Читать книгу My Pear-Shaped Life - Carmel Harrington - Страница 16

Hope Crossing Addiction Treatment Centre, Tipperary, Ireland

Greta went to the small ensuite bathroom and splashed water over her red puffy face. There was no mirror over the sink, or in fact anywhere in her new bedroom. Greta wondered if it was because people might be tempted to smash the glass and cut themselves. Not an hour in rehab and her mind had already gone to self-harm. By the time she’d finished her three-week stint here, she’d be a basket case.

Not that she cared about the mirror. She didn’t need reminding of how she looked. She knew that her eyes, once one of her best features, were now dull and small, like pebbles lost in her round face. Her skin was blotchy and red.

At only six p.m. the rest of the evening loomed ahead of her. She flicked through a bundle of leaflets that sat on the bedside locker. One was a schedule of group classes for the forthcoming week, counselling, meditation, yoga, meal times. Another outlined the treatment plan.

We holistically approach addiction, working with mind, body and spirit to come together in one healthy life.

Addiction. There was that bloody word again. Every time Greta heard it she wanted to jump in a shower and scrub herself clean. She felt like a fraud. Greta was not an addict and was most probably taking a bed from someone who genuinely needed it. Once again she asked herself how had this happened to her? And the sting in the tail was that she wasn’t even famous. She was forever reading about A-listers in Hollywood disappearing to the Betty Ford for a reboot when life got too difficult for them. She’d even daydreamed about being that famous and needing rehab herself one day too.

But not like this. There were no celebrities here. It was most likely full of junkies and alcoholics, who’d been found huddled under a railway bridge, shooting up or sculling cans. Not ordinary people like her. OK, things may have got out of control lately, but she was handling it.

The fallout from her bathtub incident had been apocalyptic. Her mam had started to cry and said, ‘You never sat still, not even for a moment, when you were a child. But now it’s as if a tornado is tossing you around and around. I can’t reach you to pull you out. And you can’t get out yourself either. Let us help you, please G.’

So here she was, at Hope Crossing, feeling like Dorothy dropped into the Land of Oz. She looked down at her red Converse and clicked her heels to escape. Unfortunately this was real life, not a childhood fantasy.

Greta was still smarting from her first encounter with Caroline, the rehab nurse, who had searched Greta’s bags the second she’d arrived.

‘You can’t do that surely!’ She was indignant at the invasion of her privacy.

‘You have nowhere to hide in this place. Learn that little lesson right up front, and it will be easier for you to settle in,’ she replied, not unkindly. The first things to be confiscated were Greta’s phone and iPad. ‘We find that it’s in the interest of patients to have time away from all outside distractions. Think of your time here as a digital detox. If you need to make a call, you come to find me, and we can discuss it.’

Caroline then rifled through Greta’s make-up bag and took out her tweezers and nail clippers.

‘Why are you taking those?’ Greta ran her hand over her chin, already feeling the start of regrowth of a hair. ‘What do you think I’ll do with them? Pluck myself to death?’

‘Never mind your tweezers, how will we call our daughter if she has no access to her phone? Or the family WhatsApp group!’ Emily was stricken at the thought.

‘Sorry, but there are no phone calls from family allowed until Greta’s counsellor says it’s OK for her to make or take them. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you informed of any issues that you need to know about,’ Caroline replied.

And it was in that moment that it hit Greta that if they had her devices, she couldn’t log on to Instagram. No Dr Gale. For three whole weeks. No lovely supportive messages from her Uncle Ray, who always seemed to know what to say to cheer her up.

She had to find a way to keep her iPhone and iPad. She looked at Caroline and decided she was probably more of a reader than a social media lover. She had that geeky look about her. It was time for a white lie. ‘When I can’t sleep, I like to read my Kindle app on that iPad.’

Caroline was unmoved.

So Greta ploughed on, ‘I won’t switch on the Wi-Fi, you have my word on that. I get that you don’t want me to talk to the outside world. And, quite frankly, I’m ready for some solitude. I just want to read my books.’ She tried to think of a title of a book to throw in, just to validate her argument. Her mind went blank. What was that book she did in school? She should have listened more. ‘Dickens and the like.’

She could feel her mam and dad’s eyes on stalks as they listened to her. OK, she may not have read much of the classics before, but she might do if she had her iPad.

Caroline shrugged and placed the devices with the rest of her contraband in a box, then she stuck a white label onto it with her name typed across it. ‘All of these will be waiting for you when you leave. We’ve a pretty decent library in the TV room, so you’ll have lots to choose from there. Not sure if we have any Dickens, but I’m sure we can find some if you let me know the exact title you prefer.’

Greta gave her the stink eye. Wagon.

‘And now, all that’s left to do is search you.’

‘For what?’ Greta took a step backwards. This was going from bad to horrific.

‘You’d be surprised what people try to sneak into rehab.’ Caroline said this in the same cheery voice that made Greta want to reach over, and punch her.

‘My daughter wouldn’t be that stupid.’ Stephen said, backing his daughter’s integrity in a statement that would come back to bite him in moments.

‘You could at least buy me dinner first,’ Greta laughed, trying to distract Caroline, who was relentless in her search as she patted her down. Her hands were everywhere.

And then, to Greta’s horror, Caroline paused as she came to Greta’s breasts. Without too much effort she had found her secret stash of pills, hidden in her bra. She could feel her parents’ disappointment fill the air between them. Once again she had messed up. You’d think she would get used to that feeling, but it always took her by surprise.

‘This …’ Caroline pointed to the tablets, ‘goes down the toilet. And, just so you know, if you are found with any contraband in the future, you will be asked to leave.’ She didn’t sound so cheery anymore.

Until her parents walked out the door, ignoring Greta’s pleas to take her with them, she didn’t quite believe that this was happening to her. She looked down at her hands which began to shake and tremble. The bedroom started to close in on her, the four walls pulsated as they moved nearer and nearer. If she didn’t get out of this room, straight away, she knew that she would suffocate.

Sticking her hands in her pockets to try and stop the shaking, she made her way to the TV room. About a dozen people were sitting in front of the TV, with a few reading books. They looked up briefly as she entered, then lost interest and went back to whatever they were doing. That was fine with Greta. Because her plan was simple. She was going to avoid talking to any of her fellow … what should she call them?

Patients?

Addicts?

Inmates?

Yes, inmates. They were all prisoners.

‘First day?’ A voice said from behind her. ‘First days are the worst.’

The voice belonged to a tall man, youngish, she guessed in his mid- to late twenties. He looked at Greta with interest. ‘Come over and sit with me if you want.’ He nodded towards a table at the back of the room. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m Sam.’

Greta wasn’t sure she wanted to sit with him or anyone else. She had no interest in adding a junkie friend at this stage in her life.

‘Or don’t. Suit yourself,’ Sam said, then walked away.

On the other hand, Greta didn’t fancy going back to her pulsating bedroom. Maybe Sam was her best bet for now. He had good taste in movies at least, wearing a Jurassic Park T-shirt, one of the originals, baggy and worn with age. She followed him over to a table in the corner of the room, where two men were playing a game of dominos and a woman was reading a battered copy of Unravelling Oliver. She knew the feeling; she was unravelling by the second here.

‘Say hello to another newbie,’ Sam said to the three people seated at the table. They gave Greta the once-over. ‘That’s Rory, Tim and Eileen.’

‘Hey.’

‘What are you in for?’ Rory asked.

Greta wasn’t prepared for that question. It made her sound like she’d committed a crime. And in truth, she didn’t know how to answer it.

‘Booze by the look of her, I’d say,’ Tim piped in.

‘Well I won’t lie, I could do with a glass of red right now,’ Greta said, which made them laugh.

‘I’d say painkillers. Most of the under thirties are in for drugs of some kind,’ Eileen said, then grinned triumphantly when she saw recognition flash in Greta’s face. ‘Knew it.’ They all began high-fiving her.

‘Excuse me, I don’t take painkillers,’ Greta said loudly just as the room went quiet. She felt eyes on her from all directions, looking to see what the hullabaloo was about.

‘If it’s not painkillers, it’s definitely pills of some description. We’re a nation under sedation,’ Eileen said.

‘Give the lady some space lads,’ Sam said. ‘She’s just arrived. Here, take a load off.’

Greta sat down beside him and to her horror realized that she had to squeeze her hips between the two arms of the chair. Bulges of fat spilt out from under the wings on either side. If they noticed, they didn’t say anything. But every part of her cringed in embarrassment.

‘It can get boring in here. So we play the “Guess the Addiction” game to pass the time. No offence meant,’ Sam said.

Greta couldn’t help herself; she was now wondering what he was in for. And as if he pulled the thought from her brain, he said, ‘Gambling.’

‘Alcohol,’ Rory said.

‘Booze for me too,’ Eileen added.

‘Heroin,’ Tim said.

‘So what’s the deal here? Do I have to make a big Hollywood dramatic reveal and say, I’m Greta Gale, I’m a drug addict?’ Greta asked.

‘It doesn’t have to be Hollywood but it does have to happen,’ Sam said.

‘I blame my mother’s addiction to soap operas. Irish, UK, American, Australian, she watches them all. And that’s all very well when it doesn’t affect my life. All they do is make her overactive imagination worse. And to make matters even more dire, she’s riled up my dad and my brothers too. There’s not a member of my family now who isn’t convinced that I’m a druggie. When the truth of the matter is that I have gotten a little too reliant on sleeping pills. No big deal. So, for the purpose of accuracy, I’m Greta Gale, and my parents think I’m a drug addict.’

Sam, Rory, Eileen and Tim smiled knowingly, like they were privy to some private joke.

‘Hey!’ Eileen said, pointing at Greta. ‘You’re not the doctor who wrote all those books, are you? That Doctor Greta Gale who is always on TV!’

‘Sorry to disappoint but I’m the messed-up Irish version who lives at home with her parents. And if I were that Greta, I’d demand a better room than the one I have.’

‘It ain’t the Shelbourne for sure,’ Eileen agreed.

‘Are there any celebs here, by the way?’ Greta asked.

‘No. But there is a guy who looks a lot like Donald Trump. He even has the weird hair,’ Eileen answered.

‘I saw him on the way in,’ Greta shuddered. ‘Not a good look.’ She held her shaking hands out. ‘And to add insult to being here – no offence – I think I’ve caught some kind of weird virus. I can’t even Google it to see what it might be.’

Sam reached over and placed his hands over Greta’s to quieten them, ‘How long since you had any pills?’

Greta looked at him sharply, to see if he was taking the piss, but could only see concern on his face.

‘The shakes are from detoxing,’ Sam explained.

Greta chose to ignore his diagnosis. ‘I need a coffee. Is there a Nespresso anywhere?’

‘There’s a tea and coffee station in most common areas.’ Sam nodded in the direction of the kettle.

She stood up to investigate, taking the chair with her. She pulled her bum from its clutches and, with as much dignity as she could muster, walked over to make a drink. ‘Anyone want one? This is all herbal teas and decaf. Where’s the real deal?’ She picked up a raspberry and fennel tea, sniffed it, then put it back.

‘Caffeine is a stimulant. So it’s banned,’ Eileen shouted over. She looked almost gleeful at Greta’s obvious annoyance.

‘Sshh.’ A wild-looking woman with wiry grey hair shouted, ‘Some of us are trying to watch the TV.’

‘You get used to the herbal stuff. Try a peppermint. Will help with your stomach,’ Sam said.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.’

‘Just wait,’ Sam said.

Greta didn’t care for the doom-and-gloom forewarnings. She was scared, and she felt rubbish. If she ran out the front door, she wondered if she could hitch a lift home to Dublin? Knowing her luck, she’d be picked up by a serial killer. Could she get a message to Uncle Ray? He’d get in the car and come and get her. She could hide in his house. But when her family had staged their intervention and insisted she come here he’d ignored her pleas for help and agreed with her parents. She was on her own. The loneliness floored her. She’d never lived away from home before. She wanted her mam. But most of all she wanted to go home.

‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Nice talking to you all,’ Greta said, waving goodbye to them. She walked, half jogged back to her room, throwing herself onto the bed, panting. Then she sobbed until there was nothing left inside of her. She blew her nose and realized that she was alone, with only her thoughts for company. She wondered if Dylan had sent her any more messages. She hadn’t told him where she was going, just that she was sick and wouldn’t be in work for a while. He must be so annoyed with her. And she couldn’t get the scrappy little dog that had been hanging around their street out of her head. She’d asked Ray to find his owners before she left. She hoped he was OK.

When Caroline brought her to this room earlier today, she’d given Greta a green journal. She explained that keeping a diary was compulsory. What could they do to her if she didn’t comply? A vision of herself locked in a padded white room, in a straightjacket, sprang to mind. Could they do that? Bloody Caroline was certainly strong enough to put her in one.

Greta picked it up in desperation, hoping it might give her something to do to help pass the time. At the top of each blank page, there were prompts to fill in.

Hours slept.

How I felt.

My truth.

She hadn’t the first clue as to what to write. Despite receiving lots of pink, secret diaries with padlocks over the years from Santa as a kid, she’d never written a word in them. She wasn’t one of those reflective types who continuously needed to self-analyse. But things had changed a lot in the past twenty-four hours. She was in prison now – or as good as. Sighing, she realized that she could lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling with her eyes wide open. Or she could give this a go. With nothing else to do and the whole night to do it in, she picked up a pencil and wrote her first entry.