The front door opens and closes, opens and closes. But one of them is always here. The shower runs. The TV talks. The washing machine buzzes. Mum cleans my bedroom around me as I stare at the wall until I fall asleep again.
Even when it’s quiet, there’s no quiet in the house.
People come to see me every day. Strangers. Home Treatment Team. Different strangers every day. A tall lady with long dark hair and a deep, sleepy voice. A guy with no hair and a round stomach, who keeps telling me to smile … Mum gently pulls me out of bed to see them. She wraps my dressing gown round me and leads me to the living room. They’re always sitting on the sofa, sipping tea. ‘You’ve been through a lot,’ they all say. ‘Just take it a day at a time.’
I nod. It seems the right thing to do.
They talk to me about illness, about broken legs and broken minds, and how they really aren’t that different. Both take time to heal. They say I’ve had a ‘psychotic episode’ and tell me about the importance of positivity. I’m on the road to recovery, they say. They want me to talk. And they assure me that they’re listening. But it’s hard to talk when everything feels so heavy inside. My thoughts aren’t racing any more. Instead, they’re so slow they’re almost still, barely thoughts at all. Nothing feels real. All I want is sleep.
Then, one day, I hear Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen. My bedroom door is open, and they’re whispering loudly.
‘I just don’t understand!’ Dad says. ‘It’s been days now – what’s going on? All she does is sleep!’
‘She’s ill,’ Mum says. ‘It will take time.’
‘What kind of illness is this?’ Dad says. ‘She needs to get up. Get dressed. She’s not helping herself.’
‘It’s … it’s an illness of the brain,’ Mum says, and her voice is urgent now. ‘These things happen! And please, keep your voice down!’
I block out their voices. I don’t want to hear about how broken I am. I close my eyes tight.
In the seconds before sleep hits me, I think of Josh’s warmth.
‘You’ve been inside for four days,’ Mum says, crouching next to my bed. She slides her hand under the duvet and grips my fingers tight. ‘Come, sit in the garden with me. It’s a lovely evening. Fresh air will help.’
She’s left the bedroom door open and the smell of fresh paint is drifting in from the hallway. I try not to think about what it means, that sharp, new smell.
‘Tired,’ I tell her.
‘Raheela rang again,’ she says, her voice still upbeat. ‘Why don’t you let her visit? It will be good to see your friends.’
I get a waft of sweat as I pull the duvet tighter round me. I know it’s not Mum. It’s me. I’ve been here before. ‘Not ready,’ I say.
Mum is quiet. I wait for her to leave, but she keeps hold of my hand. After a few minutes, she squeezes my fingers so tight it hurts.
‘Come on, betee,’ she says, and her voice is desperate now. ‘You have to find strength inside. Dig deep, bring your strength to the surface.’
I don’t say anything. I don’t have any strength. I don’t have anything inside.
‘You think I find it easy whenever I go outside now?’ she continues. ‘Well, I don’t. Some days I want to hide in the house again. I want the world to continue without me. But I get up, get dressed and step out. Courage, betee. You must find your courage.’
I pull my hand away from Mum’s grasp.
‘Maybe … maybe we should get someone in to pray for you?’ she says. ‘Whatever this thing is, we can fight it together.’
‘Tired,’ I manage to say. I feel so drowsy. ‘Rest. I need rest.’ My body is heavy but I manage to turn over. I cover my head with the duvet. Close my eyes. I give in to the exhaustion. I let sleep take me.
I’m standing in our hallway at home, but it’s long, narrow, too brightly lit. Like the hospital corridor. There are no family photos on the walls, no paintings, just chipped pale-yellow paint. I’m wearing an extravagant salwar kameez, the kind you’d wear to a wedding: a red silk dress embellished with jewels; shimmery gold trousers fitted at the ankles. My feet are bare. Live music is playing, thrumming through the house: the tuck-tuck of a tabla and the soft tinkle of a tambourine in the background.
People move around me but I’m perfectly still. Their mouths open and close as they talk and laugh, but I can’t hear them. All I hear is the music, the beat of the drum. Tuck-tuck-tuck. Like my heartbeat.
My eyes are fixed on the doorway at the end of the corridor.
Josh. He’s looking at me. Grinning. He stretches his arms and holds on to the top of the door frame. He lifts himself up, swings in the air, and I see his gold embroidered salwar kameez. The tabla beat gets louder, faster. My heart races.
I try to walk towards Josh but my feet are stuck. I try to call him but no voice comes out. I peer around, desperate for help, but no one’s paying me any attention. I try to grab hold of Mum’s friend, Aunty Roxanna, from our old neighbourhood. But my hands slip through her arms. She’s a ghost.
Or am I?
I look back at Josh, but I can’t see him properly any more – there are too many people in the way. I keep trying to move my legs, my feet. I try to call out to him. Wait for me, I want to say. I’ll find a way to reach you.
Next to the doorway, Mum and Dad are shaking hands with people. Mum’s slim, like she used to be, and she’s dressed in an embroidered full-length pink skirt suit and heels. Round her neck is a silver dupatta. She glances at me but then quickly looks away. Dad’s wearing a suit like he wears to work, but he has a pair of gold khussa on his feet, with tips that curl upwards.
The doorway sways. I catch a glimpse of Josh. He holds on to the frame and stumbles.
The music gets even louder, faster. Tucktucktucktucktucktuck tucktucktuck. The tambourine bashes against the sound of the drum.
And then Josh fades, ghost-like, translucent. He disappears.
The crowd turn to face me. Their outfits shimmer; their jewellery glistens. Gifts appear in their hands, wrapped in shiny paper and ribbon in red, green, blue.
The drumming stops.
Aunty Roxanna, who’s much older than Mum, is holding a box of mithai. She presses her hand against my head – a blessing – and smiles her toothless smile. Then she opens the box and takes out a golden ball of the sweet dessert. Pushes it into my mouth. I bite into the soft, gooey sweet. It’s sickly and stings my throat. Everyone cheers.
I realize that this is a wedding. And I’m the one getting married.
Where Josh stood minutes ago, a guy appears. He has golden brown skin, like mine, and he’s wearing a man’s version of my outfit. Red and gold. Long tunic over trousers. He has the same hair as Josh, curled up into a wave at the front, but his is black.
My clothes suddenly feel too heavy.
The tuck-tuck of drums starts again. Dad starts clapping. Everyone joins him. I stare at Mum, my chest bursting from all the things I want to say to her. Help me, I say with my eyes. Please. But she just smiles. There’s a huge gush of wind and her dupatta flutters violently; it extends from her neck and waves like a flag, as if she herself is the pole.
‘Josh,’ I say, opening my eyes. I expect it to be dark outside – it feels like I’ve only been asleep for a little while. But it’s light. Morning. The next day.