Saving Grace (26 page)

It feels as if someone has a vice around her head that is gradually tightening and the painkillers have no effect. An hour later, she staggers to the bathroom where she throws up, retching until there is nothing left to come up.

‘Grace?’ The noise has awoken Lydia. ‘What’s the matter? You look terrible.’

‘I think it’s a migraine,’ Grace manages through gritted teeth. ‘The pain is terrible.’

‘Have you had migraines before?’

‘No,’ Grace grunts as she crawls back into bed, moaning with pain, while Lydia runs downstairs to fill a bag with ice.

‘This is so odd,’ Lydia murmurs, almost to herself, as she sits on the bed next to Grace, holding the bag of ice on her head as Grace continues to moan. ‘Why would you suddenly get a migraine now?’

‘The pills,’ Grace groans.

‘What pills?’

‘I stopped.’

‘What? I thought you were going to wait until after we saw Harry.’

‘Too long. I needed to stop immediately.’

‘Tell me you didn’t just stop cold turkey.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh Lord, Grace. Let me go and look it up. This might be part of the withdrawal.’ Taking Grace’s pill bottles from her bedside table, Lydia goes downstairs to her computer, where she reads up about the side effects of withdrawal. She sits for an hour, scribbling notes, before going back upstairs where Grace is still groaning.

‘Any better?’

‘Nuh,’ Grace grunts.

‘Take one of these.’ Lydia hands her a pill, which Grace obediently swallows, desperate to do anything to stop the pain.

‘What is it?’

‘Lexapro.’

Grace frowns. ‘Why? I don’t want to take anything anymore.’

‘But that’s why you feel like your head is going to explode. It’s one of the delightful symptoms of withdrawing from Lexapro too quickly. Along with, if you’re interested, something called brain zaps, which apparently feels like you’re getting small electric shocks every few minutes. The way to do it, they say, is very, very slowly. You reduce your dose every week by two and a half milligrams, and take supplements – fish oil and B-12 – which I’ll get for you tomorrow. I know Harry couldn’t see you until Friday, but I’ll call in the morning and say it’s an emergency. You can’t carry on like this. I’m sure there must be something he can give you.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get out of bed again,’ manages Grace, wincing with the pain, but an hour later, the Lexapro has indeed taken the edge off the headache and she is able to go back to sleep, the bag of ice slowly melting into the pillow behind her head.

D
r Harry is appalled by Grace’s story.

‘Do you know,’ he says, shaking his head with disgust, ‘ninety-five per cent of these types of medications are prescribed in America, and America only makes up five percent of the world’s population! What does that tell you about your diagnosis? Not to mention and forgive me for getting worked up about this, but I just read that in 1996 the rate of diagnosis for bipolar disorder was one in twenty thousand. And do you know what it is today in America? Do you know?’

Grace shakes her head.

‘
One in twenty!
And they think it’s going up to one in
ten!
It’s the drug companies pushing these terrible drugs, and I’m sorry you’re going through it, but happy you came to see me.’ He looks down at his notes, shaking his head in disgust. ‘Perphenazine!’ he mutters. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve been put on some of the heaviest anti-psychotic drugs available to man. And you weren’t just taking one! You were taking a cocktail! These are drugs used to treat severe mania; schizophrenia. I’m appalled. I’m sorry, but I’m just appalled.’ He takes a deep breath, composing himself. ‘Lydia is right about a slow weaning off and, as you said earlier, reducing by two and a half milligrams every couple of weeks should be fine. The supplements are going to help, but take double the dose of fish oil and take more if you get headaches. I’m going to give you a couple of things that will help. The first is a migraine medication, Imigran, in case the headaches are as bad as they sounded last night, and Prozac.’

‘Prozac?’ Grace is horrified.

‘Prozac is only in the short term and has no withdrawal symptoms, but it will help with the brain zaps and aid you in transitioning off the Lexapro. I also want you to have some acupuncture and physical therapy, which will help tremendously with the headaches.’

‘I’ll do anything,’ says Grace. ‘Anything not to go through what I went through last night. That was the worst pain I think I have ever felt, including childbirth. I honestly thought about throwing myself out the window at one point, anything to stop the pain.’

‘Do you have a headache now?’

‘Yes,’ admits Grace. ‘But it’s bearable, although I’m terrified it’s going to escalate.’

‘And you took the Lexapro last night? The full ten milligrams?’

Grace nods.

‘Tomorrow try seven-point-five. If the headaches come back, try alternate days – one day ten, one day seven-point-five until you’re able to do seven-point-five every day. It’s going to take a little while to get you off, but it will be worth it. In my opinion you should never have been on any of this medication in the first place.’

‘So, why do you think they thought I had it? I definitely wasn’t . . . myself. I was getting angry in a way I never had before.’

‘Of course you were,’ Dr Harry says. ‘Unfortunately it happens to all women your age as they approach the menopause. Do you know at what age your mother went through the menopause?’

‘No,’ says Grace. ‘She died a long time ago and we weren’t . . . close.’

‘Ah. Well, I’d hazard a guess it’s around the age you are now. We’ll run the tests, but I already know everything you described is entirely down to your hormones.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ says Grace, finally feeling as if she has found someone who will be able to bring her back to herself.

T
hat afternoon, as Grace’s eyes are watering from slicing dozens of onions for a French onion soup, the phone rings.

‘It’s Clemmie,’ says Lydia, as Grace slowly takes the phone. Grace had emailed Clemmie as soon as she arrived in Dorset, telling her not to worry about her, that nothing was as it seemed, and that she would be in touch in a few days. She had asked Clemmie to give her just a little space, that they would speak very soon.

Clemmie had clearly spoken to Sybil, knew Grace had her passport and deduced she was staying at Lydia’s. Where else could she possibly be?

‘Mum?’ Clemmie’s voice, so achingly familiar, brings tears springing instantly to Grace’s eyes.

‘Darling!’ Grace says, then finds she cannot say anything else.

‘Mum? What’s happening? Why are you in England? Why did you run away?’ Clemmie sounds like a little girl, frightened and alone, as Grace’s heart aches for her.

‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Grace says. ‘I’m sorry. You know this isn’t that I left you. I was just overwhelmed by the direction my life was taking and I knew I wasn’t going to get better in that hospital.’

‘Are you sick then? Is it true? Are you bipolar?’

Grace takes a deep breath. ‘Clemmie, it’s true that that’s what your father thinks, but it isn’t true. There’s no question that I’ve been depressed, and that I haven’t felt right for a long time, but I truly know most of that is because of the medication I’ve been on. The doctor I’m seeing here seems pretty sure I’m coming up to the menopause, which is why I was so . . . moody, I guess. Angry. But he’s very clear that there is no way I’m bipolar, and the drugs I have been on for the past six months are the ones that have made me ill, not the other way round.’

Grace hears Clemmie take a deep breath. ‘Did the drugs make you assault Beth?’

‘Oh, Clemmie. I know that’s the story she’s telling you, but I’m beginning to realize all kinds of things about Beth. I slapped her, yes, but I was at the end of my tether. She isn’t what she appears. I know you may think that I’m telling you this, imagining all kinds of things because I am crazy, bipolar, whatever, but I assure you, she is not what she appears and there is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that she is behind much of what has happened.’

Clemmie is sceptical. ‘Mum, how could she have made the diagnosis? She couldn’t have been behind it.’

‘No, but I believe she planted the seed in your father’s mind. I believe she decided, very early on, that she needed to discredit me in order to make the moves on your father.’

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ says Clemmie. ‘It all sounds a bit far-fetched. I like Beth, Mum. You liked her, no, loved her before all this.’

‘I did. But if I’m honest, I have to say there has always been something I’m not sure about. Clemmie, darling, I’m not even asking you to believe me, but watch what happens next. You think she is innocent and just your father’s assistant, but I guarantee she will have moved in within the month and will be sleeping in my bed.’

‘There’s no way, Mum!’ Clemmie actually laughed. ‘First of all, she’s young enough to be Dad’s daughter, and secondly, you’re his wife. There’s no way any of this would happen.’

‘If it did, would you believe me?’

‘It’s not going to so it’s irrelevant.’

‘But if it did, wouldn’t you then say I wasn’t out of my mind?’

‘Yes. If it did, I would then have to concede that the world had gone crazy, rather than my mother. But Mum, seriously, what are you going to do? Beth says she’s pressing assault charges, although Dad’s trying to persuade her not to. He says it will instantly become a news story and that will be terrible publicity for him.’

‘Christ,’ says Grace, realizing there is little Beth won’t do to stake her claim. ‘Do you think he will persuade her not to?’

‘Yeah. I think he’s going to give her some fabulous bonus to convince her not to say anything.’

‘What a mess.’ She sighs. ‘Clemmie, you do know I love you?’

‘Yes, but I still don’t understand why you went to England.’

‘I’m safe here,’ Grace says. ‘This is home.’

‘I thought home was Sneden’s.’

It
was
, thinks Grace, but doesn’t say it out loud. ‘They’ve had me on a lot of medication which has done a tremendous amount of damage. I need to get better and I can do that here.’ She doesn’t tell Clemmie that the thought of returning to America, to the mayhem that is surely waiting, makes her feel nauseous at the very thought.

‘I love you,’ says Grace again. ‘I love you so much.’ When she puts down the phone, she bursts into tears.

‘I
am in England,’ she writes to Ted, later that night. ‘I spoke to Clemmie earlier, to reassure her that I love her and that I’m fine. I have no idea if you are worried about me, but I needed to write and let you know that there is no need. I can’t quite believe how things spiralled out of control in the way that they did, but I do know I need to stay away for a while. Whatever you might think, I am not bipolar. I have found a doctor here who agrees and who is horrified at all the medication I have been on. At some point I will be ready to sit down with you face to face and sort out our future, but I am not ready yet. If our marriage has meant anything at all to you, I would hope that you will let me heal in peace. Grace.’

She is still in tears an hour later when Lydia walks in, with tea.

Lydia says nothing, plants the tea softly on the table, then sits next to Grace, slowly rubbing her back until Grace’s sobs become hiccups, then exhausted, shuddering inhales, before finally ceasing.

‘I just miss him,’ Grace says, her voice breaking as the sobs threaten to return. ‘I miss Ted. He’s my husband and I can’t believe what’s happening to my life. I can’t believe it’s all gone so horribly wrong. He’s obsessed with this Beth, this evil, Machiavellian girl. He’s even based the character in his new book on her, or at least on who he imagines her to be. This is obsession, and when Ted is obsessed, there’s no room for anything, or anyone, else. She has her claws firmly into him and she isn’t going to let go, even if he wanted to get out, which I can tell quite clearly he doesn’t.’

‘You still love him?’

‘Of course I still love him! He’s my husband!’

How, she thinks, could everything go so wrong?

I
t has been three months since Grace landed in a safe place, three months since she came home to Lydia. She is settling into the quiet rhythm of Lydia’s life, hours spent reading, recovering, cooking, and finally, now that she is clean of all medications, she is beginning to feel like herself.

Lydia walks into the kitchen where Grace is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading The
Times.
‘Grace? I spoke to Patrick yesterday. He’s coming to London next week and I told him you were here. He’d love to see you.’

Grace looks up and groans. ‘I’m not sure I want anyone to see me looking like this.’