The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,25
since Freddie died has been a fresh mountain to climb, and even though I’ve never been a sporty kind of girl, I’ve somehow found the strength to put on my walking boots each morning and begin that lonely climb again. For the last few days I haven’t bothered to lace up my boots, because it hasn’t seemed to matter so much if I cut the soles of my feet to ribbons. I haven’t watched my step or thought beyond the next bend in the track, because all roads lead to the safety of Freddie waiting at the crest for me.
But like all things, there is an inevitable trade-off. A bargain must be struck and the realization that the price might be my sanity is seeping into my bones like cold bath water.
I’m starting to resent being awake, and to resent everyone in my waking life too. I snapped Mum’s head off on the phone a couple of days ago and Elle said I looked like crap when she called around yesterday morning. I bailed on going to Mum’s for breakfast with her; I was borderline rude because all I could think about was the pink pill waiting for me on the kitchen worktop. She left after a few awkward minutes, her shoulders slumped and deflated, and I watched her go, feeling like a cow but unwilling to call her back because the siren call of the pill was too loud, too persuasive to ignore. And that’s the real problem: I see the road ahead and it’s littered with their trampled feelings as I turn more and more away from them in favour of the other place, in favour of Freddie.
I set the bottle of pills down on the kitchen floor beside me, and after staring at it for a few jagged, indecisive seconds I stretch out and move it beyond an arm’s length away.
Can I bear to take one every other day? Every three days, maybe? Once a week? I frown, remembering that I took two on Saturday, bingeing on Freddie like a greedy child. And that’s what worries me most. That I won’t have the strength to resist falling so deeply into my other life that I become more there than here, too immersed to make my way safely home again.
Tuesday 29 May
‘I’m thinking of going back to work soon.’
My mother tries unsuccessfully to mask her surprise. We’re in her small and immaculate lounge, barefoot as always in deference to the cream carpet; it’s not just in the hall, she loves a bargain and had it laid throughout the ground floor. Considering this is the lounge, there are quite stringent rules around the kind of lounging that is permitted. Red wine is a complete no-no, as is any kind of non-white food. So white wine is allowed, and mash or rice pudding. I’m not even kidding. Elle and I put away tins of the stuff throughout our teenage years, and despite the fact that the carpet is at least fifteen years old, it looks almost as good as new. The sofa covers the only stain that will never come out: a teenage Elle came home off her face on gin and blackcurrant one Christmas morning after visiting her then boyfriend down the road for less than an hour. Impressive really, until she threw up on Mum’s carpet and passed out cold in her Christmas dinner.
‘Really?’ Mum says. I can see she’s trying to choose what to say next. I imagine her bypassing ‘about bloody time’ and pausing to consider ‘thank God for that’, before finally settling on what actually comes out of her mouth: ‘Are you sure you’re ready, love?’
I shrug and half shake my head, even though I’m trying to nod. ‘I can’t stay at home on my own for much longer without going round the bend, Mum. And I’m sleeping better now with the tablets.’
What I don’t say is that I need to give myself something to do; something tangible to focus on in the real world. My job as events manager at the town hall isn’t rocket science, it’s mainly desk-based, but I work with a good bunch of people and the pay is decent. They’ve been kind and allowed me the time off so far as paid sick leave, but it can’t go on indefinitely.
Mum comes and perches beside me on the sofa, her hand on my knee.
‘You could always come back and stay here for a while. If it’d help?’