The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (22 page)

‘Dad, are you coming for a swim?’ Rachel tries.

He doesn’t hear.

‘Dad?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Are you coming for a swim?’

‘No. No, thanks. You go ahead.’

‘OK.’ She walks off, looking back at him.

I sit beside him. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

I know he’s not. ‘I’m sure all writers go through this. I wouldn’t worry about it, Greg.’

‘I haven’t been a good father, have I?’

What?
‘You’re a great father.’

‘I’ve neglected the kids. Neglected you.’

‘Come on, Greg. Forget about that. You’ve been fine since we talked. Everything’s OK now.’

‘No.’ The word seems to reverberate in the silence that follows, making me realise the truth. This is more than writer’s block. This is more than Greg being run-down. I remember the websites on amphetamines and the list of symptoms caused by withdrawal. It’s like a blow to the chest. All of this has been about drugs. Which means: one, he’s stopped. And two, he lied.

‘I think I’ll lie down for a while,’ he says.

I could do with one myself.

He heaves himself up from the chair as if it takes all the energy in the world. And as I watch him go, I tell myself:
It’ll be OK. In a few days, it’ll be OK.

But it’s not OK. In the days that follow, rather than improving, Greg stops communicating completely, not only with us, but with the world at large. Phone calls, post, emails are all ignored. It’s the same with TV, radio, newspapers, even books. The only thing he embraces is drink. From mid-afternoon on, he’s nursing something. If it’s to lift his spirits, it doesn’t work. And it sure doesn’t do anything for mine.

Down, down, down everything goes – his head, shoulders, the edges of his mouth, his mood, even his voice. Every movement looks like it requires huge effort. Everything he does is in first gear.

He’s still in bed, one afternoon, when his father-in-law rings. ‘How is everything?’ Ben asks me.

‘Fine, Ben, thank you.’

‘And the children?’

‘Very well, thanks. Would you like to speak with them?’

‘Yes, yes, in a moment. Could I have a quick word with Greg first, please?’

I’m not telling him he’s in bed, not when he’s so obviously called to check up on him. ‘Just a moment and I’ll find him.’

I go up to the room. It’s dark, stifling, shutters and windows closed. Air conditioning off. He’s lying on his side, a pillow over his head.

‘Greg?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Ben’s on the phone.’

‘Tell him to fuck off.’

I laugh, assuming he’s joking, then turn on the air
conditioning
.

‘Go away,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Please. Leave me alone.’

‘What is
wrong
with you?’

‘I just need peace. Is that too much to ask?’

‘OK, OK, I’ll tell him you’ll call back.’
Jesus.

‘And turn the air conditioning off. The noise drives me mad.’

Biting my tongue, I do as he asks, then head for the door.

‘Lucy?’

‘What?’

‘Can you keep them a bit quieter?’

The children aren’t making a sound. I say nothing, just go back to the phone. Ben’s hung up. I find his number on Greg’s mobile and call him back.

‘Ben, I’m sorry for keeping you. I was working when you rang and hadn’t realised Greg’s actually taken the children to the beach. I’m sorry. I’ll get him to call you when he comes in.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine. I’ll get Greg to call you.’

‘All right,’ he says, not sounding happy.

‘Thanks for calling.’

When Greg does appear, an hour later, he doesn’t look like a man who has spent the day in bed. He looks like he could do with one.
I remind him of
the phone call. This time, he rings Ben back. And I hope he’s a bit more charming than he was with me.

At dinner, he won’t eat. Instead, he drinks. Wine. Then
whiskey
.

Later, on the terrace, while he stares off into the distance or absently watches two geckos scale the wall of the villa in search of moths, I try to read. I go inside to get a drink. When I come back out, he’s picked up the autobiography I was reading and is examining the cover. He opens it and runs his finger under the first line. H
e go
es back over it. Can’t seem to get beyond that. Over and over it he goes until he slams the book shut. I watch, in horror, as he flings it through the air. It lands in the pool with a splash.

‘I was reading that!’

‘
That?
The guy’s a writer, you’d think he’d know what plain
English
is.’

‘Maybe I’d have liked to have decided that for myself. For God’s sake, Greg. You’ve just ruined my book.’ I go get the net to fish it out of the pool.

His eyes register what he’s done. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to destroy it. I just got so
frustrated
. I couldn’t get beyond that first line. Here, let me do that.’ He reaches for the net.

I give it to him and he goes to fish the book out of the pool.

‘You might as well bin it,’ I say, when he gets it.

‘Sorry,’ he says again.

‘What’s wrong with you, Greg? Why are you like this?’

He walks back to the table, reaching for the whiskey bottle.

‘Drinking isn’t going to help.’

‘I’ll drink if I bloody well want.’

‘Right. Fine. You do that. Just don’t expect me to hang around and watch. I’m going. I can’t take this any more.’

‘Where?’ He sounds panicked. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Then, suddenly, I do. ‘The apartment.’

‘Don’t.’

‘I’ve had enough for one night. If you insist on being miserable, fine, be miserable, but don’t take it out on me.’ I leave, wondering how I ever thought that depression would be acceptable over a high.

23.

Y
ou OK?’ Grace asks when she opens the door.

I shake my head and the tears come.

‘Greg?’

I nod. She puts an arm around me and walks me into the sitting room, where she sits me down on the couch.

‘It’s all gone wrong.’ I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. ‘He’s miserable. He’s drinking. He snaps at me for the least lit
tle thing.’

‘Shhh, it’s OK,’ she says, rubbing my back.

‘He’s so down. He has no energy, can’t work, won’t eat. He’s grinding to a halt, Grace. I keep telling myself it’s because he’s come off drugs, but he’s getting worse, not better.’

‘Did he
tell you
he was on drugs?’

‘No. But what else could it be? He has all the signs . . .’

‘Have you ever seen any evidence of drugs?’

‘No. But it has to be . . . He was talking gibberish. His writing was bizarre.’

‘Can I ask you a question? When he was high, was he overspending, making any impulse buys?’

How could she possibly know?
‘Why? It’s not a medical complaint. Is it?’

She takes a breath. ‘It can be. Sometimes.’

‘Of what?’

‘What kind of things did he buy?’

‘A Porsche.’

She raises her eyebrows.

‘A diamond earring – for himself.’

She nods.

‘He dyed his hair white.’

I watch jigsaw pieces click together in her eyes. She scratches her hand, the way she always does when nervous. ‘Lucy, there
is
one other thing that maybe we should consider . . .’

‘What? What is it?’

‘I’ve seen patients with symptoms similar to Greg’s.’

‘And?’

‘Well, something I might have considered with them was
bipolar
disorder. Have you thought of that?’

My world stops. ‘No. No way. He doesn’t have a mental illness. He couldn’t. Not Greg.’

She clears her throat. ‘I’m not saying that’s it. Only that it’s a possibility.’

My mind is racing. ‘Spike Milligan had it. I remember now. Oh, God. It never goes away. You have it for life, don’t you? It’s up and down and up and down. And you can get hallucinations. A
nd . . 
. Oh my God . . .’ I’m twisting my hair round and round until it’s tight like a rope.

‘Lucy. It can be treated – successfully – with medication. It’s caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain and that imbalance can be adjusted with medication. And I’m not saying that he has it, only that it’s one option. There are others . . .’

‘But if he has it, if he is bipolar, why didn’t he tell me?’

‘He may not know. It can come on at any stage . . .’

‘What if he
does
know? What if he’s just not telling me?’

‘No, Lucy. Think about it. If Greg had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, Rob would have been alert to the symptoms. Families have to be. If he’d noticed a change in Greg’s behaviour, as he did at the barbecue, he’d have been very concerned, seen it as a warning of an approaching high. No. If Greg is bipolar, this is his first episode.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Lucy, there are loads of other reasons Greg could be depress
ed –
coming off speed, if he was on it, ME, glandular fever,
brucellosis
. . .
Bipolar disorder is just one possibility. Greg does need to see a doctor, though, ideally back in Dublin. You should try to get him home. The sooner the better. I’ll come back with you, speak to a friend of mine, Karl, a really great GP. He’s so copped on. He’d be a friendly face who could give Greg a thorough general
examination
.’

One of the boys starts to cry. Sounds like Jason.

She rolls her eyes. ‘Timed beautifully, as usual.’ She sighs. ‘Back in a minute.’

I watch her disappear down the hall and try not to envy her the normality of her life. Try not to envy her relationship, a relationship that may be under pressure, but at least is normal. Mental illness. This is the kind of thing that happens to other people, not me. I’m not strong enough for it. I don’t want to be. I want to run. Far away. But it might not be mental illness. It could be brucellosis . . . Brucellosis; I thought cows got brucellosis. Or it could be ME. If it
is
bipolar disorder, then none of this is his fault. He hasn’t lied. He can’t help it. He can’t control his moods and doesn’t understand why. If that is what’s happening, how can I walk out on him?
I wouldn’t expe
ct him to do it to me.

The following day, Grace takes Rachel and Toby off so I can talk to Greg. Who is still in bed.

‘Let’s go out,’ I suggest, hoping that we might be able to talk, away from the villa.

‘I don’t want to go out.’ This is the man I couldn’t keep in.

‘Come on. Your edits are done. No more deadlines. Let’s forget our responsibilities and just go to the beach like normal people.’

‘What do you mean, “normal people”? Are you saying I’m not normal?’

‘No. I just said we should go to the beach, not work so hard.’

‘You said, “like normal people”, implying I’m not.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t implying anything. We work too much and I just think we need a break.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘I know. I know that. Of course there isn’t. I just think that maybe you could have a shower, get dressed and we could go out, the two of us, get a bite to eat. We haven’t been out in ages.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘It’d do you good.’

‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. Out.’

‘OK, OK. Jesus.’ I get up to go. No point talking to him when he’s like this. ‘It doesn’t matter that
I
might like to go out, I suppose?’ I grumble my way to silence.

‘You don’t love me,’ he says.

That stops me. I turn.

‘And I don’t blame you. I’ve been a bastard.’

I come back to him, sit down. ‘Greg, of course I love you.’

‘I’m old, incompetent. I can’t even get it up, for fuck’s sake.’

What I say now seems very important. I take a deep breath. ‘Greg. No man can be expected to perform a hundred per cent of the time.’

‘Perform. That’s it. I can’t perform. On any front.’

I’m not letting the conversation down that route. ‘I love you, Greg.’ I lie down, facing him.

‘You’re lying.’

I sit up. ‘I’m
not
lying. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here.’

‘You’re going.’

‘I’m going to Dublin tomorrow, for the supermarket pitch, that’s all. I’ll be over and back in the same day. If I could get out of it, I would. But I can’t. This is a big deal for Get Smart. I can’t let Fint down. Grace will be here.’

‘You’re going to leave, like Catherine left . . .’

‘Catherine
died
.’

‘Because of me.’

‘That’s your father-in-law’s logic. Not yours.’

‘I made her pregnant.’

‘Stop this.’

‘I killed her.’ He squeezes his eyes shut. I’ve never seen him cry.

‘Greg, please. Don’t do this. It wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t.’

‘If I’d only kept my stupid dick to myself.’

‘OK. That’s enough. You’re being ridiculous, and you know it. Let’s go home. Let’s just go back to Dublin.’

He’s silent.

‘You’re depressed.’ There, I’ve finally said it. It’s an actual relief.

‘I’m fine.’

‘No, you’re not fine. You’re definitely not fine. I’m worried about you, Greg.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘You need to see a doctor.’

‘What kind of doctor? A shrink, is that what you mean?’

‘I don’t
mean
anything. All I know is that you’re depressed. And we need to do something about it. You need to see a doctor, someone who can just tell us what’s wrong.’

‘I can handle it.’

‘Please, let’s go home.’

‘I
said
I can handle it.’

‘Well,
I
can’t. I’m about to crack up, here. We have to go home. We have to sort this out.’

He closes his eyes, blocking me out.

‘Is it drugs? Were you taking drugs? Are you having withdrawal symptoms? Is that it?’

He looks at me slowly. ‘Lucy, I have never in my life taken drugs.’ His voice sounds tired – exhausted, but honest. And I believe him.

‘Have you ever been depressed like this before?’

‘When Catherine died . . .’

‘No, I mean when there was no reason to be?’

He suddenly seems to realise where this is leading. ‘I’m not depressed, I’m just exhausted. Burned out. I’ll be fine. Just let me sleep.’ He turns his back to me.

I leave the room, feeling like a failure.

When Grace arrives back with the children, she looks at me expectantly. I shake my head.

‘I shouldn’t go tomorrow,’ I say in a low voice.

‘You have to. I’ll be here; don’t worry. And, Lucy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I didn’t expect him to say yes immediately. It’s not easy to admit you’re in this kind of trouble.’

Colour is leaking into an indigo sky when the alarm goes off.
Careful
not to disturb anyone, I get ready, but can’t pass Greg’s room without checking on him. I know instinctively that he’s awake.

‘Are you OK?’ I whisper.

No answer. He’s breathing through his mouth, head turned into the pillow. Silently crying.

I sit on the bed beside him, take his hand in mine. ‘I’ll be back later. Grace’ll be here.’

He nods.

‘I love you, Greg. You know that, don’t you?’

He turns to me. ‘Why, Lucy? Please, tell me why.’

The need in this once confident voice almost breaks my heart. I think back to when we met. ‘Greg, I was asleep until I met you. You made me see the world from a different place. You taught me so much – how to let go, take risks, have fun, laugh. You inspired me. Taught me passion. Love without fear.’ I’m in tears now. I miss him so much.

‘Do you know that I wake up, every morning, with such a sense of dread that I can’t move, asking myself how I’m going to make it through another entire day . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lucy. I’m so lonely.’

‘How can you be lonely?’

‘I don’t
know
.’ He sounds totally exasperated with himself.

‘You’ve Rachel and Toby and me. And we love you so much.’

He sighs the deepest, most hopeless sigh.

‘I won’t go,’ I say, deciding.

‘No, you have to.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Lucy, go. Please, I want you to. I’ll see a doctor while you’re gone.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Greg, that’s great. It’s the right thing. I know it is.’ I hug him, believe him.