Too Close

by Natalie Daniels

  Yes, all was well in their marriage.

  *

  When Emma got to the unit the next day, she was told that Connie was lying comatose on her bed; she’d had a seizure at 4 a.m. This was not good news – firstly for Connie herself, but secondly, the clock was ticking for Emma’s statement on the case. And she still wasn’t in possession of all the facts. Before Emma went in to see Connie, she asked for the CT scan and was told she could watch the fit on the camera footage from the room.

  She sat down to watch it in the security room with the guard. From the way he looked at her she wondered whether he had seen the fateful footage of her vomiting in the toilet. She was sure not; this CCTV was perfunctory most of the time. She sipped at the sweet tea brought to her by the tea caddy guy on his rounds. It tasted institutional but good. She rewound the footage. The last person in the room was Mrs Ibrahim, handing out pills for the night. At this point Connie was sitting up in bed. Their interaction seemed brief and functional with Mrs Ibrahim pausing at the door as she left the room, and saying something over her shoulder to which Connie flicked her two fingers before lying flat on her back and looking up at the ceiling – nothing unusual.

  Then for five minutes Connie lay there unmoving until the fluorescent glow that was in all the rooms was dimmed to signify that it was time to sleep. Obediently, Connie slept. Emma fast-forwarded to 2.20 a.m. when Connie woke up, got off the bed and wandered over to the window, where she stood staring out into the night for an hour and five minutes. She then turned around, went back towards the bed and pulled out a book from underneath the mattress. Emma leant forward to see if she recognized the book but the quality of the recording was poor. Connie moved the chair from the table towards the dim glow of the light, sat down and began to read. She was side-on to the camera. She barely moved. Every now and then she seemed to smile, or she turned a page. No one entered the room all this while.

  Then at 3.50 a.m. Connie looked up from her book and stared straight ahead for some time before leaning backwards rigidly. She then went limp and slipped off the chair smoothly, like melting wax, the back of her head banging the chair on the way to the floor, the book hanging in her hand, a page torn. Then she began to fit, her limbs flailing, her head hitting the ground again and again. Four minutes later two nurses rushed into the room, one of whom straddled the fitting Connie in order to hold down her arms and legs, while the other twisted Connie’s body, pulled down her pyjamas and injected her in the bottom. They stayed like that, riding the bucking bronco, until Connie stopped moving and slumped. Another nurse entered the room and Connie was then lifted and taken out on a trolley.

  The CT scan in front of Emma showed no aberrations. It wasn’t epilepsy. Emma got up, thanked the security guard, tucked her hair back behind her ear, popped the scan paper under her arm, and was taken down to Connie’s room by a different guard. Her room smelt different today, more clinical. Connie lay on the bed unmoving, facing the window, eyes open; she appeared not to notice Emma’s entrance. She’d been sedated. She looked dreadful, pallid and frail with fresh bruises on her face. The red tufts of hair lent her an air of neglected absurdity. Emma stared at her. She had not seen Connie this vulnerable.

  She cautiously approached the bed, reached out and let her hand rest on Connie’s arm.

  ‘Hello, Con,’ Emma said gently, pulling up the chair, surprised at her own familiar tone. ‘I hear you had a bad night.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Oh, Connie,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Still no response.

  ‘What happened?’ she said, more to herself than to Connie. ‘You were doing so well.’

  The sadness of the whole situation suddenly hit her full force. Emma let her hand drop from Connie’s skinny little arm and stood up. She went over to the window and looked out at the naked winter tree. There was still that one lone leaf which hadn’t let go. It was a beautiful day out there. She leant her head against the pane. It felt cool against her skin.

  ‘Next time I come, I’m going to take you out of this godforsaken room,’ she said to the pane, to the Connie inside her head who was listening. ‘You need some air … how is anyone meant to get better in here?’ Her words formed a patch of breath on the glass. She wiped them away with her finger.

  When she glanced back at Connie, she noticed a faded red exercise book lying skew-whiff under the bed. Emma went over, squatted down beside Connie and reached for it, her face inches from Connie’s. She pulled the book towards her with her fingertips and held it in her hands: Annie Mortensen, aged 9 and a halve. Private. Keep Out. She looked back at Connie: no acknowledgement. She smoothed the cover with her fingers. Little Annie Mortensen – the real victim in all this. She opened the diary and scanned the neat nine-year-old handwriting. She flicked through the pages. Annie had been prolific. Emma sat back down in the chair and began to turn the pages. What she was looking for she didn’t really know. She flicked through to May, when Connie had discovered the affair.

  May 10

  Mummy wore her pijamas all day long and to be honest, she is smelly. She is not using beodorant and she doesnt brush her hair or put on lipstick. Her voice has gone all wierd, it is so quiet that I cant hear her. It feels like she isnt my mummy any more. I dont like being left with her. When I ask her whats wrong she shakes her head. I dont like her like this. She is HORRID to Daddy whatever he does and wont let him sleep in his own bed. He has to sleep on the sofa which isnt fair as half the bed belongs to him. Last night she called him rude words. She said she had NO respect for him NONE NONE NONE. I got out of bed to watch through the crack in the door. She was crying and she started hitting Daddy and he let her and then suddenly she stopped and dropped to the floor and he picked her up and carried her like a doll into the bed. I am scared of her. And he is so NICE to her he brings her tea and makes the dinner. The worst thing is she doesnt even know what I know. Daddy is planning a SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY for her!!!!!!!!!! I forgot to say!!! He swore Polly and me to secresy because we bumped into him and Ness when we were at the Holiday Inn. They were at the bar then he tried to hide from us behind a palm tree. Which was funny because we tried to hide from them because we didnt want the hotel staff knowing who our parents were. But then Daddy pretended he wasnt hiding and so he HAD to tell us about the secret surprise. He didn’t even ask us what we were doing there (we have started a business by selling the little wisky bottles to the tramps by the station for 50p each). I am very excited about the party. I said it should be a swimming party. I love surprises but I promised I wouldnt tell Mummy. She doesnt deserve it if you ask me.

  May 12

  When Mummy was picking me up from circus club after school we were walking home. Polly and Ness ran to catch up with us and Ness took Mummys arm but Mummy jumped away from Ness and said something to her in a nasty whisper voice and she dragged me hard by the hand and started walking really fast. Ness tried to follow us and she looked like she was going to cry. OF ALL PEOPLE I THOUGHT YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND Ness shouted at Mummy. And Mummy stopped dead still without turning round and started laughing in this way that wasnt laughing at all. I said understand what? But Mummy said grown up stuff. She doesnt seem very grown up to me. Frankly if I was Ness I would cancel the surprise party (but I hope she doesnt. Polly and I are bringing our swimming things to it even if its not a swimming party). Then later she wouldnt let me go round to play with Polly. She is a smelly poo and I hate her.

  Emma looked at Connie, her glassy stare; she was miles away, oblivious. She flicked through to the last entry in the diary: 16 November. Gently she touched the blank paper, her fingertip running across the lines, the abrupt ending, the words unwritten, the life on hold. She noticed one of the pages was not aligned. She let the book fall open at it. It was half ripped; presumably the page Connie was reading on the CCTV last night. Emma slid the two sections together.

  Oct 10

  Josh and me saw Grannys dead body today. She was lying in bed in her nighty all w
hite with her mouth open and no makeup on her face and wrinkles by her ears. She still had joolry on. Granny died in the night yesterday without waking up. In the morning Grampa thought she was sleeping and brought her some coffee in bed but she had cold skin. He wont let the undertakers take her away. Uncle David arrived this evening. He has a prickly face.

  Oh God, Connie, she wanted to say. You knew this; you knew your mother had died; they told you, at Milton House, I’ve checked the notes. What a peculiar way to rediscover her mother’s death – from her daughter’s pen. But everything about Connie’s life was peculiar now. She read on.

  Polly came with me. She was scared by Granny and her mouth open. Grampa isnt crying he just sits beside Granny and says sorry my darling sorry my darling. Because it is his fault. Daddy said no it wasnt and Uncle David said it was because Grampa didnt notice all the pills Granny was eating. The doctor said she ate at least thirty. Daddy told him not to say that and David started shouting at him and I started crying because I miss my mummy. I want my mummy back home with me. I want everything how it was before with Mummy home and Granny not dead. Josh is letting me sleep in his room tonight.

  P.S. Daddy just told Josh and me we must treasure our last memories of Granny. Mine were on Monday when I rang to say happy birthday to her and she forgot I was on the phone with her and started having a conversation with Grampa. And when she carried me around with her while she made a cup of tea and ate a biscuit and then went to the toilet and peed like the pony in Dartmoor outside our tent. I shall treasure my memories.

  Emma looked up from the book and out of the window. Then she looked down at the broken bird of a woman lying on the bed, her twig-thin battled arm resting on the covers, the lifeless pink palm on the sheet unfurled to the world. Emma reached out for that hand and took the cool fingers in her own and squeezed them tightly. Connie blinked slowly, heavily. Emma saw it as a glint of hope. Hope for what? How was Connie going to put the pieces of her life back together again? She had no one. That was the truth of it. Mental illness was the greatest isolator of all; it terrified people, it had made a monster of her. And how was anyone meant to survive such isolation?

  Emma wanted to go. ‘I’m going to leave you to rest now,’ she said, giving her hand another squeeze. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  She thought she felt a pull from Connie’s hand and it was enough to make her pause. ‘I’ll stay a little longer, if you want.’

  And so she sat there, hand still clasping Connie’s, and closed her eyes and listened to the faint institutional sounds beyond the room: doors closing, shoes squeaking, a phone ringing. She drew her focus back into the room. The light was making a very faint buzzing sound that Emma hadn’t noticed before. It was impossible to hear anything beyond the bulletproof windows so instead she focused on her own breath. Then suddenly she felt it, the connection, the absence of fear, the freedom beyond the confines of herself. It was as if it had always been right there, just waiting for her. But in her momentary joy she became conscious of the experience and immediately disconnected from it.

  Emma put the diary down. She got up again and went to the window again and looked out at the beautiful day. ‘Actually, sod it,’ she said decisively, turning back to Connie. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  Emma buzzed herself straight out of the room and when she came back in she had a wheelchair with her, some blankets and a male nurse. Together they lifted Connie and got her into the chair. Although she was quite tall, she weighed nothing; it was like lifting a child. Emma tried to be gentle – her damaged body made her a liability, but she didn’t make a sound. It was as if she were beyond caring. The nurse put socks on Connie’s feet. Connie let them move her about. Emma wrapped the blankets around her and pushed her out of the room.

  Despite having worked here for eight months now, Emma had never actually been out in the grounds before. The gardens were well kept, the grass mown, the bushes clipped. There was nothing fancy or ornate, no actual flowers, but it was pleasant enough. A path ran down the middle towards the old wall at the end where the brook ran by and where the huge trees stood. Connie looked different outside, more pathetic, like a gawky bird fallen from the nest. The cold air was turning her nose and her cheeks red, the sunlight making the tufts of her hair glow a coppery brown. Emma pulled out her woollen hat from her bag and put it on Connie’s head. There was a bench halfway down the path and Emma stopped there, putting the brake on the chair and sitting down on the seat. Emma glanced back at Connie’s wing of the building, its ugly uniformity, its electronic doors, its peculiar turrets. She turned Connie’s chair away from it so for one moment Connie might forget she was in an institution. And maybe it worked because shortly after Connie twisted to the side to feel the sun on her face. She shut her eyes. There was a beauty about that face, a nobility.

  Emma got out her cigarettes and her lighter. The Connie of yesterday would have commented on this. She missed the Connie of yesterday; she missed her barbed comments and her piercing search for authenticity in the everyday.

  ‘There’s something nice and paradoxical about a cigarette in the fresh air,’ Emma said, expecting no response and getting none. She lit up and put her cigarettes back in her pocket, glancing at her phone as she did so. There was a message from Si on it: See you at orchestra X.

  She stared at the text. What did he mean? Was it the concert tonight? She checked her phone diary. No, it wasn’t for another couple of weeks. There was only one conclusion: he hadn’t meant that text for her. She read it again and stared at the kiss in particular. He never sent kisses after messages. If it wasn’t meant for her then who had he meant it for? Who was in that orchestra who received his kisses? Emma looked up into the cold blue sky. And down again at the screen.

  I doubt it, she wrote, and then deleted it. Then she texted again: Was that for me? And then deleted that as well and put her phone away. She was paranoid. She was counter-transferring. Just because she fantasized about other men during their sexual intercourse, it did not mean her husband was being unfaithful. She took a long deep drag, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and shifted herself so that she was facing Connie.

  ‘I know it’s not going to be today, Con. But you’ll have to start communicating with me again, love,’ she said. ‘It’s the only way I’m going to be able to help you.’

  Small birds were fixing a nest in the bush to her right. There was much twittering and excitement and Emma watched them for a while. A bold bee in an out-of-season venture flew out from the thicket and began inspecting Connie’s blanket. Emma brushed it off.

  ‘OK, well I’m going to carry on talking; you can just listen. Firstly, I want you to know that it is not surprising you couldn’t cope when your mother died. You’d lost your people, your props. You were grieving, Connie. You’re still in grief. A triple grief …’

  Still no response. Emma turned her attention back to the busy little birds in the bush. ‘I know what grief is, Con …’ she said in a small voice. ‘I know what self-hatred is.’ One of the birds hopped out on the grass and was looking at Emma, cocking its head at her. She smiled. ‘But we are made of resilient stuff …’

  She took a long slow drag, exhaled slowly and sat there for a while, the two of them statue-still. But time was running out.

  ‘You know you’re going to have to tell me at some stage what happened at the Harvest Festival, Connie. What you did to Ness … There are several statements; there were many witnesses. So I know what they say. But I need to hear it from you; I need to know what was going on inside your head …’

  No response. She reached out to tuck Connie’s cold hand back underneath the blanket. She wasn’t going to get anything out of her today.

  ‘I told you, she pressed no charges,’ Emma coaxed.

  She took another deep drag and studied Connie’s face. What pushed her to it? What was the trigger? She tried to imagine what the daily reality of life must have been like in that comfortable area where people said good morning and how’s so and
so and picked up each other’s kids from school. She wondered how she herself would have coped. Ness was part of the infrastructure of Connie’s life: their children, their houses virtually next door, the school gates, posting letters, at the shops, getting into her car. What had it been like when word got out, blinds opened and closed, the scandal, the tittle-tattle, the pity, the judgement, how people would know better, say they saw it coming. How humiliating it must have been.

  High up she watched a bird soar across the blue. She needed to be patient with Connie. She thought of her as a ball of tangled string that could only be unpicked slowly, methodically, keeping hold of the loose end, nails in the knots, teeth if need be.

  Emma checked her watch. It was almost time to go back in; as she turned to get up, she was surprised to see that Connie’s lips were parted. She was trying to say something.

  Emma moved closer. ‘What, Connie? Tell me.’

  She put her ear close to Connie’s lips. ‘Or …’ Connie whispered huskily. ‘Orchestra!’ Emma looked at her sharply, eye to eye. Connie was smiling. She gave a puny, rasping laugh.

  Chapter 14

  Since the fit I have been given more freedom. Now I have made myself pathetic it appears that they are prepared to trust me a little more. Ideally for them, I would be a static blob on the bed, mouth agape, popping pills in one end and popping pellets out the other. As it is, the Squeak reluctantly takes me out into the garden into the recommended fresh air – presumably recommended by Dr Robinson. I’m glad of it. It’s a sunny day and surprisingly warm with the blankets wrapped round me. The Squeak is not a nature lover; sunshine makes her sneeze, she says. Fresh air does not agree with her, she says proudly, like she has a diagnosed condition: Arselazyitis. So we head straight for the bench so that she can get on with her word-search puzzle. I’m out of the wheelchair now but we walk slowly, as if I am an old person. Even the laptop feels heavy in my arms. My body is feeble. I looked down at it in the shower this morning – tepid, as I’m still sensitive to hot water – and it was unfamiliar: I’m translucent, scrawny and sexless. Like an alien, without the benefits.