by Holly Bourne
“Evelyn, sit down,” he said, talking like he must do at work before he sacks people. That’s what his job is. A professional sacker – or “performance expert”, as he calls it. Companies hire him to decide who they can dispose of to save money, then let Dad do all the dirty work for them. That’s why he charges so much. And probably why he has a sick daughter. Karma.
I bet he wished he could sack me…
“I just need to wash my hands,” I pleaded, in a small voice. “They’re…cold?”
He leaned back in his chair and took some drying socks off the kitchen radiator. “You can warm them here.”
I made a run for it, it was the only way. I bolted for the kitchen sink and Dad kicked his chair backwards, chasing me. I got as far as turning the tap on before he grabbed me around the stomach, pulling me back.
“Noooo,” I yelled, crying so hard. “Please let me, please let me. Please. Please!”
He smoothed down my hair, trying to calm me. “Evie, this is for your own good. Remember that? You don’t need to do this. You’re not dirty. You’re not going to get ill.”
“I am, I am. I AM! Please let me, please. I’ll scream…” What an amazing idea. I screamed as loud as I could – it rang off the walls, pierced all our eardrums. Dad dropped me instinctively and I took my chance, running for the kitchen sink. In a second my hands were underwater. Oh the relief, the sweet relief. I could feel the germs dripping off me, splashing down the plughole, leaving me alone. I tipped a generous gloop of fairy liquid into my hands and rubbed it into the bad places.
…Wash wash wash…up in between every finger…spend lots of time around the bottom of the thumbs…palm to palm…back to back…
I’d stopped crying. I felt okay.
Then I realized no one was stopping me.
I turned around to my family, the water still running.
They all stared at me, watching me attack my skin frantically, looking like a meth addict. Mum had slumped to the floor – her hands over her ears, trying to block out her daughter. Dad was shaking his head slowly – disappointment bleeding all over his face.
And Rose…Rose…
Her eyes were wide with shock, shiny with worried tears. One lay suspended on her cheek.
“Evie?” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
I turned the tap off. Shame echoed and bounced off the inside of my bones. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I just needed to…”
“Rose,” Mum whispered. “Go to the living room. I was wrong, you are too young for this.”
“But I want to stay.” Rose got off her chair and hugged me hard. I felt the warmth in her body, her arms around my back. Huge waves of grief crashed through me.
“Rose, Mum’s right. I’m fine, honest.”
“But, you’re not fine, are you?”
“I am,” I insisted, hugging her back hard.
Dad stood up. “You’re not fine, Evelyn. We think you’ve had a relapse. We’ve rung Sarah; we’re all going to see her together after college tomorrow.”
Relapse…
“No,” I whispered. “No no no no no.”
What they tell you about relapse
It’s all part of recovery, they say.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of, they say.
It doesn’t mean you’ve failed, they say.
It doesn’t mean you’ll never get better, they say.
Watch out for those triggers, they say.
It can happen very quickly, they say.
“No,” I said, louder this time. “I’ve not relapsed. You’re wrong.”
Mum covered her ears further. “Evie, look at you. Look at your hands.”
I did. They were bleeding.
“So what? So I keep clean so I don’t get sick – doesn’t everyone else wash every day? Don’t people buy bottles of that antibacterial hand gel and tip it over themselves whenever they get a train? The world is filthy, Mum. What’s wrong with keeping myself clean?”
She shook her head in an I-can’t-believe-we’re-here-again way.
“We’ve been through this before, Evelyn,” Dad said, taking over. “It’s the amount of times you do it, the fact it’s controlling your life again.”
“It’s you who is controlling my life,” I yelled, so loud Rose unwrapped herself and sat down on a kitchen chair. “The only interference is YOU. I’m going to college, I’m doing okay in my coursework, I’ve got friends, boys like me. I’m only going crazy because YOU’RE STOPPING ME.”
“FOR YOUR OWN GOOD,” Dad yelled back.
“Oh shut up, and go fire some more people. Is that for their own good too, eh? Is that what you tell yourself?”
“We’re seeing Sarah tomorrow and we’re going to increase your dosage again. Just until this blip is over.”
“No.” Not the medicine. I’d finally almost come off it.
“Yes.”
“You can’t make me go.”
“We’re picking you up straight after college.”
I wasn’t going, I wasn’t going to go.
“Fine,” I said, to shut them up. And while they were all still reeling – Rose still crying, Dad still fuming, Mum still rocking on the floor…I saw my chance.
I ran out the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the bathroom to shower.
Once the water hit me, I felt so much better.
Why I didn’t want to admit I was having a relapse
I really thought I’d got better. I really thought it had gone away. Coming off the meds was the last chapter of the book of nightmares I’d picked off the shelf three years ago. It was the epilogue to a one-off story, the one-night-only performance of When Evie Went Crazy.
If I was having a relapse now, that meant, in time, I’d have another one. And another…
If I was having a relapse, this meant it was “chronic”.
I was stuck like this.
I would always be like this.
This is who I was.
“Sick” was who I was.
“Crazy” was who I was.
And I just wanted to have one shower in the morning, like everybody else. And go to college without it feeling like the world’s biggest effort, like everybody else. And brush my teeth twice a day, like everybody else. And get the train, like everybody else. And not feel sick with fear all the time, like everybody else. And relax occasionally, like everybody else. And have fun with my friends, like everybody else. And get kissed, like everybody else. And go on holiday, like everybody else. And fall in love, like everybody else. And not cry every day, like everybody else. And not have stiff muscles and be in constant pain from stress, like everybody else. And eat hamburgers with my hands like everybody else. And to…
My phone went – buzzing dully on my bedside table.
It was him. Finally it was him.
I can’t stop thinking about last night.
I didn’t think I was capable of smiling that evening. But this made me smile and I was so grateful for the pitter-patter of light in the clunking mess of my life.
That’s when I decided it. If they were going to drag me back to Sarah, if they were going to label me with diagnoses you can find on NICE guidelines where “who you are” is defined as a list of symptoms, if they were going to confirm my worst suspicions…
…Evelyn, you’re not like everybody else. You are wrong. Who you are is wrong. It needs treatment.
Well then, I’d make the most out of pretending to be normal while I still could.
I wrote back – not even waiting the obligatory five hours you’re supposed to.
Me neither. What you doing tomorrow?
An instant reply.
My parents are out all evening. Come over?
Thirty-seven
I pulled back my bedroom curtains the next morning and squealed. The frost had come! The frost had finally come.
Good but unhelpful thought
It freezes all the dirt. It makes the air clean.
I loved winter – with its fresh cold
air and its jewelled blades of grass and how everyone shut themselves away and left each other alone.
I also hated winter. Flu season and the yearly norovirus stories bombarding the pages of local newspapers, making me stop eating anything from the cafeteria, or touching doorknobs without covering my hand with my jumper first.
I wiggled out of my pyjamas and started the treacherous business of deciding what to wear to Guy’s house… Skirt? Too obvious? And tights would be a nightmare to get off. But then so are jeans…and would I be taking anything off anyway…? There was a soft knock on my door.
“Hang on,” I said, from inside a checked shirt I couldn’t decide was “girl-next-doory” or just plain “farmy”.
“It’s Mum.” She marched straight in without waiting and sat on the bed. “You’ll freeze to death in that shirt.”
“That’s why I’m taking it off.”
“Your dad and I are picking you up from college at ten past four. We’ll meet you in the car park and we can all drive to Sarah together.”
“Cool,” I said.
I won’t be there, I thought.
Mum picked up my pillow and stroked it absent-mindedly, which meant now I’d have to find some way to wash it.
“I’m really proud of you, Evie. I’ve noticed you’ve not had a shower this morning. That’s really brave.”
Most people would think that was really gross…
Plus, it wasn’t quite true. I’d set the alarm for 4.45 that morning, snuck into the family bathroom and thoroughly flannelled every bit of my skin while they slept. It hadn’t been easy – as I’d predicted, all the shampoo and soap had been confiscated, just like last time – but I’d searched right at the back of the cupboard under the sink, and found an unopened bottle of hand soap.
I now stunk of honey and oatmeal hand wash.
“Uh-hur.” I pulled on this cool see-throughish jumper I’d forgotten I had and it was actually perfect. Guy would love it, especially if I backcombed my hair to match…
“It would be great if you could talk to Rose. She was really upset about last night.”
I tried not to rise to the bait – focusing instead on combing my hair upside down.
“I was upset too.”
“I know…but you could’ve been more thoughtful.”
I bit my lip.
BAD THOUGHT
It’s been years, and your own mother still thinks it’s something you’re able to control.
BAD THOUGHT
She cares more about Rose than she does about you.
BAD THOUGHT
Because Rose isn’t broken…
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ll try and control myself next time.”
My clipped delivery was lost on her.
“Thank you. We’re going to get through this, Evie, it’s just a blip. That’s all. Have a good day, see you at four ten.”
“No, you won’t,” I said to the door, when I was sure she wouldn’t hear me.
I couldn’t wait to get outside. I couldn’t wait to get to college. Guy was there! And I was going to his house. And my friends were there – and I could be normal all day. God, the frost was beautiful. I skidded on icy patches and watched my breath crystallize as it left my mouth.
And then Guy was literally there – waiting by a lamp post I had no desire to touch because I was so happy about the frost. I skidded to a stop.
“Guy?” I asked, even though it was definitely him.
He looked up and smiled in a way that’s illegal in several states of America.
“Morning, Eves.”
He kissed me right away with no grand introduction. His lips were cold, which made me even happier and even more desperate to keep kissing him. He pulled away and draped an arm around me, steering me past several lamp posts I didn’t even notice. “So you’re on for mine later?”
I nodded, my heart fluttering like mad.
“It’s going to be great.” He squeezed my hand which could’ve been romantic, or could’ve been aggressive, depending on what mood you were in.
I was in mood “both”. I gulped.
“Great,” I echoed.
I watched him as we walked to college, fancying him more with each step. He was a boy, and he had his arm around me. That was the sort of thing I saw happening to other girls. And he was a good-looking boy…with his weird – but fit – pinched nostrils and his weird – but fit – dark circles under his eyes.
He didn’t talk. Were we supposed to talk?
I tried, nervous about using my own voice. “So, how was Joel’s party?” I asked.
He grinned. “Epic.”
“Right.”
Silence. Paranoia descended.
“I wish you’d been there.”
Paranoia evaporated.
He had weird but fit arms too – all veiny and bulgy and cold in his band T-shirt and no coat on. I wanted to stroke his arm – the urge to touch him was overpowering. I lightly stroked it, sending ricochets of electricity running up my hand.
Guy coughed and took his arm away.
Paranoia descended.
I pretended I hadn’t noticed and watched him from the corner of my eyes. He rummaged in his jeans pocket, withdrew a battered-looking roll-up, lit it, and took a deep pull. He blew the smoke into my face and laughed while I coughed.
“That’s not funny, arsehole.”
He laughed harder and put his arm back around me.
Paranoia evaporated.
Just as we got closer to college, he pulled me into an alleyway.
“We’re going to be late,” I said, but Guy silenced me with his mouth. For someone so permanently stoned, he had a lot of energy. He pushed me back against a moss-covered garden fence and kept pushing my body further into it as he kissed my mouth and my face and then my neck – which was basically the best feeling that had ever happened to me. I kissed him back – tentatively copying what he was doing and responding to his moans.
“Today can’t go quick enough,” he whispered in my ear. “I can’t wait to get you in my bed.”
Initial thought
DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
Next thought
This is what you want, Evie. To be like everybody else. He is treating you like a normal girl, and normal girls get into bed with guys that look like Guy.
I tried to whisper back but croaked on the first word. “I can’t wait either.”
More kisses. The warning bell – signalling college started in ten minutes – echoed in the distance. I reluctantly pulled Guy’s mouth off my neck. “We need to go.”
“No, we don’t.” His lips returned right back to where they had been.
“We’ll be late.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t like being late.”
He stepped back and gave me a smirk. “You’re such a geek.”
Guy turned and walked off towards college. I stood, panicking – my neck thinking, Oi, where have those lips gone?
“Hey,” I called, paranoia descending around me again. “Where are you going?”
“To college,” he answered, looking ahead. “Model student Evelyn can’t ever be late.”
“I can be late! I can so be late.”
I didn’t want to be late, but I didn’t want Guy not-looking at me either.
“Well I don’t want to be late now.”
He didn’t put his arm back around me and – when we got through the college gates – I swear he stepped away from me. Or maybe he didn’t. That was the thing, I could never trust my judgements. There was, at least, a person-sized gap between us though – that was a fact. Guy walked quickly and soon we were inside, pupils trickling past lockers, clutching folders as they funnelled down the corridors. I stopped, waiting for a romantic farewell, or at least a goodbye.
Guy walked straight ahead, down the corridor, until he was swallowed by people.
I touched my lips. “Bye then,” I said to myself, not knowing what to make of it all.
The bell rang. Classes were
beginning.
I got a feeling in my tummy. An urge to wash it away.
I was late to sociology.
Thirty-eight
Oli was back.
He sat in his usual chair in our film studies classroom, next to me, all rigid and poker-straight.
My heart cut free from its arteries and plopped down to my feet, like it was filled with molten lead. Guilt took its place and began pumping turmoil around my veins.
I took my time getting to my desk, feeling awful with every step – replaying our date…my shameful behaviour.
“Hi,” I said shyly.
“Oh, hi, Evie.”
Oli looked up and it was like looking at myself. His eyes were overly wide with earnest me?-I’m-all-right-really false conviction, his hands twisted in and over themselves like he was holding an invisible fireball, his eyes darted and flitted as he overloaded on all the new information, and his leg jiggled so hard under the desk he kept accidentally bashing it with his knee, making his biro roll off.
“You’re back,” I said, knowing how hard today must be, how he would’ve counted down the date on his calendar with his therapist, how exhausting it would be…though of course it wouldn’t be as knackering as the realization you have to keep doing it, again and again until, hopefully, it’s not scary any more.
“Yeah, I’m back. I…er…wasn’t well.”
I nodded and sat down. “That sucks, are you feeling better?”
A big beaming fake grin. “Oh, yes, much better, thanks.”
Brian bowled in and launched into an inappropriate monologue about how hard he’d partied over the weekend. Oli’s leg was like jelly next to mine. He must’ve been burning about five hundred calories a minute by jittering it so much.
My leg started bouncing too. This is what I was worried about.
BAD THOUGHT
It’s contagious, you’re catching his crazy.
WORSE THOUGHT
Or maybe he’s catching yours?
Brian started half-lecturing us about product placement. I absent-mindedly reached into my bag and got out some antibacterial hand gel. Mum’d forgotten to check my bag.
Oli saw me rub it into my hands. My chapped, flaking hands.
“You, er, got a cold?” he whispered.
“Me?” I looked down at what I was doing; I’d barely realized. “Oh, no. It’s just my hands…they’re, er…not taking to winter very well.”