The silence seems too much for Josh. He looks out into the distance again.
‘I love coming up here,’ he says.
‘You do?’ I’ve never seen him here before.
‘Yeah, I used to come a lot. Early mornings, before school. Helps me put things into perspective. Reminds me how big the world is, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, wanting to grab hold of his hand. ‘That’s exactly it.’
We suddenly turn to face each other again.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Josh says.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
We laugh because we’ve both spoken at the same time and then Josh asks, ‘Sorry for what?’
‘Everything? I don’t know … It’s all been so intense, hasn’t it?’ I notice dark shadows under his eyes and my heart sinks. I wish I’d been able to spare him all the heartache of the past few weeks. ‘I’m sorry for dragging you into it all.’
‘You didn’t drag me into anything, Neens. I love you.’
I manage to smile at him. ‘I know. And I love you too.’
Josh smiles back. ‘So what now?’ he asks nervously.
I take a deep breath. What now? It’s a good question.
‘Well, I finally told my mum about you.’
‘What?’ He smiles. ‘You told her? Wow! What did she say?’ He stops smiling. ‘But what does it mean? Will she let you see me? I don’t want to lose you, Neens.’
He reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers. I let him. It feels so good to hold his hand again.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘It’s going to be OK. It’ll take time for her to come round to the idea properly. But I just couldn’t do it any more, you know, all that lying, all that guilt.’
Josh nods. ‘It was so hard. I can’t imagine how it was for you … And then everything with your brother …’
‘Yeah …’
Josh puts his arm round me and I lean into him.
‘Why do people have to die?’ I say, more to myself, and the world, than to Josh.
‘My mum used to say it’s to make space for new people in the world.’
‘Do you believe that?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. But I believe that someone new can walk into your life and remind you what it means to live. As cheesy as that sounds!’
My throat aches. ‘No, it’s not cheesy. It’s true. But I also think … I don’t know … that you also sort of have to remind yourself?’
Josh nods. ‘You’re right. But I love you, Neens. And you have reminded me of how great things can be, despite all the crap that life can throw at you.’
I force myself to pull away from his embrace, just for a moment. ‘And that’s great, and I love you too,’ I say. ‘But I was thinking it might be a good idea to tone things down a bit? I mean, we’re only fifteen and I’ve – we’ve – been through a lot. I need to take some time to focus on me … And perhaps you should do the same?’
I hold my breath and watch Josh’s face. I want him to tell me he understands, that he maybe even feels the same, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks out at the hills for what feels like ages. I try to hold myself together. I know this is the right thing to do, however painful it is.
He finally looks at me. And, as we look into each other’s eyes, I know that this isn’t what either of us really wants, but it’s what we both need. I bury my face in his hoody again; breathe in his sweet, soapy smell.
Then he presses his lips against mine. And we have one last kiss.
I’m sitting on our bench. Mine and Akash’s. The morning’s just beginning, but it’s already warm. I close my eyes and feel the soft sun on my face. I breathe in slowly, deeply, and look out across the Ridgeway; my eyes glide over the gentle slopes of the hills in the distance. I listen to the silence. Finally, I look down at the envelope I’m clutching.
My GCSE results.
It’s a moment that I always thought I’d share with him – Akash, my brilliant, amazing, troubled big brother. But I’m alone, and that’s OK.
Whatever happens, I’ll be OK.
My hands are steady as I tear open the envelope and scan the page. My shoulders relax. I smile. Breathe in the warm air.
Our worst misfortunes never happen, and most miseries lie in anticipation.
I can’t remember who said that, but Laura gave me the quote during one of our sessions and I think it’s true. I get out my phone to message Raheela and Josh. And then I dial home.
Mr Butler grins when he sees me. He stands up and leans across his desk to shake my hand. ‘You star!’ he says. ‘You like to keep me on my toes, but I knew you could do it!’
I look for my painting among the others spread out around the room. I spot it in the corner.
I’ve painted a waiting room in a psychiatric ward. In the middle of the room, two people in love are dancing. The waiting room has white walls and white chairs, but the man and woman are dressed in red. Around them, the world is a hazy swirl – the seats meld into people, into lamps, into the stained-glass window, into the single painting of flowers on the wall.
But the couple, they are solid, clear, bright. Untouched by the chaos around them.
My heart had hammered against my chest as I painted.
There’s no ceiling to the room. Just the sky, dark navy, bursting with bright golden stars. It’s as if the outside has come inside, or the inside out, intertwining. It looks like it could be any waiting room, and I like that. It could be an A & E, or a maternity ward. I’ve called it Love in a Waiting Room.
‘It’s a beauty,’ Mr Butler says. ‘Original and technically very solid. I knew it was top marks as soon as I saw it and the examiner agreed. You were inspired!’
I stare at the painting. I love the way it pulls you towards this couple in red, the way the waiting room swirls around them like a dream. It feels like something only I could have drawn.
I look back at Mr Butler. ‘It’s one of the best paintings I’ve seen this year,’ he tells me. ‘You should be very proud of everything you’ve achieved.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. And I am. I am proud.
My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Josh, asking me if I want to meet for a celebratory coffee. I smile. I’m so glad we’re still friends.
Later, after coffee with Josh and lots of chats with Raheela and Fi, me, Mum and Dad celebrate everything with a Chinese takeaway. Then we sing nursery rhymes to Raj and once he’s asleep we all take a nap in the living room ourselves. It’s dark again when I wake up. Mum and Dad are still draped across the sofa, fast asleep. Dad’s snoring; Mum has a half-eaten spring roll in her lap and mugs of cold tea sit on the coffee table. Raj likes to wake at night, which has been tiring them out. I sleep through anything these days.
I move the spring roll off Mum’s lap and sit watching them for a moment. Dad went to play tennis with his friend this afternoon, and is still in shorts and trainers. Mum’s been going to a mother-and-baby group, so she makes an effort to get dressed every day. She’s lost some weight and she smiles a lot. Things are returning to normal. Well, our version of normal.
The house is quiet. Still. I tiptoe down the hallway and slip into Raj’s room.
The bright white room looks magical in the soft glow of the lamp. It smells of paint. All new, all fresh. There’s a small white shelf with some children’s books on it. A blue-and-white mobile hangs above the crib with stars and a moon dangling from it.
I crouch down next to the crib and peer through the bars. My heart skips a beat.
Raj is so tiny. His head the size of an apple. Hands curled into fists no bigger than Maltesers. He’s beautiful.
‘I’m your sister,’ I whisper. ‘And you’re my brother.’ My eyes fill. ‘I’m going to look after you.’
He stirs, yawns. His tiny hands uncurl, spreading out like beautiful starfish, and then curl up again. He whimpers and my throat aches.
‘Shh,’ I say. ‘Don’t cry.’ I slip my arm through the bars of the crib and rest my hand on his stom
ach, the way I’ve seen Mum do. I gently rub my palm against his tummy.
His breathing steadies. The ache in my throat eases. I rest my forehead against the bars. I can’t stop staring at him.
I wonder what he’ll be like. Will he be quiet or loud? Serious? Adventurous? Will he like art? What will we do together? Where will we go? What will we see?
I stand up and wander around the room. The carpet is soft beneath my bare feet as I stroke my hand over the new furniture. The white curved chest of drawers. The bookshelf. The single white wardrobe.
Akash is gone. All of his stuff is gone.
But he’s still here. I can feel him.
I look out of the window and touch my fingertips against the cool pane of glass. I listen to the noise of the traffic. I watch a couple walking hand in hand down the road. Street lights shine against the darkness. Raj’s gentle snuffling fills the room.
Life goes on. You try to stop it but it has to. Even when you have a huge, gaping hole in your heart, it must. In the end, all you can do is give in to its flow, however scared you are, however lost. Let it take you forward, back, then forward again – to where you need to be, where you need to go.
For the first time I can remember, I feel whole, like I’ve managed to glue the million pieces of myself back together. And I feel free. Really free. For so long, I’ve been looking for something or someone to help me breathe – but now, now I can breathe alone.
I tie my hair back off my face and take a long, deep breath.
You have a picture of how your life will be when you’re older. A dream, I guess you could call it. Lots of dreams – some big, some small. All important. Those dreams, the belief that you will live them, propel you forward from day to day, week to week, month to month – and sometimes from minute to minute. When part of that picture shatters, slips through your fingers like ice-cold water, you can lose yourself within that loss. All your plans sink away.
But whether your dream is intact, or broken, you have to be brave. You have to take leaps of faith from day to day. You might worry about things but that’s OK. You just have to be strong and let people and dreams find you again.
You have to piece yourself back together.
I grip the windowsill and press my forehead against the glass. I peer up at the dark sky.
The stars are twinkling, like tiny seeds of hope, and the moon has appeared. It’s full and bursting with brightness.
Like my beating heart.
Dear Reader,
I wrote The Million Pieces of Neena Gill after someone very close to me suffered a psychotic breakdown. I was there. I looked after them. I cared for them afterwards. We were a team: there was the illness and then there was us, and we weren’t going to let it win. It was scary, and it was hard, but we survived. And we eventually came out the other end stronger.
But one of the things I found hardest was watching the recovery afterwards. The lack of understanding from people who had no experience of mental illness, but did have plenty of opinions on it, most of them very negative. Battling that stigma day after day was unbelievably tough – as if fighting the illness itself wasn’t hard enough.
I knew that stigma.
I had experienced it myself.
Although this book is fictional, there is a large part of me in Neena. I suffered from a long period of extreme anxiety many years ago. I’ve been to the dark place. I understand the darkness. The feeling that it’s swallowing you up and that you’re losing yourself to the illness. I didn’t really talk to anyone about it because I wasn’t sure they would understand. And with that secrecy came shame.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be ‘normal’?
I felt completely alone.
But I’m here to tell you that there is no ‘normal’. And there is nothing ‘wrong’ with someone who is suffering: mental illness can happen to anyone. Neena is just an ordinary teenager going through a difficult time in her life. She is anxious, like so many of us. But she’s also so much more than that. She is brave and kind, creative and intelligent, and she has courage and strength that she didn’t know she had. This illness is not her whole story: it does not define her.
So if you take anything away from this novel, let it be this: it’s not abnormal to struggle sometimes; you are not alone; you are stronger than even you know.
When Neena finally accepts her illness and loss, she says this:
Sometimes you need to remind yourself who you are, don’t you?
If you are suffering, or even if you’re not, take time to remind yourself of who you are. It’s so easy to lose yourself in this busy, noisy world. Find yourself, and your dreams, and keep them close. If you know someone who is struggling, please tell them: You are more than this thing that you are going through. And if you are struggling, then dig deep within yourself and start fighting.
Fight for a better, brighter day. A day where those million pieces of your heart and life, the million pieces of you, can slowly but surely start coming back together.
I believe you are strong enough.
I believe in you.
With love,
Emma xxxx
If you or someone you know has been affected by any of the issues raised in this book, please remember you’re not alone.
The following organizations might help:
The Samaritans (www.samaritans.org) are there if you need someone to talk to. Completely confidential and supportive, the Samaritans are available to listen twenty-four hours a day. Call free, any time, from any phone: 116 123.
You could also call Childline on 0800 1111.
YoungMinds (www.youngminds.org.uk) supports young people’s mental health and has a good section on understanding your feelings and how to get help.
Mind (www.mind.org.uk) has an A–Z of mental health with information on a wide range of conditions and details of various treatment options. There are also lots of case studies, plus self-care tips.
If you’d like to find a counsellor, the following links to associations of accredited counsellors in your area might help:
UK Council for Psychotherapy – https://www.psychotherapy.org.uk
British Psychological Society – www.bps.org.uk
The British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy – https://www.bacp.co.uk
You might also consider approaching your GP, who may be able to tell you about local services that can help.
For more resources, including useful books and things that I’ve found helpful for anxiety, please visit my website.
I was very young when I discovered the power of stories. How they allow us to travel without moving our feet. How they can transform us, and make us feel less alone. How they can save us. So it’s such a privilege to be able to tell one of my own, and I’m truly thankful to the wonderful people who have helped make that happen.
First and foremost, my heartfelt thanks to editor extraordinaire Naomi Colthurst. You have made my journey to publication so special. Thank you for your love for this book from the very start. Thank you for handling Neena (and me!) with such care and attention. Thank you for believing in us. This book is what it is thanks to you.
And a very big thank-you to my super agent, the incredible Jo Unwin. Your enthusiasm for Neena’s story – and your endless support and wisdom – means so much. There’s no one I’d rather have in my corner.
To the whole team at Penguin Random House Children’s, but especially: Andrea Kearney, you designed the perfect cover for Neena and I can’t thank you enough; Shreeta Shah, you have been a dream copy-editor, thank you for your careful notes and suggestions; Jasmine and Michael, my very own dream team, I am so lucky to have you two by my side through publication. Special thanks to Siena Parker and everyone involved in the brilliant WriteNow scheme. To my fellow mentees: what a privilege to share this journey with such a talented bunch! Nazneen Ahmed, thank you for reading an early copy and for your kind words. And an extra big thank-you to Ruth Knowles: this journey began with you, and I hon
estly couldn’t think of a better home for Neena than PRH Children’s.
I have many ridiculously talented writer friends who have supported me: I’m grateful to you all. But I have to say a special thank-you to a few. Dr Sharon Lewis, I can’t quite express how special your friendship is and how much it means to me. Thank you for reading, for your endless support, for your professional advice and for your constant generosity. I’d be lost without you. And Abi Lown, I could not wish for a kinder writing buddy: thank you for all the last-minute reading, the pep talks and your brilliant insights. More than anything, thank you for always being there. To my small but wonderful writing group, Sanjida Kay and Claire Snook, for all your encouragement, feedback and wisdom, especially in the early days. You ladies helped me stop procrastinating and get Neena’s story down on paper in the best way that I could. Thank you. And to Ali Reynolds, thank you for believing so fiercely that I could do this. Sometimes people come into your life at just the right time; this was one of those times.
Thank you, dear Dr Bekki Stone, for reading (more than once!), for understanding so completely, for supporting me so generously and for giving me your professional thoughts. Any mistakes are my own. Your passion for this book has meant so much – and your friendship has kept me going through my own tough times, for which I’ll always be thankful.
To my brilliant Bristol writing group: Tannith, Harriet, Ken, Kate and everyone else, thank you for always being there and for championing the early chapters of this book. You are all wildly talented and I look forward to sharing bookshelves with you.
Over the years, I’ve been incredibly lucky to have some outstanding writing teachers. Thank you, all of you. But special thanks to David Morley for being the first to tell me I was a writer and setting me on this path, and to Maureen Freely for the words that made all the difference at a time when I needed them. Richard Kerridge, Mimi Thebo, Lucy English and Glenn Carmichael – your encouragement has meant so much.
It’s been such a pleasure to have met the Nineteen Newbies on this journey. Aisha Bushby, thank you for sharing my excitement when the good things began happening and for all your advice in the early days. And a very special thank-you to Yasmin Rahman for being my sounding board when I barely knew you, and for your generous sensitivity-read and boundless enthusiasm for this book. I’m so glad Neena found her way to you, and that I did too.
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill Page 24