The traffic increased as they made their way into London, and so did Emily’s anxiety. She had no idea what her mother would be like when she saw her; the last time she’d thrown a pitcher of water at her head.
“Nervous?” Owen asked with a small smile, and Emily nodded.
“I have no idea what to expect.”
“The nurse wouldn’t have asked you to visit if she didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“I know.” Two hours ago, when Emily had rung, the nurse Karen had told her Naomi was “stable”—a word that was reassuring without being terribly encouraging. Emily had no idea what stable looked like when it came to a conversation.
Owen parked the van and then took a seat in the entrance hall as usual, giving Emily a wry and encouraging smile. “I really like this chair,” he told her, and she couldn’t help but laugh, a nervous little giggle that had him reaching over and squeezing her hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “And I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
Emily walked to the ward on watery legs, and the nurse Karen greeted her with a friendly smile. “Naomi has definitely been more stable since we’ve started her on the new medication,” she explained to her as they headed towards her mother’s room. “She’s on a regular doze of olanzapine, which has helped stabilise her moods, so there are fewer ups and downs.”
“Okay,” Emily said. “What are the potential side effects?”
Karen gave an understanding grimace. “There’s a wide range, as there are with any of these medications. At the moment we’ve noted that Naomi seems a bit drowsy, and may have some issues with her memory and speech.”
Was that all? Emily bit her lip to keep from saying something sarcastic. It wasn’t Karen’s fault, and in any case Emily already knew how the side effects of the medications her mother was prescribed could be almost as bad as the disorder itself. Almost, but definitely not quite. Yet once they started to wear off, and they had to be changed or the dosage upped, then the whole agonising process of adjustment began again. It was a terrible, never-ending cycle that both Naomi and Emily were desperately tired of.
“If you need anything, or your mother becomes agitated, please just pull the red cord.” Karen gave her a kindly smile. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you. She’s been asking for you.”
“Has she?” Emily’s throat closed and she had to make herself swallow past the lump forming there. “Thank you,” she said, and she opened the door to her mother’s room.
Naomi was sitting in a chair by the window, her shoulders slumped, her gaze vacant as she rested her chin in her hand. Rain streaked the window like tears, obscuring the grey-on-grey view of a car park.
“Hi, Mum.” Emily’s voice sounded croaky and she tried again. “How are you doing?”
Slowly, so slowly, Naomi’s gaze swivelled towards Emily, recognition flickering in her eyes after an endless moment.
“You came.” Her mother’s voice was slightly slurred and strangely flat, both undoubtedly results of the medication.
“Yes, Karen said you were up for visitors.” Somehow Emily wasn’t able to keep herself from taking an awful, jolly sort of tone, like some sort of demented school matron. She hated it, but Naomi didn’t even seem to notice.
“I’m not sure I’m up for anything. They’re all just trying to chivvy me along.” Naomi let out a defeated sigh.
“They’re just trying to help.” Emily took a step into the room, her smile seeming to slide all over her face. “How are you feeling?”
A twitch of her mother’s shoulder was the only response she got. Goodness, but this was hard. Emily remembered it all too well from three years ago—the initial rage, and then the horrible flattening out, so it felt as if her mum was gone, even when she was right here, and Emily had no idea what to do, how to be. She felt as if she got everything wrong—her tone, the questions, the way she kept trying to coax her mother along as if she were some sort of sulky toddler. But what else could she do? Should she do?
“One week down, just three more to go,” she offered hopefully, although she realised belatedly that might not even be true, and it made it sound as if her mother were in prison. “The nurses seem to feel you’re making progress, Mum, so that’s good. Really good.”
“What is progress in a place like this?” Naomi shook her head. “I don’t want to be here.” She spoke flatly, but her face crumpled and she drew a shuddering breath that sounded like a sob. “I don’t want to have to be here. I don’t want to be the sort of person who ends up in a place like this, again and again.”
“I know,” Emily said softly. She was far too near tears herself. She hated seeing her mother like this; sometimes she thought she’d prefer her when she was manic, happiness bordering on hysteria, sometimes frightening but surely better than this deadness.
But then she recalled the coming down, that consuming, catastrophic crash, and she knew she didn’t prefer it. She couldn’t. Even so, this was hard, for both of them.
“Mum, if you concentrate on getting better, you’ll be out of here sooner,” Emily said quietly. “And you can get back to normal life…” If such a thing existed.
“I’ll never be out of here.” Her mother sounded both resigned and despairing. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing does. If I leave, I’ll just end up in here again, won’t I? One way or another.”
“As long as you manage your medication, that doesn’t have to be true,” Emily said as firmly as she could. “You can manage this, Mum. You have before, for years at a time.”
But Naomi had already turned her face to the
