Part 19 (2/2)
'See you tomorrow, then,' she answered. But then, as I turned to go, she clasped my hand in hers. 'Sophie,' she said. 'Remember?' Her eyes shone. 'You said you'd call me Sophie.'
She was one hundred per cent lucid. I knew it. I could see it. I felt my throat catch. 'Absolutely,' I replied.
In the end, Sophia didn't make her mother's funeral. It took place just three days later, and it was decided, in view of everything that had happened, not to tell her. With her still being so weak and emotionally unstable, the professionals felt that to make the trip from the hospital and attend the service, especially with the highly likely family tensions, was too risky it might cause a marked deterioration in her mental state.
It was then that I think it sunk in just how seriously ill she'd been, and what a long road she had ahead of her to recover.
'A whole potpourri of stuff,' was how Dr Shackleton described it to me. She was clinically depressed, had been having acute psychotic episodes, and it had all been symptomatic of what had originally been flagged up as mild sociopathy, but which they now felt was indicative of an extreme stress reaction not good for her condition, but also not unsurprising, considering the enormous traumas she had been through, together with her continuing guilt over her mother's 'death'.
In the end, for all my desire to understand what was happening in Sophia's head, all that mattered and it did matter was the general feeling of optimism among the medical professionals that with the right support psycho-tropic drugs, cognitive, therapeutic, whatever Sophia could be rehabilitated.
But in the meantime, after ten days in hospital, during which I did visit daily, as promised, she was to spend the coming months in an adolescent mental health unit, about an hour or so's drive from where we lived.
'So what about these paintings?' Mike wanted to know, as we got her things together. He'd taken a few days off work to support me, and I couldn't have been more grateful to have him around. I'd taken up spontaneous random crying as a kind of new hobby, it almost felt like, and it was so unlike me that I even mentioned it to Dr Shackleton when I went down to the surgery to give him Sophia's now redundant hydrocortisone injection kit to dispose of. His response had been clear. What else did I expect? He reminded me how it was when you're at home with a new baby: just the emotional whirlwind, the lack of sleep, the anxiety about the future ... you'd need a hard heart, he rea.s.sured me, not to feel tearful not after what I'd been through.
I looked at the two canvases Mike was holding up for inspection, the two from Jean that she had chosen to go on her bedroom wall. She also sent a card, bless her, which I knew would please Sophia.
'The blue one,' I decided. 'Put the other one in the box.'
We'd been involved in the whole process, and since almost all Sophia's worldly goods were with us we had to make the decision for her which she was happy to leave with us about which of her things we should bring to the unit, and which were destined, in the short term, for our loft.
'Funny you should say that,' Mike said. 'I would have guessed the exact opposite. But then, that's what I love most about you, my darling. Always contrary ...'
'You mean mysterious and unpredictable, don't you?'
'Nope,' he said, grinning. 'Just contrary.'
The whole family had rallied round for the day of Sophia's move, and I was grateful. Not just because it reminded me just how precious my family were to me, but also because it sent a clear message to Sophia that, even though she was almost alone in the world, in terms of her blood relatives, she would at least know the Watson clan were there for her.
Kieron's Lauren had made a picture a montage of snapshots from her Wicked party and Riley had made a lovely hand-painted card, from her and David, including poster-print handprints and footprints from little Levi. And, inspired by this, even Kieron, perhaps the most relieved she no longer lived with us, did something similar with Bob's paws. It was saying something that the blue paw prints all over the kitchen floor didn't even make me snappy. They made me smile.
And the adolescent unit, when we saw it, filled me with hope and happy thoughts. It was small, set in lovely gardens, and had a palpable air of optimism. It was nothing like my mind's eye imaginings of such an establishment: all locked gates and shadowy figures, looking lost and forlorn.
No, I thought, as we unloaded the car of the possessions we'd brought with us, I knew I could rest easy at least on that score.
Sophia had now been told about her mother. But if I was tense about seeing her in the aftermath of that and I was I needn't have worried; so locked in her own troubles, she'd apparently barely registered it. According to John, she had been told the news by her uncle, who'd visited her in hospital, and, apart from commenting to the ward sister that she was 'glad Mummy was properly asleep now', she'd displayed nothing in the way of emotion. It's not sunk in yet, I thought. But then, with her sedated and sick, how could it?
Ironically, as we'd left home, I'd seen marked on our kitchen calendar the next scheduled date she'd been due to go and visit Grace. How much water had pa.s.sed under all our bridges since I'd written that? An awful lot, most of it turbulent. But now all was peace and calm even if chemically achieved, as it was in Sophia's case and as Mike and I helped her sort out and put away her belongings it felt almost as if she was doing nothing more unusual than arriving at a boarding school for the first day of term. Only with a better room. It was on the first floor, with a view over the surrounding countryside. It would definitely have pa.s.sed muster for a rural B&B.
'It is scary,' she confided in me, again looking and sounding so much more her proper age. 'All these strangers and all these people asking questions.'
'You'll soon settle,' I told her. 'And Mike and I will come and visit you again next weekend. By which time I don't doubt you'll have made some new friends.'
She lowered her voice. 'Except they're all mad here,' she answered. Then she completely surprised me by nudging me in the ribs and bursting out in great peals of laughter.
'How do you think she seems?' I said to Mike when we left her half an hour later, having promised to be back the coming Sat.u.r.day. 'She certainly seems to have developed a sense of humour about it all.'
'Impossible to say,' he mused. 'A little odd, a little not-quite-really-with-it. But I suppose that's to be expected, if she's on so much medication.'
'I think she'll be fine,' I said, looping an arm though his as we walked back downstairs. 'And I'm not just saying that, love. I really think it.'
And I was doing just that when our progress was arrested by a voice.
'Mr and Mrs Watson?' It was a male voice. We turned around. 'Casey, isn't it?' the tall man before us now asked. 'I'm James Johnson, Sophia's uncle. I recognised you straight away,' he went on, gesturing to his head. He half-smiled then, at my obvious confusion. 'Sophia's been telling me all about you,' he explained. 'And showing me pictures from her memory box. Photos ...' Now he pointed towards my head. 'I would have recognised you anywhere,' he said. 'By the black hair.'
And the lack of inches, I thought, but didn't say. I looked more carefully at him. You could definitely see the likeness. He looked quite well-to-do. A professional. His suit looked expensive. And I remembered what I'd been told about the family finances.
He looked a little tense, a little embarra.s.sed, though. 'I just wanted to say thanks. I know we've not spoken, but, well, we really are very grateful.'
I wondered about the 'we'. Which 'we' would that be?
'We've just been doing our job,' Mike said gruffly. I don't think either of us knew the lie of the land here. But the man shook his head.
'No, you've done way more than that.' He spread his hands. 'Look, it's been a mess. It's still a G.o.d-awful mess. But I just wanted to let you know that we're I'm extremely grateful. You know the score about what's happened. Chapter and verse probably more than I do. But I just wanted to let you know that, well, we all know Sophie owes you her life. As will she, of course, eventually, G.o.d willing ... but, well, I just wanted to thank you. Whatever else is true about what's happened in my family, it really matters to me that my sister's her mother's legacy isn't another needless death.'
Neither of us had an answer ready to roll when he finished speaking, so some seconds pa.s.sed while we both tried to work out what to say. In the end it was me who spoke.
'Thank you,' I said to him. 'As Mike says, we were only doing our job, caring for Sophia. But, well, as I say, thanks. I hope it works out for you all.'
'Me too,' he said. He actually seemed like a nice, normal man. Perhaps he'd come good after all. Step up, as they say, to the plate. Perhaps he already was. He was here. That was the main thing. He had accepted some responsibility. Which was all good. Now the future looked just that bit brighter.
'Chapter and verse,' I whispered to Mike as we said goodbye and walked to the car. 'That's what we have to say to John Fulshaw next time. That we ain't not doin' nuffin' till we get chapter and verse.'
'Good luck with that,' he grinned, getting into the car.
'That says b.u.t.ter chicken!' I repeated. 'Look that's a double âtâ, not an ânâ!'
'It's definitely my bhuna, mum. Come on, give it here and let me open it.'
'Be my guest,' I said to Kieron, 'but a pound says I'm right!'
It was the following Sat.u.r.day evening and we were having the best day ever. Mike and I had been up to see Sophia, and spent a perfectly pleasant hour with her in the suns.h.i.+ne, after which we'd gone back to her room which was now looking more lived in, and I'd been moved to see three things on her little bedside table. A photo of all of us, a get-well card from her granddad and, best of all, a lovely photo of her mother, in a silver frame.
I didn't know why, but there was something about that collection of items that gave me all the hope I needed to know that, ultimately, all would be well. Or at least she'd have a shot at it I wasn't that naive; nothing in life was certain but at least the confidence that she was in with a fighting chance.
And I'd returned home to a surprise Mike been keeping from me for days now, when he mysteriously fired up his laptop and then Kieron's printer and, after a couple of mouse clicks, out had spewed two tickets. He'd secretly booked us a week in Corfu, leaving in less than forty-eight hours.
And now we were all a.s.sembled, and it was a Watson family take-away. The three of us, plus Lauren she and Kieron were off to Cornwall in the morning plus Riley and David and little baby Levi, who didn't much care for curry but had grown extremely fond of poppadoms he was sitting in his high chair sucking on one right now.
'Well, I don't care whose curry is whose,' Riley said now. 'I've got my lamb pasanda, so I'm all sorted down my end.'
'Hang on, love,' David said. 'Didn't you order an extra naan?'
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