Читать книгу After You Fell - J.S. Lark - Страница 18

‘Are you decent?’ Simon’s call resonates through the bedroom door.

‘Yes.’

The door opens in a hesitant way that says he has come to be a father, not a brother.

I smile as I say, ‘Yes,’ again, in a tone that adds, go on, then, speak up. I move my leg so he can sit on the edge of the bed.

He holds out the stack of medicine packets. I left them on the kitchen work surface. I should’ve put them in the cupboard away from the boys.

‘Thanks.’ I take them and put them on the short chest of drawers beside the bed.

‘You okay?’ There’s an undercurrent in the enquiry.

‘Yes.’ Why?

‘You’ve been disappearing a lot lately.’

‘I went to Swindon to find out about another job. I told you.’

‘I know what you told me, after agreeing you weren’t ready to go back to work. But it’s not just that you are disappearing physically, you’re disappearing into yourself a lot. Even when you’re with the boys, you go silent at times when they’re talking to you. And why are you so determined to look for jobs in Swindon?’

‘Because I’m well enough to live alone and I can afford somewhere in Swindon if I find a job. I’ve had a heart transplant, Simon. I have a lot to think about. I can do things I haven’t been able to do for years. I’m thinking about what I want to do with my life.’

A smile touches the corners of his lips before a sigh leaves his throat, then he breathes in. ‘Let me know if I can help.’

‘I am the only one who can decide.’

His lips purse and he leans to one side to reach into his trouser pocket then pulls out a brown plastic bottle. ‘The tablets for your bipolar.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve been counting the pills to see if I’m taking them? You weren’t there to count my tablets when I lived with Dan.’

‘I know.’

I snatch the bottle, rattling the pills. ‘I am taking them.’

‘Good.’

‘And I’m not taking one in front of you because I’ve already taken one.’

‘All right. I believe you. I care about you, that’s the only reason I interfere. The last thing you need is to be sectioned now.’

‘Thank you for reminding me about one of the worst times in my life. That’s the last thing I want to think about now.’

‘I know. But you are so physically healthy I want to make sure you are thinking about your mental health, too.’

‘I am. You don’t need to lecture me. I don’t want to be unwell.’ I think this lecture was spurred on by Mim. She’s been watching me with increased intensity.

My bipolar frightens Mim. She’s scared of it – of what the illness might do if it takes control of me. The obsessions, envy and anger.

A deep-pitched laugh ripples from his throat. ‘I know. Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.’

There’s only one thing to do: stick out my tongue, in the childish gesture that was a favourite of mine when I was small and he was overbearing.

He mimics the gesture: a grown man sticking his tongue out in answer.

This is why we are special, because we still connect with one another as a brother and sister as though the years of pain growing up have not occurred. Perhaps because we had already grown up when we were still so young. Perhaps because he shares the same parents-shaped hole. The same journey of pain and isolation.

The moment takes me back through the years to the hours we spent in foster homes when we retired to the shared bedroom he insisted on, to the place where it was just us. The place where I was wholly understood and we clung to each other because there was never anyone else to rely on.

The bipolar medicine bottle is left on the bed as he stands.

I grasp his hand, holding it tight and saying nothing because we do not need to speak to say things.

His fingers squeeze mine, telling me the things I know about what he feels for me.

When his hand slips out of mine it is always a conscious decision on my part to let him go to Mim and the boys. I learned to let go of him a long time ago. But when I want him back, he always comes.

‘Goodnight.’ His baritone rings around the room.

‘Goodnight. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’