More Than Us

by Dawn Barker

  I took a deep breath and walked out of the bedroom. I could hear Fiona chattering away to Cameron, though he wasn’t saying much in return. Mum saw me coming down the hallway, quickly stood up from the sofa and hurried into the kitchen. ‘I made you a cup of tea. Fiona’s here, come through the house!’

  I took the cup of tea. There was no way Mum would have herbal tea and I couldn’t face her questions right now. Besides, here, back at home where life seemed so ordinary, the idea of a cup of tea being dangerous seemed ludicrous. In the living room, Fiona leapt up and screeched again as she hurtled over to me and hugged me. ‘Paul! You might have given us some more warning! You daftie!’ She was giggling and hugged me again.

  I couldn’t help but laugh back. ‘Thanks for the welcome! How’s you?’

  ‘Wow, you sound like someone off Neighbours now! Doesn’t he, Ma? And Cammie, well, what a handsome Aussie.’

  ‘Can you understand anything she says, Cameron?’ I smiled to Cameron, who was staring at her with a half-smile on his face.

  ‘Just a little bit.’ He smiled.

  ‘A wee bit!’ Fiona laughed. ‘We’ll get ye’ talking the proper way again,’ she said. ‘Sit down, Paul.’ She picked up the plate of biscuits on the table. ‘Have one. Mum’s got in all your favourites.’

  I picked up a piece of shortbread shaped like a Scottie dog, sat down next to Cameron and put it on the arm of the sofa beside me. Mum’s dog, Dougall, sat beside me, shifting her eyes from me to the biscuit.

  ‘Mum tells me that you’ve come for a wee holiday? That was last minute!’

  ‘Yep,’ I said, averting my eyes. She didn’t push it. ‘How have you been? Phil offshore?’

  ‘Aye, he is. It’s a pain having him away, but he’s lucky to have a job, you know? So many people have been laid off. The oil’s not what it was any more.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the same in Australia,’ I said, glad that the subject had changed.

  ‘How’s Emily? And Tilly? Where are they?’

  I sipped at the tea. Mum had put sugar in it. ‘They’re good. Tilly has a lot on at school, so they might come later, in the holidays, we’ll see. But Cam needed to take time off school anyway, he had a bad knock to the head playing rugby, so we thought we’d have some father-son time.’

  ‘Ah, did ye now?’ Fiona said, raising her eyebrows as she looked at Cameron. ‘Well, it’ll do you well to have a wee break. How long are ye staying?’

  ‘I’m not sure at this stage,’ I said. ‘It was a bit of an impulse trip. A few weeks, maybe longer. We thought we’d go into the hills and do some hiking, camping maybe.’

  Fiona peered at me, nodding slowly. I felt my cheeks heat up; I looked away. I knew how sudden this was. The truth was, I didn’t really know what we were going to do now we were here. My instinct had been to get away from Sydney and keep Cameron with me. Damian had contacted the local Phoenix group for us, and I had promised Cameron we’d go camping but that was about it. It had all happened so quickly.

  Mum glanced at us both. ‘You’d better call your ma, Cameron, let her know ye got here safely. She’ll be worried.’

  He looked at me, and they all waited for my reply. I looked at my watch. ‘It’s still early in Australia.’

  ‘She won’t mind, Paul. She’s waiting,’ Mum said.

  The room seemed to still for a moment. ‘Yeah, Cameron, go on. Tell her I’ll call her later.’

  * * *

  I did call Emily later. I owed her that, and Cameron knew she wanted to talk to me. I waited until he had collapsed, exhausted, into bed so that he wouldn’t overhear me. I tried to reassure her that he was okay, and that there was nothing to worry about, while she sobbed and yelled down the phone. There was nothing else to say. My voice was hoarse and my thoughts were slow so I promised her that we would talk every day before hanging up, then I too, fell into a heavy sleep.

  Thirty-Five

  Emily

  Cameron had called in the early hours of the morning. He had apologised for waking me, but of course, I hadn’t been asleep. How could I sleep after everything that had happened yesterday? Knowing my child was on a plane, knowing that he was ill, worrying about Tilly and the newspaper article and the call with Damian and Dr Davidson’s warnings about Phoenix.

  Cameron had sounded tired, but well. I could hear in his voice that he was missing me. Paul called later too, but that went nowhere: I was too upset. Paul’s mum sent me messages too, reassuring me that Cameron was fine.

  I waited for Tilly to wake. I hoped she had slept. She had barely spoken to me last night, just retreated to her room without any dinner, and I had let her be. She had every right to be angry with me, though I wished that she understood that it was her father she should be angry at. I was the stable one, and yet I knew that as a mother, it was my job to contain her feelings.

  It was 7.30am. I had no intention of sending her to school today, but I also knew that if I made the decision for her, she would most likely scream at me. I needed to wake her, and give her the choice.

  Her door was ajar. Her light was off and it was quiet, so I pushed open the door slightly. Her bed was against the wall opposite the door, and she lay curled up on her side, with her back towards me. She was in her underwear: knickers and a black singlet that had ridden up her back in her sleep.

  I stopped as I looked at her. I mean, really looked at her. Not the way I usually did as I pandered to Cameron, with a cursory glance to check she’d done her hair or scanning the crowd for her at the school pick up. It was like someone had slapped me.

  I didn’t recognise the girl I saw. How had I missed it? Her skin was pale. Her vertebrae looked like craggy boulders that were going to burst through her paper-thin skin. Her ribs curled around her chest in prominent ridges, crevasses deepening as she sucked air into her lungs. I took a step towards her, holding my breath as I stood above my sleeping daughter. I looked at her beautiful face, with downy soft hair around her sharp jawline. I could see the striations of her throat, the taut tendons in her neck. Her hands looked like those of an elderly woman, with bruises, some poorly healed cuts, the muscle-wasting on the back of her hand leaving her knuckles jutting out like rocks.

  I took a quick, sharp breath in and I might have even whimpered at my stupidity, and a moment later, almost cried out with fear. Not her too. I didn’t think I could cope with this too.

  As quickly as the thought was in my mind, it fizzled out again, and was replaced by all the feelings a mother should have when facing the reality that her child looks like she’s starving. Terror, love, guilt. So much guilt.

  I backed out of her room, then, from the kitchen, called her name as I always did. ‘Tilly, time to get up.’

  She staggered through a few minutes later, now wearing baggy pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved top.

  With a shaking hand, I spread some extra jam on the toast I was making for her and put it down in front of her.

  ‘Oh, Mum. We’re late, I’ll just take a muesli bar.’

  ‘Not today. You’re not going to school today. There’s too much happening. Have this.’ I put it down in front of her.

  ‘I need to go to school. There’s PE this afternoon and I need—’

  ‘Not today, sweetie.’ I forced myself to smile. ‘Just eat your breakfast.’

  ‘Mum! I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Tilly, just eat your bloody breakfast!’ I shouted.

  She stared at me; I stared back, and my eyes filled with tears as I saw her face fall. ‘I want to go to school.’

  My head was swimming and the room seemed to spin around me. ‘Fine!’ I said, in a shaking voice. ‘Get dressed.’ I picked up the plate of toast and walked back to the kitchen, opening the bin and dropping it in. She watched me, then retreated out of the kitchen back to her room.

  * * *

  I had to force myself to shut my computer down after three hours of reading everything I could about eating disorders. A part of me of clung to the hope that maybe there was a physical
cause for the weight loss. Maybe a thyroid problem, or coeliac disease. This couldn’t be happening to my gorgeous, smart and stoic daughter.

  I went out into the hallway and put the latch on the front door, just in case somehow Tilly came home from school by herself. I went into her room. Her laptop was with her at school of course, but her iPad was charging next to her bed. I knew her passcode; mothers know things like that. I opened the web browser and started to type in ‘www.f ‘and immediately, the space at the top of the screen automatically filled with the Facebook log in page and by some miracle, when I tapped my finger on the little blue ‘Go’ button in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, it did indeed ‘go’. Straight to her Facebook page, the login and password details autofilled. Too easy.

  I sat on her bed. I hesitated when her Facebook news feed popped up, and my fingers froze as they hovered above the screen. Should I do this? What was I looking for anyway? What if she found out? It felt wrong to be breaching her trust.

  But I knew, from everything that had happened, that things slowly sneak up on you. Like Paul’s gambling problem: it wasn’t like he woke up one day and went from everything being completely normal to full on addiction. It was insidious. And Cameron’s problems too were always on the sidelines waiting for their time to be the star attraction. So how long had Tilly been losing weight, and, more importantly, why hadn’t I noticed?

  I scrolled through her news feed.

  There were things on there that I hadn’t seen in my own feed, so she obviously filtered which photos she posted for different people. There were photos of her in places I didn’t recognise, with a bit too much pouting and make-up for my liking, but forgivable. I looked over to the left to her list of groups. And there was one that caught my eye. Ana and Mia. I clicked on it. And then I wanted to vomit.

  Saying that I wanted to vomit was an inappropriate choice of words because if I wanted to vomit, then it wouldn’t take me long on this page to learn about a hundred different ways to do it. Horror filled me as I saw pictures of skinny celebrities for ‘thinspiration’, with thighs like bows and arms like arrows, ways to binge, to purge, to trick your parents and your doctors. By the time I closed the browser and put the iPad back on the charger, tears were streaming down my face. I stood up and smoothed the bedclothes back where I’d been sitting and I walked out.

  I’m not sure how long I sat at the dining table. I wiped my eyes and breathed deeply, then when my tears dried, just sat staring into space trying to fit all the pieces together. How stupid I’d been to miss it. It felt so clichéd: an emotionally neglected girl starving herself to get her parents to notice her. The daughter who’d always aimed to be perfect not understanding that to her mother – and father – she was the very image of perfection no matter what she did. I thought about all the times I’d criticised her, for not tidying up after herself, for biting her nails, for not brushing her hair properly. I should have praised her more, made her understand that when I nit-picked over the small things, it was rarely about her and usually about me and how I was feeling: tired, underappreciated, worried. She must have been feeling like that too. She had always looked out for Cameron, always stood up for him, always tried to protect him. And yet she hadn’t said anything about her feelings. She’d always said she was doing fine. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked her.

  I felt dizzy. I was breathing too fast and the pressure of gravity had doubled, stopping me from expanding my chest and getting oxygen to my lungs. This was serious. This was an emergency. People died from anorexia.

  I looked at my watch. It was still the middle of the night in the UK; damn this time difference. I could call but then his mum and Cameron would wake up and everyone would panic and I still didn’t know what I was dealing with. Maybe she was just thin. I would make a GP appointment for Tilly after school to see how bad it was, and what we had to do. Than I would call Paul tonight, armed with all the evidence. I had to believe that his heart would scream as loud as mine was now.

  Thirty-Six

  Paul

  ‘Come on, mate,’ I said as Cameron sat in the car the next morning, staring out of the window as the rain coursed down the glass. ‘Don’t be like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a child. Difficult.’

  ‘I am a child and I’m not being difficult. I just don’t want to go. I’m tired. We only got here a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Cammie, come on.’ I looked at him, but he turned his face away from me. He still hadn’t taken his seatbelt off.

  ‘We’ve just driven for half an hour.’ I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘I told you I didn’t want to come.’

  ‘You can just try it. What’s the harm?’

  We’d driven north-west from Aberdeen, the city giving way within ten minutes to farmland and villages until, following the instructions Damian had given me, I saw the old stone church. Phoenix held a group here three mornings a week, and they were expecting Cameron today. He was younger than their usual members, but given that Cameron was out of school anyway, they would take him on Damian’s recommendation.

  My head throbbed. Despite sleeping so heavily on the night we arrived, yesterday, my eyes were gritty and anchor-heavy and, as they dragged down, my whole head and chest sank down with them until I had to just collapse into bed in the middle of the day, swearing that it would only be for an hour. Then, last night, I tossed and turned on the sagging mattress of my old single bed. The rain had pattered on the roof, but instead of soothing me, it had roared in my ears. I was too hot, then too cold. Waves of dread had surged over me then receded briefly only to swell up again as I felt myself drifting off. What was I doing? How on earth could this work? I reminded myself that I always felt like this when I was jet lagged, wound up with anxious thoughts that darted around my body with the certainty that I’d never sleep again. The only other time I’d felt like this was in the slow, long hours after the thrill of gambling skulked away to be replaced by self-loathing.

  But today, I had sworn, would be different. Today, I – and Cameron – would be better rested, and we would be able to regroup and move forward.

  But Cameron didn’t want to be helped. I had expected some resistance, but I was worn out. I sighed. ‘Cameron. This is why we’re here.’

  ‘I thought we were having some family time.’ He lifted his fingers up in imaginary speech marks when he said ‘family’.

  ‘Don’t be a smart arse, Cam.’

  He spun around to glare at me. ‘Me? What am I doing? You’re the one who’s dragged me here saying we’re going on a camping trip and we’ve barely landed and you’re sending me off to this place with complete strangers, when I don’t even know anyone and you told Grandma that I’m here to rest and I want to rest!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like—’

  ‘Like what?’ he shouted, staring at me with such hatred that I felt myself shrink back from him. ‘Fine!’ he yelled, fumbling for his seat belt lock, yanking it off his body then opening the car door. ‘Go and have a nap, Dad, and I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Stop, Cam…’

  He slammed the door and I watched him storm off, wiping at his eyes. He headed for the door of the church hall. I should go with him. But, I knew, he didn’t want me. I remembered how I had felt when I went to Treetops on that first day. I too had been full of anger, but that loathing was a symptom, the reason why I needed help, just like Cameron. But, like me, he had ultimately chosen to walk through those doors. He needed this.

  I waited in the car for another few minutes, then I started the engine and drove off. I didn’t have to pick him up for another four hours. I headed back to Mum’s.

  * * *

  As I closed the front door, my head pounding, Mum started gesturing and waving to me from the kitchen. She held the phone to her ear. ‘Hi, darlin’! How are you? Yes, yes, he’s here now. I told you he’d be back soon. Hold on and I’ll get him for you… Paul!’

 
I sighed. It must be Emily. I took off my wet shoes and left them at the door, then padded down the narrow hallway towards Mum, my socks slipping a little on the laminate floor.

  ‘It’s Emily,’ she whispered, her hand over the mouthpiece of the cordless telephone handset.

  ‘Thanks, Ma.’ I took the phone from her. I held it to my ear; Mum hesitated before walking into the living room and closing the door.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said her voice thick. ‘I’ve been calling all morning. How’s Cameron?’

  ‘I haven’t been out long. Anyway. He’s good. He’s out now.’

  ‘Out? Out where?’ I could hear the confusion in her voice.

  ‘Just to a youth group.’

  ‘Oh my God. Are you kidding me? Is this your nonsense?’

  ‘Emily, don’t start. He’s just going for the morning, it’s his choice—’

  ‘Paul. Stop. I can’t stand your constant justifications about this rubbish. Listen to me for a change. I need to tell you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Tilly.’

  My heart started to race. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, but I think…’ she sniffed. ‘I think she has an eating disorder.’

  I was glad she couldn’t see me as I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, Emily. When will this stop?’

  ‘I’m serious, Paul. She’s so skinny, you should see her.’

  ‘We’ve only been gone a few days! She was fine when we left!’

  ‘She was clearly like this before you left, we just didn’t see it because we’ve all been so focused on other things. Look, Paul, I’m not just making this up. Honestly, she looks terrible and I looked on her iPad and she’s been on these eating disorder websites and she’s not eating.’