Closer Than You Think

‘No.’

‘What is it then?’

‘I mean your anxiety issues.’

‘So, I have mental health problems?’

‘Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.’

‘It’s a good thing?’ I said, my voice raising, ready for an argument I didn’t want to have, but my attachment disorder would ensure I did have, anyway.

‘No, Claire, it’s just a thing. We all have something, and it’s OK to call it what it is.’

‘You have something too?’ I asked, wishing I could take it back instantly.

‘Yes, no, right now I don’t. But I used to. And I still carry it with me. Everyone has something. A trauma, a grief. A mistake,’ he said, after a beat. I could hear something heavy in his voice.

I wanted to know which one of those three was connected to him. Was he grieving too? Had he suffered something traumatic as well? Had he made a mistake, or done something wrong in his past, like me. It made sense that I felt a connection to him. We both had a shadow.

‘Claire?’

‘I’m not mental,’ I said, trying and failing to stop myself causing a fight and making it easier to walk away.

‘Of course you’re not. Claire, we both know, the entire world knows who you are. And how brave and strong you have been. You are so strong, even with all of the struggles you have had to face.’

Somehow his words floored me and the fight in me dissolved. No one except Dr Porter had ever said out loud it was OK to have mental health struggles. It was refreshing to hear it called what it was. And unusual. My mum referred to my health as my ‘quirks’. It was anything but quirky.

‘Paul, this isn’t fair.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Us, you know, getting close.’

‘Not fair on who?’

‘You.’

‘Maybe I should decide what is fair on me and what’s not. Yes, if I’m honest, it’s hard when you disappear…’

‘Then maybe—’

He cut me off, but this time it was OK. ‘But it’s only hard because I care about you. Claire, I’m old enough to know life is hard, and for you, harder than most, and that sometimes, you need to take a step back. I understand. It’s OK. I think you’re brilliant as you are.’

I felt tears begin press against the backs of my eyes and I let them out, forming a glaze over my vision, turning the bushes I was looking at in my garden into an underwater reef. As I blinked, a tear dropped onto my right foot, and with clear vision I looked at the matted pink scar tissue that ran from the place my toes used to be up my calf. As if knowing I needed comfort, Baloo had wandered out of the kitchen and rubbed his back against my leg. Reaching down I gently stroked the back of his neck.

‘Paul, I will never be uncomplicated.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you be who you need to be. We are all complicated, that’s just how it is.’

Another tear fell, and I had to move the phone away from my face, worried he would hear my jagged breathing as I fought to hold on. Baloo jumped onto my lap and stroking him calmed me. After a moment, I felt like I could speak again.

‘Paul, I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Then don’t. Don’t run away. Not yet. I know you don’t want to.’

‘I don’t,’ I replied honestly. ‘But I might one day.’

‘And we’ll deal with that then. As hard as it is, let’s try being in the moment. Just two adults, enjoying talking to each other.’ I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

‘And when I need to back away, like I have done this week—’

‘Then we’ll text, and I’ll get on with on with the rest of my life – work, my girls. I’ve got lots of other things to do, you know.’

I laughed and wiped my eyes. He was right, of course he was. He had his own life, an adult life. I let myself forget that, instead assuming that things between us might be how Owen and I were. But it wasn’t; Owen and I, we were both just kids when we met. No jobs, no children, no mortgages, no worries. No scars. Just each other. This was different. We understood things kids couldn’t, we knew things kids didn’t. I needed to try and remember that.

‘So, what are you doing this morning?’ he asked, his tone suggesting he was smiling, like I was.

‘If I’ve not completely balls’d it up, seeing you?’

Chapter 7 (#ulink_f23ea747-c183-5555-a640-10db9bbcbc18)

9th May 2018

St Ives, Cambridgeshire

Paul and I mutually agreed to meet in St Ives town centre at a popular little café situated on the River Great Ouse. I went with Mum occasionally, and it always felt welcoming, safe. As I got ready, I couldn’t believe I’d been so sure about calling it off with Paul and yet I hadn’t. I questioned what that meant, and whether we had become honest and trusting friends, or something more? I didn’t know. It made me wonder for the first time, could I get back to where I was before? Could I be normal? In all of my battles over the past decade, I fought to find a ‘tomorrow’. But could it be, that tomorrow was finally here? Wondering hurt my head so I stopped myself. One thing was for sure, whatever Paul and I were, it was about to take a step forward. I just didn’t know which foot it would step on first.

I got ready to leave, dressing and changing a few times until I had an outfit I felt was right for the occasion. A pair of black skinny jeans and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved jade-green top. I felt daunted because I couldn’t wait to see him. I was still scared to leave the house, still carrying the icy hand that rested in my chest, waiting to pull my diaphragm into a panic attack. But sometimes, like now, it let me have a break, and I knew I had to seize the opportunity it presented.

I appraised myself in the mirror, making sure all the parts of my skin I wanted hidden were concealed. I wasn’t as slim as I was back when I ran, but I didn’t feel hideous for a change. I felt good, nervous, but good. Until today I hadn’t thought about how I looked – or rather, how I presented myself – in ages, and I’d missed the feeling. I hadn’t even considered what to wear on our first ‘date’, but let my mum guide my outfit decision. One that, in hindsight, made me look similar to her.

Slipping on my cream pumps I walked towards my front door, and the light feeling in my chest was gone. I was so caught up in the idea of being opposite Paul, hearing his voice, learning about his week, apologising for my behaviour, I had forgotten I needed to be in the world first. Before I could see Paul, I had to open my door and take that first step outside. The innocuous white UPC portal acted like a gateway. A passage to a place where I didn’t know who was behind me, I didn’t know what was around the next corner. Stepping towards it I quietly peered through the peep hole before removing the safety chain. Satisfied there was no one there I lowered myself enough for the long necklace to reach the lock and slid the key hanging from it in the door. I turned it slowly, hearing the lock snap open. Sliding the key out I grabbed the handle and readied myself to push down. The mechanics inside the doorframe would then slide the two latches in the top and bottom of the door and it would open. I had one more check through the peep hole and as I did, there was movement outside. A person walking away.

I panicked and stumbled backwards, grabbing the doorframe to the lounge to stop me falling. I crouched and moved into my living room and looked through the window so I could see the street. There was nobody there. I needed to lock the door again and had to fight against the paralysis in my muscles. I could feel myself shaking as I crept back to the door and lifted the handle, so it couldn’t be opened from the outside. I fumbled with unsteady hands at the chain around my neck to grab the right key. Sliding it back in the lock I turned, the snap of the mechanics engaging like music to my ears. Taking a few measured breaths, I placed my eye to the peep hole once more. The street outside my house was empty. I thought maybe, after being recognised in the supermarket, the young couple who helped me might have sold me out to the press, and they were doing a follow-up story about the ‘woman who lived’. But that was ridiculous, it was just a person, on their way to the shops or something. And I had blown it out of proportion.

‘Shit, Claire. Get a grip.’

Holding my breath, pulse hammering in my neck, I opened my front door and stepped rather hastily into the street. Locking the door behind me I felt my fingertips tingle with each surge of adrenaline that coursed through my veins. Lowering my head, I started to move, hoping I wouldn’t pass out. I focused on two things. The mid-morning sun was warm on the back of my neck and the patch of ground where my shadow and feet connected. As always, I counted, this time deciding to find and log cigarette butts. It was harder than counting chewing gum as there seemed to fewer of them these days, but this meant I had to look harder and so it served its purpose. I found one still burning, its end glowing a brilliant red as the hot embers died. I stopped and watched the small fire within fade to black.

I only saw a handful of people, all on the other side of the road and thankfully, heading in the opposite direction. As I turned onto London Road, I could see the beautiful St Ives Bridge that crossed the River Great Ouse, which distracted me, until I heard the sound of a man coughing behind me. I hadn’t noticed anyone follow me when leaving the house, which meant that they were already on London Road. I knew I shouldn’t panic. It was a busy road and a nice morning; I was bound to have someone behind me. And yet, I felt my blood move through my body that bit quicker. He coughed again, this time a little louder, or perhaps a little closer. I couldn’t tell. Up ahead was the bridge, and just on the other side, the café where I was meeting Paul. I knew as soon as I saw him I would feel calmer, so I upped my pace.

I stepped onto the bridge, heard the cough again, and this time I was sure it was closer. Whoever it was, they were gaining on me and my anxiety was turning into a panic attack. I felt that icy hand on my diaphragm once more, plucking like a harpist, playing its tune as it had for years, and it took every ounce of my willpower to stop myself running as fast as I could. But I knew it was a battle I was losing. I heard a sniff, only a matter of feet away and, looking at the floor, I could see the tip of his shadow stretching out over my right shoulder. His head was disproportionately long, like a monster. I wanted to look behind but knew I shouldn’t, so instead I took my phone from my pocket and using the glass like a mirror I snuck a peek behind me.

It was hard to make out his features but I could just see that the man behind me was older. His hair was thin, his face pitted with signs of wrinkles. I watched as he coughed again, lowering his head. Then when he looked up, I was sure his eyes locked onto mine though the screen and the icy hand pulled so hard I thought my lungs would tear away from my chest wall. My eyes began to brim, and my flight mechanism tried to power my legs into a hobbled run. But I knew if I ran now, I would run for years, as I had done for the last ten. I was tired of it, and I thought I had beaten it in recent months. I thought by agreeing to go to Ireland, by letting myself meet another man, by slowing down on my doctor appointments until I no longer went, and weaning myself off my medication, I was beating it. Evidently, I wasn’t. That part of me that wanted to create distance and then hide was still with me. The part of me that ended up cowering behind a tree or in a shop doorway hadn’t gone.

I wasn’t supposed to be that person. I wasn’t supposed to be what Tommy Kay wanted me to be. He’d wanted me dead, like the others, like Owen, and being like this, someone who was too scared to be outside, I might as well be dead.

But I couldn’t let myself hide anymore. I couldn’t let myself wish I was invisible. So, despite my head’s instruction to run, I didn’t. I stopped, turned and looked onto the river, pretending to immerse myself in the swans swimming towards the bridge, a mother followed by two cygnets. I leant on the ancient wall, my hands gripping the stone to pin me to my place.