Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  Chapter 31

  The Truce

  The hospital will keep Michael under observation until Friday. At least I know that he will be safe there. I return to our house to find Kathleen reading the Daily Mail. I feel affronted as the old Michael wouldn’t allow it in our house. She immediately gets up and makes me a cup of tea. I think this is the beginning of our truce. I am so relieved. I sit down opposite her and wrap my cold fingers around the hot mug. She offers to hold the fort over the next few days. She says I need to rest and see my children. I feel irresponsible for leav­ing Michael but equally torn for abandoning my children. It’s a lose lose situation.

  We talk for what seems like hours. She tells me her life story and I tell her mine. I have no idea whether she is telling me the truth. I do though. I can be naïve that way. Kathleen softens her voice and promises to support me. I am so over­whelmed by the milk of her human kindness that my tears are free to saunter down my face once more. I thank her for sorting out the wardrobes; I mean it now. I ask her to reor­ganise the kitchen and she slaps me on the back saying it would be her pleasure. The slap hurts a little. I don’t think she knows her own strength.

  Relieved and tired, I go upstairs. I don’t know where to sleep. I wander into my own room and pack up my things, enough for three days, and place the small travel bag near the door. I turn the bed down and see that the fitted sheet isn’t clean; there’s even a stain on Michael’s side that I don’t want to investigate. I strip the whole bed and struggle to hold the sheets and duvet cover in my arms. Kathleen is there like a genie. Nothing is too much trouble for her. She wrestles the washing from my arms and hurls it down the stairs like a rugby ball. She stuffs everything into the washing machine. She shows it no mercy. I tell her there’s no need to be my housekeeper; I’m not paying her to do that role. Kathleen insists. The whole house will be shipshape by the time I come home. And Michael might even be in it to welcome me too. The thought of this brings me out in a cold sweat which I conceal beneath my bulky wintery clothes.

  In the morning, I struggle to lug the bags, including my own small one, to the front door and order the Uber for Hove; it will cost a fortune but I can’t manage the train. The Uber arrives but the driver remains stubbornly behind the wheel. The cases weigh a tonne. Kathleen, my saviour, picks up Olivia’s in one hand and Eddie’s in the other and dumps them unceremoniously on the ground. She knocks on the driver’s window, giving him a bit of a fright. She bundles me into the back seat of the car, pushing my head down as if I have been arrested. The driver thinks she is my mother. I wonder how she will spend the next three days. She has the whole house at her disposal. I haven’t locked up any­thing. Not even our bank statements. I am not sure why I have adopted this cavalier attitude towards my privacy; it’s so unlike me.

  The Uber driver is surly and silent; this suits me as it means I can use the car as a temporary office. I have nearly two hours at my disposal. I phone the hospital and eventually get through to one of the doctors on the unit where Michael is being held against his will. He has been temporarily sec­tioned. The doctor explains that the hospital will probably only keep my husband for a few days though he could be held for two weeks; they will alter his medication and con­duct a series of tests. He informs me that Michael has been prescribed risperidone; it will be injected into the muscles initially and taken by mouth thereafter. They haven’t started the treatment yet as he is still being assessed. I send a text to Kathleen, immediately updating her. It’s an antipsychotic drug, apparently. I knew she would know. The doctor reas­sures me that Michael will be well looked after, even though the Royal Free is no place for him; it’s a temporary solution to a long-term problem. I am not sure I can deal with the word long term as I am already struggling.

  He needs to be admitted to a home with specialised care; they speak to me as if I don’t already know this. I can visit anytime other than between 7 am and 10 am. The doctor passes the phone to a nurse. I give her Kathleen’s name, saying that she is temporarily the “next of kin” whilst I am in Sussex; however, I remain the first point of contact. It’s just that she will be the primary visitor. The nurse finds this a bit odd. There is an outside chance that Michael will be admit­ted to a care home, if the psychiatrist and the other doctors feel that this is appropriate. It is not a foregone conclusion. I am not sure what to say to the twins or to my parents. I think I will just tell them he’s in hospital. Nothing serious.

  This has been the longest February I have ever known. It is still a bleak midwinter in Sussex. The Brighton sea looks grey and gloomy; the seagulls have lost weight and every­thing fun has been boarded up or is closed until the May bank holiday. The silent Uber driver delivers me to “Shingles” and I collapse into my father’s open arms; it’s the most wonder­ful feeling to be protected and loved by someone like him. He immediately tries picking up Eddie and Olivia’s cases but they’re too heavy; he’s not the robust man that he used to be. Eddie bounds down the stairs like a hunting dog. He hugs me energetically, and tells me that I have shrunk. My mother and Olivia rush in from the sitting room to greet me; I feel like royalty. I suggest we go for a walk into Brighton; it’s easier to talk about sensitive issues when we don’t have to make eye contact.

  We walk up the broad promenade initially four abreast. I update everyone at once. Repeating myself doesn’t improve Michael’s situation. I resist the temptation of using the word “sectioned” in front of the twins though they sense that I am holding something back. We drink coffee in one of the small cafes in the Lanes; it isn’t busy and I wonder how they break even in the winter. I steer the conversation away from Michael and towards Chamonix. After warming up, we walk towards the shopping mall. My father hates it in there as he finds it claustrophobic. My mother enjoys shop­ping. We break off from the boys and indulge Olivia who is always grateful and remains beautifully unspoilt. She takes three items into the fitting room at North Face in addition to a set of thermals for both her and for Eddie. She is a twin, after all. I seize the opportunity to update my mother. She mentions the local care homes again. I explain that we may not have that luxury anymore; it may all be taken out of my hands.

  In the evening, I call the hospital again. I leave a message with someone. It is not convenient. A nurse calls me back at 7.35 pm She has just started her night shift. Her name is Elsa. I explain my situation and say that I will be back in London on Friday. I can tell that she is reading the notes from the computer in the Nurse’s station. Michael has had a “good day” and is “adjusting”. I almost laugh when she says this. No one visited him. He has been asking to see his “duck”. She has no idea what he means but I think Michael’s Staffordshire roots are hard to eradicate. Not that I want to. It was always part of his charm. Eddie is desperate to speak to his father. I give him the number and explain that it’s not so easy. Maybe it would be better in the morning. He is a little suspicious of me, and begins to ask awkward questions that I simply don’t want to answer. It is like extracting teeth but mine aren’t coming out. I want to protect my children from the unbear­able truth, even though I know that they’re young adults. I will wrestle with my conscience later.

  On Friday morning, my parents, Eddie, Olivia and I drive to the North Terminal at Gatwick Airport. It’s an emo­tional parting. I remind Eddie and Olivia to look out for one another. I always say this. My experience of life, and of my students’ lives, has made me weary and uneasy. No one is invincible. I am told to stop worrying. My parents and I return to the house where I tell them the uncomfort­able truth. They clearly think Michael’s confinement will do me good; as far as my father is concerned, it can’t be long enough. He hasn’t forgiven him. I have partially recovered whilst here and I am pleased that I look less of a wreck and more my old self.

  Sheila and Henry drive me to Brighton Station and escort me onto the train; it feels as though I am off to boarding school. I sit at a table for four. The other three chairs are occupied by a mother and her three young children. They hav
e iPads; snacks; water bottles and games but they are still “bored” and invade my space. I look out of the window, ignoring them instead of engaging with them. The mother is young and looks desperate. I’m daydreaming when she asks me if I have children. Parents always ask this at school; it’s as if a teacher without children can’t be truly empathetic. I disagree. I tell the young woman that I have twins. She mis­takenly assumes that they are younger than they are. I let her believe this. There is no point correcting her. We talk a bit about how to fill up the half-term which is academic now as it’s Friday. When we arrive at Victoria, I help her gather the children’s various items and walk behind them as they step off the train.

  Victoria Station is heaving. I manage to catch a bus but it’s standing room only. I look out of the windows, taking in the sights as if I were a tourist. It feels as though I have been away for ages. I dread going home. I don’t want to face the reality that is waiting for me. I text Kathleen. I expect she knows I will invade her space soon enough. I get off the bus near Swiss Cottage and walk past the swanky new Central School of Speech and Drama building. I wish I could reinvent myself, and my life. I reach the front door which opens before I put my key in the lock. Kathleen is there, wearing my apron. She tells me I look worn out and calls me a “poor thing”; this is not what I want to hear. Besides, I have been well cared for over the past few days. She takes my travel bag from me and immediately starts unpacking it, pulling out my pink underwear. Really? she says. Her tone is patronising. I say it’s absolutely not necessary but she is instantly offended, shoving the little grey travel case back in my direction. I haven’t learned how to manage Kathleen yet. She is different from any other member of staff that I have ever supervised. I apologise, distressed that I have offended her. I put my hand on her hand and say I am sorry again. I say I am lucky to have her in my life and in my home. She flinches at the word “my” but pats me on the head, sending me off for some “rest”. She will bring my toiletries upstairs in a few minutes. I put my hands in my pockets to check that my mobile is there; I don’t want her reading my texts. I go upstairs and poke my head through each room, just to check that they’re tidy. I needn’t have done this. The house looks as though it’s ready for its first Airbnb customers. My bed has clean sheets and a new duvet cover; it’s Olivia’s but how was Kathleen supposed to know that? It doesn’t matter anyway. I throw myself onto the bed and sob into the pillows.

  Kathleen appears at the door. She is omnipresent. I’m like a stroppy teenager again, telling her to go away. She comes in regardless and perches on the side of the bed. I turn my puffy face towards her. For some inexplicable reason she bends down to kiss me on the forehead; it’s an unwelcome gesture that makes me tingly and edgy. Her breath smells of alco­hol. I don’t know what her tipple is but she’s clearly drunk too much of it. My mobile buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and try reading the text from my mother under the duvet. Kathleen reminds me that she is still here. My behaviour is rude and ungracious, apparently. I pull the duvet right over my head and tell her to get out.

  I wake up fully clothed in my bed. My mobile and I were bedfellows; it’s now down to 3% and utterly useless to me. I take a long shower and return to the bedroom, wrapped in a large white towel. Kathleen is downstairs, clattering about with pots and pans. I think she is making a cooked break­fast. I won’t eat any as a matter of principle. I get dressed and potter downstairs. I am adopting a nonchalant mood before I have to become Mrs Responsible and visit Michael. A bowl of piping hot porridge is thrust in my direction. I politely refuse it. I’m not hungry. I say I can’t find my charger. Has she seen it? She denies all knowledge and assures me that it will turn up. She slaps me between the shoulder blades, by way of reassurance. I want her to keep her hands to herself; I don’t believe I have encouraged her attention.

  I leave the house ravenous. I don’t take my mobile with me as it’s on 0%. I feel as though I have lost my right arm. I buy a café latte from Starbucks and take it with me into the hospital. I’m too early and the staff won’t let me see Michael until he is more “presentable”. I am told to wait with the other visitors. I can read a magazine while I am waiting. I am not used to being told what I can and can’t do all the time. I am usually the one giving the instructions. I chat to another woman. She is much older than me, and very frail. Her husband has had hip surgery and is recovering on the ward. She has been happily married for sixty-three years. I know my marriage won’t last this long, even if I wanted it to. I start to feel resentful again. I feel as though the world has conspired against me. What did I do to deserve this unhap­piness? I wallow in my own wretchedness, unphased by the comings and goings around me. Eventually, a nurse makes an announcement. We are “allowed” to visit our loved ones.

  Michael has been moved to a temporary ward which has a sign above the door: “Secure Unit”. A nurse presses the keypad and lets me in. We immediately enter a large square room with an upright piano in the corner; a few chairs and tables and a television. It doesn’t feel much like a hospital ward. There are about six patients in the room, one of whom is Michael. He is not the youngest. I walk next to the nurse as she escorts me to the other side of the room; it might as well be an ocean. Michael is sitting on a plastic chair, talking to another patient; she’s a woman about my age. She even looks a bit like me. I ask the nurse if I can talk to Michael. And if the other woman will mind? I don’t want to upset anyone. She may not understand. Estelle is led away to another area of the room and given a doll to clutch instead of Michael’s hand. I sit down on the empty chair that was previously occupied by the mirror image of myself. I don’t know what to say. I feel awkward and out-of-place. The nurse comes to rescue me. She says my reaction is normal. Lots of people are overwhelmed by the situation. I feel slightly uncomfortable and look down at the floor. There’s nothing to focus on; it’s all white.

  I ask Michael whether he likes the food here. He says he doesn’t. And whether he has seen the view of Hampstead Heath. He would rather walk on it. I talk about the twins and tell him that they’re probably in Geneva right now and will be in Chamonix by tomorrow. He doesn’t know where these places are but he would like to be with them. He wants to know why he’s at King’s Cross. Are we catching the Eurostar? I don’t think the room looks much like St Pancras. I try to reassure him that he will be coming home on Monday; it’s in two days’ time. He asks me if his wife is coming back too. I think he means Estelle. Once again, I am lost for words. And my eyes are full of tears. The nurse, who is hovering nearby, leads Michael to the little nurse’s bay in the corner, and says she’s going to administer the dose of the risperi­done. I try to hold his hand but he wants to be with Estelle. She’s not allowed into the bay. I am. But I turn away as the needle enters his buttocks. She tells me that’s it for another two weeks, though the doctor will advise if my husband is to take anything in pill form. There will be a meeting on Sunday morning. One of the consultants is coming in especially. He won’t be happy about it. The nurse indicates that there are more needy patients than Michael. She thinks he will be dis­charged. I think she has no idea what he’s like.

  I wander around M & S Food Hall, next to the hospi­tal, and buy some strawberries imported from Egypt and a litre of milk. The strawberries remind me of better times: summer holidays and picnics with the children. At home, I put the milk in the fridge; there isn’t much in it. Kathleen obviously doesn’t like spending her own money. I leave £50 on the counter, with a note, saying “Please buy the essentials. Budgens is cheaper than M & S” but I scribble out the last bit, given where I have just been. I take out my laptop and start preparing for the Governors’ meeting. I can’t quite believe that I will be able to make it; after all, the nurse is threaten­ing to discharge Michael any day now. A mobile vibrates; it’s mine. I had completely forgotten about it. The interloper has obviously found my charger. I have a horrible feeling that she has trawled through my messages. My password is too obvious.

  I click on my Amazon i
con and check the orders; the nanny card was “signed for” whilst I was in Sussex. I hope the pack­age wasn’t opened. I feel sick and scared. The house is tidy and I can’t see any boxes or even the post for that matter. I wonder she has put it. I start opening all the drawers in the kitchen and toss out the old examination papers. Nothing. I make quite a mess as I systematically undo the interloper’s good work. I check the sitting room and the downstairs coat cupboard and shoe rack, just in case she has piled things up there. There isn’t even a speck of dust. I walk up the stairs. It has been ages since I have spent any time in Eddie’s room. It has never been this tidy and it smells of Kathleen, not my beautiful son. There are two empty wine bottles in the wastepaper basket along with an empty box of throat sweets. I’m surprised she hasn’t put the evidence in the recycle bin; that’s remiss of her. My Amazon package is in the bedside drawer. It is unopened. She has stashed it away along with three letters and one utility bill. Everything is addressed to me, except for the utility bill which is still in Michael’s name. I am not sure what to do. If I reclaim the correspon­dence, she will know that I have been snooping around; but if I don’t, when will I have time to install the hidden camera? I sit on the bed and think about my dilemma. I hear the key in the lock downstairs. There is no time to think anymore. I close the drawer quietly and tip-toe out of the room emp­ty-handed. I creep into my own room and lie on the bed. I pretend to be asleep.