And now I am here again. Still yearning. Still imagining. Still hoping.
I lie down, and feel the pleasant coolness of the cotton pillow slip on my skin. I open the first letter, and I begin to read.
Chapter 11
26 June 2003
Hey Bambi,
I’m writing this because I can’t get in to see you, babe, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried, so many times, but I can’t get past the guards at that place they took you to. I’m not your next of kin, and your mum isn’t answering my calls. Nobody will listen to me. I don’t even know if you’ll get this but I’ve got to try.
I miss you so much, and I’m so sorry all of this has happened. You know you’re still my world, don’t you, Jess? I feel so bad I couldn’t help you – that I didn’t spot things earlier. I suppose I was caught up in my own pain and didn’t realise how far away you’d gone.
I knew you were sad, and that you’d lost weight, and you were struggling to talk to people and leave the flat, but I didn’t understand how serious it was. When you were having the nightmares and waking up in a panic, I thought it was normal, that it’d pass. I spoke to the policewoman, the one who’d been around a few times, and she said she’d seen it before in cases like ours and you’d get better in time.
That sounds like I’m making excuses. I’m not. It was up to me to look out for you, to look after you. That was my most important job, and I let you down. I don’t have any excuses, I was just tired and upset and angry all the time myself, and trying not to show it in case it made you feel worse. I kept telling myself it’d get better, and before I knew it six months had gone, six months without Grace and without things getting any better.
That day we had to call the ambulance was one of the worst days of my life. I called your mum because I didn’t know what else to do, and she got them out, the doctors and stuff, the people who decided you had to go away.
I know they were right, Jess, and I hope you’ll forgive me. You were crying and clinging onto me, and then holding the doorframe with your fingertips, kicking and screaming, begging me to stop them. Saying you’d be better, you’d be good, if I’d let you stay at home. With me and Gracie.
I wanted to, I really did – but I knew your mum was right. I don’t want to blame her, because she was right. It might have been an accident, leaving all the gas on, I know – we all forget things sometimes. And when you said you wanted to stay with Gracie, I’m sure you just meant in the place we lived with her.
But there’d been all those other things I’d been trying not to notice. You weren’t eating, or washing, or doing anything. You jumped out of your skin every time you heard a car in the street, and sometimes you’d just stare at me like you had no idea who I was. Like you were lost in your own world.
I had to call your mum, Jess – nobody loves you more than me, but I just thought you needed her. I couldn’t get you to stand up, you slid down the wall in the kitchen and lay on the floor, like all your bones had melted. There’d been those roadworks outside all day, with the drilling, and the noise was really getting to you, and when I came back from the kebab shop I found you like that. With the cooker on, which I’m sure was a mistake.
So I called your mum, but I didn’t know what would happen. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know they’d take you away. I’ll never forgive myself for letting it get that bad in the first place – I only hope that one day, you can forgive me.
I hope you can stay strong, and that they’re helping you in there. I couldn’t do that for you at home, so I have to hope that they can do that for you in there. At least they’ll stop you from hurting yourself.
I can’t stand the thought of you alone and scared and thinking I’m not nearby. I am – I’ve spent hours outside the hospital, just waiting to see if I could visit. It’s getting a bit tense now – some of the staff are OK with me, but some of them want me to bugger off. I don’t know why I can’t visit – all I’ve been told is that you’re too sick right now. I’m sure they know what they’re doing, and the rules will change soon. If not, I’ll ask your mum to speak to the staff, or take me in with her. I hope it’s soon – I want to hold you tight and let you know I’m still here. Let you know that baby, I love you. I always will.
Joe xxx
5 July 2003
Hey Bambi,
How is it going in there? I feel a bit daft writing these letters, not knowing if you’re getting them, or if they’re going in the bin. But your phone is still at home, and I can’t get through when I call the hospital. They say patients in your unit aren’t allowed to use the phone.
I’m starting to think there’s more going on than you being too sick to see me. I don’t think it’s normal to not allow visitors. It’s been a few weeks and I think maybe I’m on some kind of blacklist – story of my life, eh, Jess? I’m not sure, but I think perhaps your parents have told them not to let me in, and they’re in charge it seems.
We should’ve run away to Gretna Green like we joked about and got married, then nobody would be able to keep me away from you. Probably I’m just being paranoid – you know what I can be like, thinking The Man is out to get me.
Anyway, I hope you’re feeling a bit better, whether I get to see it or not – you’re what matters. It doesn’t look very cheerful in there, but I don’t suppose it would. I’ve been talking to Belinda – her mum was in and out of psychiatric (have I spelled that right? I don’t think I have – I can put a shelf up straight, you can do the spelling!) hospitals all her life, as you know.
Belinda says even though they look grim, they usually do the job in a crisis. So I have to hope that’s what will happen here too. That before long, you’ll be out, and stronger, and we can be together again.
I miss you a lot. The flat is so quiet without you, without Grace. I’m not working at the moment – Bill down at the garage was really good with time off after the accident, but he’s had to get someone else in now. Apparently I was spending too much time stalking you outside the hospital! He says I can come back when things are more sorted, but for now he needs someone he can rely on and I guess that’s not me at the moment.
But don’t worry about that – I’ll be fine, and I’m getting everything ready for when you come home. I’ve painted the living room that weird colour you like – duck egg? What a stupid name for a paint! – so I hope that cheers you up when you get back. I’ve given it all a good clean, and I found a brilliant poster of Titanic in the charity shop – it reminded me of our first date night.
We were, like, the only people in the world who hadn’t seen it by then. Actually I have a confession – I had seen it. I just pretended I hadn’t because I wanted to be in a dark room with you, doing the sneaking-an-arm-around-your-shoulder thing. It was really cute when you ran around outside afterwards, holding your arms up and saying ‘I’m flying, Jack!’
Feels like a million years ago, doesn’t it? We’ll watch it again when you get home. We’ll pretend the sofa’s a lifeboat, and snuggle up together, and eat that toffee popcorn you love. I hope you like the poster anyway – I got a frame for it and everything, like a proper grown-up!