting to pounce on them! The window’s open, a fresh breeze blowing in. My phone’s charging on my bedside table. I pull on the jeans and T-shirt that Mum’s put out for me on the bed, wrap my hair up in a towel and check my phone.
I have a message from Josh. My heart races.
So glad you’re OK! Can’t wait to speak to you! x
My heart races as I message him back.
Just waiting for some privacy …
When I look up, Mum is standing in my doorway. Talking of privacy … But, instead of sighing, I smile. How can I be angry with her, after everything we’ve all been through?
‘Dad’s back and I’ve made halva,’ she says. ‘Have a little, huh? Almonds. Good for your brain.’
I laugh, and it feels so good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Mum looks at me in surprise.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘Just strange how some things never change,’ I try to explain. ‘Even when everything else does.’
She looks at me blankly. ‘So you’ll have some halva?’
I laugh again. ‘Yes, yes! I’m coming!’
Dad’s already sitting at the dining table, staring out into the garden. He’s shaved and he’s wearing his work suit. Although he looks smart, his face is thin and his eyes are puffy. The pungent scent of his aftershave has mixed with the smell of fried almonds and sultanas. He glances at me, and smiles.
‘You’re looking stronger, betee,’ he says. ‘Come, sit. I’ll make tea.’ He gets up and fills a teapot.
When he returns, he sits next to me instead of in his usual place. He fills three mugs with steaming tea, tops them with milk, hands me one. There’s something different about his body language. He seems looser, more open. Every time I glance at him, he smiles at me kindly.
Mum serves up the halva in big bowls. I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat. The halva is smooth and buttery; Mum’s drizzled honey on top and it melts into the semolina. I feel hungrier as I eat, and it warms me. This seems like the most normal thing I’ve done in a while, sitting here with my mum and dad, drinking tea, and it feels really good. But it still feels like there’s a glass screen separating me from the rest of the world.
After a few minutes, Mum fiddles with the honey pot. She looks at me nervously. ‘Dad has to go back to work today,’ she says. ‘And I need to visit the hospital to drop off some milk and clean clothes.’
‘I’m sorry, Neena,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve had a lot of time off. But, if you need anything, you can call me.’
I look from Mum to Dad, back at Mum again. Why are they treating me like a baby? ‘I don’t need to be watched twenty-four hours a day!’ I say. ‘Please. Go to work. Go to the hospital. I’m tired anyway. I’m going to rest.’ I also realize this is my chance to finally call Josh.
‘But will you … be OK? On your own?’ Mum asks. ‘I thought about asking Jasmine to come over. I should have. I can still ask her – she won’t mind …’
‘No! I don’t need a babysitter!’
Mum reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. She takes a deep breath. ‘OK. If you’re sure? And it does give you a chance to speak to your psychologist openly.’ She glances at her watch. ‘She’ll be here in half an hour.’
Psychologist. Ah. I’d forgotten she was coming, though Mum mentioned it yesterday. The Home Treatment Team are stepping back a bit as they’re happy with my progress; a psychologist called Laura is taking over. We’ll have a few sessions at the house and then I’ll go to the hospital to see her. But I don’t want to see her at all; I just want to speak to Josh, to see him, although I know that’s not possible right now. And I do know that I need some professional help.
‘I promise you I’ll be OK, Mum.’
She nods. ‘Right. I really need to get back to the hospital. The baby will be hungry soon.’
I try to picture this baby, imagine him in Mum’s arms. It doesn’t feel real.
‘Is he … OK?’ I ask. I know I haven’t asked about him since I’ve been home, and I’ve tried so hard to ignore him, but suddenly it’s really important that I know he’s OK. He’s my brother.
‘Stronger every day,’ Mum says, welling up. ‘He’s in the right place.’
‘And … what’s his name?’
Mum’s wiping her tears. It’s Dad who speaks, softer than air.
‘We’ve been calling him something, but we want to know what you think. We want to call him Raja – Raj for short. It means radiance. And in Arabic it means hope, which I really like. What do you think?’
Raj. Hope.
I picture this tiny thing the size of my hand; imagine him curling up in my arms, against my chest. I imagine the silky feel of his skin. Will he smell of soap and talc? All fresh and new? Will he have a whole head of black hair, like Akash had when he was born? Will his face be shaped like a heart, like mine was?
Raj.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That sounds … OK.’
Once Mum and Dad are gone, I plan to phone Josh, but I find myself standing outside Akash’s room instead. My heart’s racing. My eyes are fixed on the closed door; it’s like a whiteboard that’s been rubbed clean. Anxiety is creeping up my neck. I do my deep breathing.
Raj.
I have a brother called Raj.
But to me this will always be Akash’s room. Won’t it?
I take a very deep breath, press down the handle and push open the door.
I’m not prepared for the brightness. It winds me. Fresh white paint. Cream carpet. White crib and lampshade with tiny grey stars all over it. The brand-new, empty bookshelves.
Where is all of Akash’s stuff? I slam the door shut.
I rush to the kitchen, trying to catch my breath. I open the back door, run out into the garden and fling open the door to the shed. There they all are. His paintings. Just like Mum said they’d be. They’re neatly stowed in a huge portfolio.
I step into the shed and close the door. I carefully flick through the paintings and stop at my favourite one – of a man’s face. It’s abstract, harsh triangles spreading from the man’s head in bright colours. Akash loved Andy Warhol and he loved Picasso, and the painting has influences of them both. But, although the face itself is ang
ular, the eyes – and that’s the bit that gets me the most – are bright and soft and sleepy at the same time.
They are Akash’s eyes.
I sit on the floor and lean into the painting. I close my eyes and remember him in his bedroom, in front of his easel. I loved watching him paint. The way every stroke of the brush mattered. He’d get paint in his hair, on his cheeks, his arms. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was the picture, the curve of a petal, the exact colour of a leaf. And I loved the look on his face when he finished painting. Like he’d travelled round the world and come home again, as he always planned to do.
I vaguely remember Mum saying something in the hospital about realizing that Raj can never replace Akash. And, while I want to believe that, I’m still scared.
I worry that everyone will forget my brother. I worry that his memories will fade if I don’t grip hold of them extra tight.
My phone buzzes, pulling me away from my thoughts. I take it out of my pocket, expecting it to be Josh, but it’s Fi. I haven’t spoken to her since the hospital.
‘I’m glad you called,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking about Akash. He’s really gone, isn’t he?’
Fi takes a sharp breath in. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, he is. You OK?’
I swallow. I’m not ready to talk about the psychosis yet, so I try to concentrate on Akash. ‘I don’t know. I just … I don’t want to forget him. Ever.’ I’m trying to make sense of everything I’m feeling, but it’s overwhelming again. Will it always be this way?
‘I’ve been thinking though, Neens. And … he’d want you to live your life. Not his. You know?’
We’re quiet and I keep staring at the painting. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I think I just needed to live his before figuring out my own.’
‘Yeah, I know. I know, Neens … Listen, I … I actually need to talk to you about something. Your mum and dad too. So I’m going to come over this evening. I just wanted to warn you. But I’ll … I’ll see you then.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ I ask, thinking about my earlier conversation with Mum.
But the phone is dead. Fi’s already gone.
I stare at my phone. I want to call her back, but I haven’t got time right now. A burst of nerves flutters through my chest. It’s time for my session with the psychologist.
Laura, my psychologist, looks like an actress. She has clear pale skin and thick black hair that falls around her face and shoulders in shimmery waves. Her eyes are golden brown flecked with yellow and her cheeks are rosy. She smiles and tilts her head a lot. Her voice is soothing.
She seems really nice, but I pace the living room, up and down by the window, like Mum does. Well, like Mum used to do; she seems much calmer lately. Laura watches quietly for a few minutes before indicating the sofa beside her.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Neena,’ she says. ‘It’s not easy, but try to relax. This should feel like an informal, helpful chat. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to support you.’
I force myself to sit.
‘Neena,’ she continues. ‘You had a psychotic episode. You got very ill. Do you understand that?’
I pull my legs up on to the sofa and hug them. I picture the bridge at the end of town. I remember climbing up on to it. Looking out at the endless darkness.
‘I saw my brother,’ I say, my voice weak. I close my eyes and fight the tears. I press my face into my knees.
‘Yes,’ Laura says. ‘It was a hallucination. That can happen during a psychotic episode.’
I keep my head on my knees. My heart’s beating so fast. ‘It felt so real,’ I tell her.
‘Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?’ she asks.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. ‘Scared. Weak. Hopeless. I can’t believe this has happened; I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Open your eyes, Neena,’ Laura says. ‘Look at me.’
I open them a little. The room is so bright. Her hair and face are so bright. But all I feel inside is darkness.
‘Everything you’re feeling is normal, I promise you,’ she says. ‘So don’t be embarrassed. One in four people suffer from some form of mental illness. It can happen to any one of us.’
I peer at her. She’s so beautiful and happy. She doesn’t look like the type of person who could possibly suffer from any sort of mental anguish.
‘It’s an illness, Neena. Things go wrong with our body; they can also go wrong with our minds. And I’m here to help you get better. We’re going to overcome this together.’
Help. Better. Overcome. I shake my head. It all sounds impossible. ‘I’ve always worried more than other people,’ I explain. ‘I don’t think I can be fixed.’
She tilts her head. ‘I promise you you’re not the only one who worries – we all do. Some people worry less, and some much more than you. But it’s hard feeling this way so be kind to yourself, OK?’
I take a deep breath and nod.
‘Are you feeling anxious now?’ Laura asks.
‘Yes. No. I mean, not really, not like I was. But I still feel like there’s something stuck in my throat. And everything feels … difficult. And distant.’
Laura nods. ‘That feeling of something being stuck in your throat is anxiety. So, as well as talk therapy, we’ll look at relaxation techniques, cognitive behavioural therapy and mindfulness. We all get anxious from time to time – the important thing is learning to manage it. Does that sound OK?’
I nod.
‘Would you like to tell me a bit about your relationship with your brother?’ she says.
Now my throat really tightens. I wasn’t expecting to talk about him so soon. Laura gently presses her fingers over her notes as she waits. She looks so perfect, so together. I’m not sure she’ll get it.
After Akash disappeared – no, he didn’t disappear, he died … After Akash died, Mum told me the world is divided. There are those who have lost someone they love and then there’s everyone else. And ‘everyone else’ will never understand those who have lost someone, however hard they try.
‘Do you have a brother?’ I ask her.
She smiles. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever lost anyone?’
She nods. ‘I was especially close to my grandmother.’
OK, so maybe she understands. ‘He looked out for me,’ I say. ‘I mean, he really cared. And he just got me. I didn’t need to explain things to him.’
Laura nods. ‘You miss that?’
I try to swallow the hard lump in my throat. ‘Yeah.’
‘Do you feel like anyone cares about you now, Neena?’
‘I’ve got Mum and Dad. And a couple of friends from school. But it was different with him. Like I said, he just got me. We were going through everything together.’
‘Is there anyone who understands you now?’ Laura’s voice is as gentle as a lullaby.
And yet a razor-sharp pain shoots across my chest. ‘Maybe one person,’ I say, thinking about Josh. ‘But it’s complicated.’
There’s silence for what feels like the longest time. Laura doesn’t write anything on her notepad. She just sits, and so do I.
After a while, Laura says, ‘Tell me more about your brother. What was he like?’
Where do I begin? ‘He was generous. And kind. He never judged anyone, you know? I loved that about him. He used to buy me little presents to help me – art books and books about being calm. That sort of thing. And he was funny.’ I smile. ‘Everyone wanted to be his friend. And he wasn’t afraid to speak up for what he thought was right.’ I take a deep breath, realizing my cheeks are wet. ‘He really was everything to me.’
Laura has a small crease along her forehead.
‘We still don’t know what happened to him,’ I say. ‘Not really.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Laura says, glancing down at her notes.
‘They said he might have slipped into the river. Fallen. Or that he could’ve been pushed.’ I dig my nails into my thighs through my jeans. ‘Or …’ I whisper. My s
kin crawls. ‘That he jumped.’ It feels such a relief to finally say that to someone. ‘I couldn’t believe any of it though … I never saw his body after the police found it, though Mum and Dad said I should. I … I didn’t want to believe it.’
Laura nods. ‘That’s understandable.’
‘I didn’t even go to his wake. I … I couldn’t handle the thought of him jumping.’
Her eyes are soft. ‘You were close. That must be a very difficult thing to imagine.’
‘I just wish I’d gone with him that night,’ I say, my voice breaking. My throat and chest tighten so much I can barely breathe.
Laura looks confused.
‘He … he wanted me to go to the party with him. If I’d gone, if I’d been there, I could’ve … stopped it all happening. I could’ve stopped him drinking so much. I could’ve stopped him climbing on to the bridge. I could’ve talked to him if he wanted to jump … I could’ve brought him home …’ My throat is so tight it hurts. I try to breathe through all the pain, speak through it. ‘He wanted me to go with him. If I’d just gone …’
Tears pour out of me. They drip on to my jeans like fat raindrops.
Laura moves a little closer to me on the sofa. Her perfume smells of roses and peaches. ‘It’s not your fault, Neena,’ she says.
‘But if I’d been there … If I’d just …’ I cry and cry.
‘Look at me,’ she says after a while. ‘Listen to me.’
I look at her. There are tears in her eyes too. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she says.
I close my eyes. Let more tears come.
‘Look at me again,’ she says. This time, I look her in the eye.
‘It’s not your fault, Neena,’ she says. ‘It really isn’t.’
And, for the first time, I begin to believe it.
Josh calls me before I have a chance to call him. ‘Can you talk?’ he asks. His voice is low and serious. ‘I’m on lunch.’
I’ve been asleep – the session with Laura exhausted me. It was strange: I felt dizzy and drowsy and literally stumbled to my bed the moment she left. With the phone pressed to my ear now, I sit up. It’s so good to hear his voice, but I’m also really nervous.
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 21