At first I find his scrutiny unnerving, but as I start to relax I find myself talking freely, telling him about my life growing up, witnessing Nonna’s death, Richard’s attack and Taylor’s abandonment. “I understand on a level why he did what he did,” I say, “but it hurts so much. Every time I think about the words he said, the way he talked to me makes me feel like I am going to throw up. I just don’t know how I can get past all of this.”
David probes some more, asking me about how I feel about myself, and by the time our session is over, I feel completely drained. David declares it a success and lets me know blood test results will be back tomorrow, before heading out the door.
I close my eyes, and soon I am dreaming in Technicolor, nonsensical dreams that leave me feeling confused when I open my eyes. I feel rather like Alice in Wonderland as she returns from the rabbit hole to realise it was all a dream. But the reality is that I did something stupid. Some will say it was a cry for help, others the coward’s way out; but in my heart all I knew was that the pain of it all was too much for me to bear, and I had no one to share my burden. No man is an island and all that bullshit, but in that moment when I sat in the bath, contemplating what I was about to do, I knew I was truly alone.
“Ah, there she is!” I turn to the doorway to see Bea and Andreas holding the biggest bunch of flowers I have ever seen. I can also smell freshly baked bread, and my mouth starts to water. I feel shame at letting them both down and wonder what they must possibly think of me. But when they come over to hug me, I see no condemnation in their eyes, no pity, just sympathy and compassion.
“You gave us such a fright,” Bea scolds, but I know in an instant this is her way of dealing with what I have done. “You need to get better quickly. The regulars are starting to get restless over the lack of cakes and muffins!” She laughs softly at her own joke, and it is a relief to be able to brush aside all the negativity and just focus on the present. We chat for a while about the shop and how things have been this week and the orders coming up, and there is no question in their minds that I will be returning to be ‘cake-maker extraordinaire’, as Bea puts it. It is a lovely visit, and I am grateful to have something else to focus on instead of being the worm under the microscope.
The revolving door to my room spins once again, and Taylor is standing there, looking nervous. “Um, I know this might be completely inappropriate, but I have someone here who wants to see you, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer.” To my surprise, Genevieve enters the room and shuts the door in Taylor’s face.
I watch warily as she approaches and takes a seat in the chair with a dignity I am not sure I will ever be able to master. “Oh, Abby, Taylor told me what happened, and I wanted to come and see for myself how you were doing.” Genevieve’s voice is strong yet gentle. “Taylor is blaming himself…” I go to interrupt her, to reassure that it is not Taylor’s fault, but she holds up her hand and I bite my tongue. “No, do not defend him. He told me how he treated you, and frankly I am appalled at his behaviour.” Her voice softens slightly. “But he did it with intentions he thought were honourable.
“I know you are going through so much at the moment and this will be a long road to travel, but I just wanted to let you know that I am here for you. No matter what happens to your relationship with my grandson, please know you are always welcome in my home, and if there is anything I can help you with, please do not hesitate to call me,” Genevieve says as she slides a card into my hand.
We carry on chatting, and she tells me how much she enjoyed the truffles I made her. I promise to make her some more, and she tells me that she will hold me to that. With a final kiss on my cheek, she heads out the door, joking that Taylor is probably having a minor heart attack in the waiting area.
Taylor steps into the room, eyeing me warily. “I am sure I said it before, but your grandmother is an amazing woman.” I feel the need to reassure him, to let him know that everything is okay between us. I am not sure I can go back to being with Taylor, but I can’t hate him. It just isn’t in my DNA, and I know I need to start letting go of the anger I am holding in.
The afternoon flies by as Taylor and I chat about films and music. The lack of the usual sexual tension between us makes me a bit uneasy, but I shrug it off, not wanting to dwell on the negative connotations that are attempting to take root in my mind. I ask him why he is not at work, and when he tells me it is the joy of owning your own company that you can take time off when you want, I find myself smirking at him.
“Well, if I do that, the buns don’t get baked!” I joke. But in all seriousness, I know I need to get back to the shop; otherwise, Bea and Andreas will be left with a whole lot of orders that can’t be filled, and that would be terrible for business. Taylor seems to hear the truth in my words, and I can see him struggling as he turns something over in his mind.
“Um, I spoke to Dr Grohl,” Taylor says, and I feel a small burst of anger at the thought of the two of them discussing things behind my back, which I do my best to stamp down. “You know he won’t release you unless you have someone to stay with you…” David has discussed this with me and I nod. Taylor runs his hands nervously through his hair. “I didn’t think you would want to stay with your folks and I know London is not an option, so I thought maybe I could come and stay with you…” Taylor trails off before continuing, “Like, I’ll sleep on the couch at yours, and that way you can still bake. I know how important that is to you.”
I have never seen Taylor so unsure of himself, and it brings out a nurturing side to me that I didn’t know existed. “But what about your work, Taylor?” I ask. I don’t want him risking what he has worked so long and hard for.
“I can work remotely, set up an office at yours, and travel up to London for meetings as and when. It is not a permanent solution, but we can take it a week at a time.” My heart sinks a little when he says this is not a happily-ever-after, but I have to remind myself of the need to take baby steps.
I know there is no way they will release me any other way, and I desperately want to leave and go home. I have had enough of the poking and prodding and the midnight vitals checks, and I just want to be able to bake, to get back a semblance of control over my life.
“Okay Taylor, I can do that.” I close my eyes briefly, wondering whether I have made the right decision but realise that the choice has been made now, so I may as well go with the flow. Taylor goes out to find David and talk to him about how soon they would be prepared to let me go.
Within minutes David is back with Taylor, explaining the conditions of my release, the requirement to attend the daily therapy sessions at the hospital, including some family sessions, that I cannot be left alone at night, no drinking, no drugs. On and on the list goes, and I can see Taylor take everything in religiously.
“So, Abby, are you willing to comply with everything I have just set out?”
“Yes, David, I just want to go home,” I reply, a hint of desperation evident in my voice.
“Okay then, I will arrange for your release for midday tomorrow.” David turns to Taylor. “Will that give you enough time to get set up?” Taylor nods, and I feel a sense of relief at the knowledge that tomorrow night I will be sleeping in my own bed.
We are discussing what Taylor will need to get set up when a sudden thought strikes me, and I can’t believe I haven’t questioned it before. “Taylor, why were you at my flat that night? How did you get in?”
A look of guilt passes over Taylor’s face, and I can see him wrestling with something. At last he opens his mouth and starts speaking quietly. “When I, um, fired you, I had someone follow you home because I was worried about you and shit-scared about Richard getting to you…” I wait silently for Taylor to continue, knowing that now is not the time for yelling at him for invading my privacy. “He’s a friend that goes way back, ex-MI5, so he kept an eye on you, following you down to Brighton. He had been keeping a close eye on you and making sure Richard hadn’t approached you. You managed to give him the
slip, actually, when you came up to London on Monday…”
Taylor gives a hollow laugh before continuing, “But I called after you had your coffee with Michelle, and he picked you back up when you got off the train. When he saw you buying the vodka, he called me, saying he didn’t have a good feeling about it. I came straight down, and when I got to your flat, I found the door open. I guess you hadn’t shut it, but I would have been willing to smash it down if needs be. When I found you in the tub…” Taylor chokes up, and I can see how upset he is.
“It’s fine,” I say softly. “I am glad you found me. Really.” Taylor’s expression brightens slightly. “Um, how did you know I had coffee with Michelle?” I ask, feeling curious.
“She came into my office and tore a strip off me. Poor Patrice must think I go around inciting women to yell at me.” I laugh softly. “Right. I had better get going to get everything sorted for you to go home tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Taylor. Really. Thanks for everything,” I whisper.
“My pleasure, Abby,” Taylor replies, placing a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose. And then he is gone.
The Thirtieth
The night was long and tortuous, filled with random dreams that made no sense. When dawn finally arrives, I remove my bandages and hop in the shower, soaping my hair and body in an effort to remove the delightful hospital aroma that I seem to have acquired.
I find some clothes in the locker next my bed and notice that they are the clothes Taylor bought me. I feel uneasy about putting them on, but given my lack of options, I slip them on anyway. The black skinny jeans that had previously hugged my figure now hang loosely off my hips, and the grey silk T-shirt feels two sizes too large. The grey cardigan I loved swamps my figure even when cinched in with the belt. At least the boots still fit.
I examine my face in the mirror properly for the first time, and I am astounded by how much weight I have lost. My cheeks are almost gaunt, and my hair, while never having been my crowning glory, has a lacklustre sheen. Seriously, I look like crap.
I distract myself by flicking through a pile of magazines, discarding those of the fashionista variety and losing myself instead in an article about tribes in Bolivia in the latest National Geographic. Dr Hendrix does his rounds and declares me fit to leave, giving me strict instructions about aftercare and when to return to have my stitches out.
My mum and dad arrive, bringing coffee and doughnuts, and we chat quietly about where things go from here. I called them last night to explain the situation, and they were naturally worried about leaving me with the man partly responsible for my current predicament, as we have taken to calling it. But they agreed that staying in my flat was best, and so they are supporting me in my decision. I know they will be keeping a very close eye on things, and it makes me feel slightly better that for once I seem to be the centre of their world. Selfish, I know, but I just can’t help it.
David arrives for my session, so my parents head off with a promise to take me out for lunch tomorrow. They are staying in Nonna’s flat for the next couple of weeks until it has to be handed over so that they can be close by, a concession on their part I would never have believed had it not actually happened.
David keeps the session light, and I am grateful to escape the Spanish Inquisition, though I have a feeling my next few will not be so easy. We chat about coping mechanisms, and he gives me some tips to help with the stress I am going to feel stepping back into the real world.
“Just because you have been here doesn’t mean all those issues have magically disappeared in the meanwhile, and I need you to be able to deal with them and not run away.” As I am discovering, flight is apparently not the correct modus operandi when dealing with the shit life throws at you. And I guess I have been running a lot recently.
When the session ends, David heads off to collect my blood test as he can’t issue me my tablets until we have the results. I flick through my magazine idly in an effort to distract myself from the fact that I might be pregnant. In the grand scheme of things, this is not something I can even contemplate, so I tell myself to stop being ridiculous and focus instead on lava flows in Hawaii.
There is no sign of Taylor, and I wonder nervously if maybe Taylor has backed out of the arrangement. I try to reassure myself, taking a sip of coffee, as I see David walk back into the room, holding a piece of paper.
My heart starts to beat rapidly as I try to read David’s face. I fidget, my hands gripping each other as reality is about to come crashing down on my head. David clears his throat. “Okay Abby, well, the results are a little inconclusive, especially as we are looking at early days, but I think we have to assume you are pregnant.”
My attention on David is distracted by two coffee cups hitting the floor and exploding simultaneously. As if in slow motion, David moves away, leaving me with a clear view of Taylor standing in the doorway.
Epilogue
Before those cups even hit the floor, Taylor was already turning around and walking back out of my room. After two hours it became clear that he wouldn’t be returning. I tried calling, but he didn’t pick up any of my calls or my voicemails. I sat there in a complete state of shock. Pregnant at twenty-one was not part of my plan. Attempted suicide was not part of my plan. Taylor walking out on me again was not part of my plan. Yet here I was dealing with all three.
So as you can imagine, there was no chance of going home. Instead, David booked me straight into the hospital’s mental health clinic for the next week. I guess these days ‘psychiatric ward’ is probably not the politically correct term, or maybe this is just what posh people like to call being nuts. Anyway, I was ferried along to another building in the hospital’s vast grounds, where I was allocated a room that was the size of a shoebox. Don’t get me wrong. Everything was immaculate and comfortable, but there was zero privacy: no locks on the doors, shared bathrooms and communal dining.
The first few days were hard. I spent them in this strange fog as my body adjusted to the antidepressants, barely able to see straight and just wanting to put my head down and sleep. Instead, I was attending one-on-one sessions with David each morning and then group sessions in the afternoons, being encouraged to explore my feelings and expose my emotions to complete strangers.
Some days I just felt like dying all over again, but slowly things started to get better. I learnt that talking actually helped. And getting angry wasn’t always a bad thing. And confronting things could actually be healthy. Fight, in the right circumstances, was better than flight.
There were also plenty of other activities we were encouraged to participate in, all designed to help us deal with our various issues. Weirdly enough, I took to yoga straight away. That hour of simply concentrating on my breathing took me away from all my thoughts and worries. The anxiety about my future just simply evaporated, for a little while at least. Additionally, David arranged it so that I could use the kitchen so that I could bake. After the first couple of days I started teaching some of my fellow ‘inmates’ some basics and was surprised by just how much joy I got out of seeing the smile of someone’s face when their sponge cake turned out perfectly.
When my week was up, David signed my release papers on the condition that I would return for daily sessions. My parents had rented an apartment in Brighton to be there to support me, arranging, for the first time in my life, to take a break from work together. I would like to say I was leaping for joy at the thought of being ‘free’, but actually, the idea of taking responsibility for myself terrified the life out of me.
Instead of being in my little cocoon where people just accepted me for who I was, I was now going to head out into the real world, where people would see my scars and know what I had done. How could I explain my motivations when I was still working on them myself? In the clinic I had nothing to worry about apart from going to sessions and taking my meds. Yet now I was not only going to be in charge of my own health and mental well-being, but I was also going to be responsible for this little life that was gr
owing in me.
Further blood tests whilst at the clinic had confirmed that, yup indeedy, I was pregnant. I had left a voicemail on Taylor’s phone, letting him know there was no pressure, but I would be grateful if he could call me back, but here we are three days on and I have not heard a peep.
.........................
I am lying in bed, my first night back in my own bed, snuggled under my duvet and Nonna’s quilt, listening to the rain pelting against the windows, staring up at the ceiling. My hand curls protectively against my belly in an unconscious gesture that even I am not sure how to interpret yet. In this moment I make a vow that from here on out the little bean inside of me is my number-one priority and whatever happens with Taylor will be left in Fate’s hands. If we are meant to be together, he will come back to me, but in the meanwhile I need to get strong again, not only for me but for my baby.
My baby. The tears well up, but for once they are pure joy. The realisation that I will never be alone again brings me a comfort and feeling of fulfilment that I never knew was possible. Images of a baby gurgling in a crib, a toddler learning to walk, a cheeky child running along the beach, all run through my mind, and I recognise this amazing feeling. Hope. Something that had been missing from my life for quite a while.
And now I just have to wait for Taylor to sort his shit out and call me. So I wait…
The story continues in
BOOK TWO
Thank You!
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Book One: Thirty Days, Book 1 Page 19