The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (32 page)

He produces that adorable smile of his. ‘Fonsis Zavier.’

‘You’re a sweetie. You know that?’

‘Yup.’

I smile, kiss the top of his head, read
Captain Underpants
, hug him goodnight. It’s great; we’ve moved on to hugging.

‘’Night, bub,’ he says.

‘’Night, Captain Underpants.’

I’m alone with Rob. It’s what I’ve been waiting for and simultaneously dreading all afternoon. Sitting on the couch, he looks so
trusting
, so bloody balanced, I know I can tell him.

‘Rob, I need your help.’

‘Sure. What’s up?’

I try to organise my thoughts. ‘Remember the other day, when I said I thought Greg may have been hypomanic when we met?’ He opens his mouth to speak, but I have to keep going.

‘It’s just that if he
was
, then I’ve never known him otherwise – except depressed. I’ve never known him just as he is. And I need to. I need to know what was a symptom and what was really Greg.
You
know him, Rob. He’s your brother.’ He sits up. ‘There’s something else, and I can’t get it out of my head. Hilary told me something happened between her and Greg on the night he fired her.’

‘No way.’

‘I keep telling myself that whatever he did when he was high doesn’t count, that it’s what he’s
normally
like that’s important. But I don’t
know
what he’s normally like with women. I don’t know what he’s normally like, full stop. I need to.’

‘OK, firstly—’

‘Rob, please tell me you won’t go back to Greg with this.’

‘Come on, Lucy. Give me some credit. This is the last thing he needs to hear.’

‘I’m sorry. I want to trust my love for him – so badly – but I need to get to know him all over again, learn what’s real, solid, what I can believe in.’

‘I don’t know where to start.’

‘What’s he normally like with women?’ Trust is the biggest issue, I realise. Without it, there can be no relationship. ‘Please don’t keep anything from me. I need to know.’

‘There’s nothing to keep. After Catherine, there was no one.
I trie
d to set him up a few times; he told me where to go. How did he put it? He had a wife to remember, children to raise and a book to write. If someone flirted with him, he skedaddled. He was a one-woman man. Until you.’

‘Do you think he and Hilary ever . . . ?’

‘No! Their relationship revolved around the children. I’m stunned by what you’ve said.’

Maybe Rob’s not the best person to ask about women. ‘Tell me about Greg before I knew him, before all this.’

‘What do you want to know?’

I remember what attracted me to him. ‘Was he always an
optimist
?’

‘An optimist?’ He makes a face. ‘I wouldn’t say an
optimist
. . . More a realist. He’s always looked to a better future, but worked hard for it, you know?’

Immediately, I rationalise. To be optimistic would have been naïve; blindly believing that good will happen negates the need to work for it. It strikes me: not only do I have to uncover the real Greg, but I have to re-evaluate the qualities I once thought
important
. Can I do that with everything?

‘But he was always sharp, right?’

‘Sharpest tool in the shed. Always.’

‘He took life pretty seriously, though, didn’t he?’ I don’t want a yes here.

‘Yeah, but he could be fun. He’s always had a sense of humour. When we were kids, if I’d had a really bad day at school, to cheer me up, he could be so fucking funny. He’d mimic one of the
teachers –
any of them – he had them all down to a T. He’d have me
cracking up.’

I smile, remembering how he used to do that with Matt. How simple and uncomplicated everything was then, when he was just this great, fun guy who embraced life and me. I miss him so much.

‘Lucy, I could talk and talk about Greg. But you’ll see for yourself if you just wait. He’s a great guy – a special guy, actually. I’ve seen him through the best and worst times, and, to be honest, I wish I were more like him. That’s all I can say. You just have to hang on – like he has to. Just hang tight till he gets through this. The good times will come again.’

I nod. I might not be able to trust the times we’ve had, but if I hold on until Greg has stabilised, then I can judge. Like Grace said, if Greg comes out of this and it’s not working, then we can end it, knowing we gave it our best shot. So I’ll wait for the boy who brought up his kid brother. I’ll wait for the man who survived the loss of his wife and raised his children alone. I’ll wait for Greg to fight his biggest fight, this unfathomable illness that has taken his mind hostage. If anyone can get through it, he can. And yet, the insecurity of not knowing who will emerge at the other end remains. Maybe Greg Millar doesn’t need to be impulsive, fun, impetuous and gregarious for me to love him. But those are the things I fell for. If they’re gone, what will be left behind?

33.

A
few days before the children return to school for the autumn term is too late to get organised, I discover – the hard way.
I h
ave to queue with them for books, uniforms, shoes and haircuts. First day back, we’re twenty minutes late, teaching me the valuable lesson of how long it takes to get two children ready to a deadline.

School has its tests, too. When collecting Toby, first day, I stand alone, watching mothers (who all seem to know each other) stoop to kiss and hug their children. I wait, feeling inadequate, insecure. Toby appears, his eyes searching the mums. When he sees me, he smiles and starts to run. My heart soars. I squat. He nearly knocks me over. Can what I’m feeling really be love?

When Rachel comes out, half an hour later, it’s a different scene. The older children talk together in small groups until they see their parents, then just walk to them. No big deal. No hugs. The relief I feel reminds me that, while Rachel and I may be getting on well, our relationship does not extend to physical contact.

Now that the children are back at school, my parents mind them in the afternoons, allowing me to return to a full day at work. I take a late lunch and nip to the school to taxi the kids to my parents’. Dad would willingly do this, but I want to be there for them when they come out. I also want, I discover, the same things for Rachel and Toby that a real parent might – to like their new teachers, find work easy, be happy, fit in.

One day, I overhear a woman invite her daughter’s friend over for the afternoon. I ask Rachel if she’d like to do the same. She would. And does. I take a half-day and a girl called Keelin comes to visit. To distract Toby from following the two of them around, I decide to take the stabilisers off his bike and teach him to cycle. I hold the saddle, instructing him to keep his weight in the centre and look where he’s going rather than at the pedals. The girls potter around. I so like this, I so don’t like that. It reminds me of how young Rachel is, but how old she wants to be.

It never occurs to me that Greg might have liked to be the one to teach his son to cycle, until I see his face when I tell him I have. It’s then I appreciate that, in trying to do my best, I’ve started doing too much. Roles are blurring. I have to step back.

When Toby decides to take up hurling, I see my chance. Maybe Greg would like to be there for his first lesson?

He would.

It’s a Friday. I collect Greg. Together, we pick the children up from school. We drop Rachel off at hockey then drive to the Gaelic sports grounds with Toby. He jumps out and runs to catch up with friends from his class. He’s given a bright blue helmet and a hurley stick. So cute – the helmet’s almost bigger than him.

Before long, there’s a hall full of what look like mini aliens racing around in circles. They have no fear, tearing after the ball, sticks swinging wildly and the sound of clashing wood echoing. Toby’s a little flier. And a great man for stopping the ball. He isn’t like I used to be at sport – an eye-closer. I’m so proud of him.

‘Come on, Toby, whack it.’
Was that me?

Greg looks at me and laughs. Actually laughs.

In the car on the way back, Toby is animated. ‘That was the best day of my life. I was Man of the Match, Dad. Did you se
e that?’

Greg turns around to him. ‘You were great, Tobes.’

‘Was I?’

‘Exceptional.’

‘Was I better than exceptional?’

‘You were spectacular.’

‘Was I better than spectacular?’

‘You were splendiferous.’

‘That good?’

‘That good.’

I look in the rear-view mirror at a flushed and beaming child. And I have a flavour of what it must feel like to be a real mum.

That evening, while two exhausted children watch
Finding Nemo
, Greg decides to go for a swim. I throw on a hoodie and we make our way to the end of the garden. The breeze carries a September chill, and already the light is beginning to fade. The water is grey and choppy. The surface is thick with bladderwrack.

Greg wades, knee-deep, preparing to dive off.

‘You’re mad,’ I call, then realise what I’ve said.

‘You’re only realising that now?’ He smiles, then dives in and swims out with a strong overarm. ‘Come on in,’ he calls. ‘It’s . . . freezing.’

‘Tempting. But I think I’ll pass.’

He swims for a good five minutes, then back in, runs up the steps and shakes himself on me. I scream, jump out of the way and throw him his towel. He snatches it mid-air and begins to dry himself. I’m surprised by the shape he’s in. He’s heading for a six-pack.
I f
eel something I haven’t felt in weeks. It catches me by
surprise
as it did that first time, in a snug on the outskirts of Dublin.

‘That’d cure any man’s depression,’ he says, dragging on his denims. I hand him his shirt. He takes it from me and kisses me quickly. His lips are cold and salty. Alive. I look into his eyes and return the kiss. Properly. He pulls back, his eyes searching mine as if to say, ‘Do you really want this?’

‘Don’t stop,’ I breathe.

Then his mouth is on mine, icy fingers cupping my face. Oh, God. I’ve missed this. Freezing hands slip up under my T-shirt. He groans when he reaches my breasts. Our hips press together, our kisses urgent now. He lifts my hoodie and T-shirt up over my head. Our mouths meet again. He lifts me up. I wrap my legs around him, my nipples brushing against his chest. He carries me to the changing area, where, in the company of the swirling September breeze, he lies his damp towel down, and we at last let go of our worries, fears and thoughts of tomorrow.

Saturday. The children visit Ben and Ruth. There’s a keeping-secrets competitiveness between them now that worries me; they shouldn’t have to hide things from their family.

When we collect them, we have lunch together, then Greg spends time with them, while I go shopping.

Later, Rob babysits, while Greg and I go out for a meal. It’s such a treat to have a normal conversation about nothing in particular. Like old times. Which are still relatively young times.

Sunday, we get up late and take it easy. Then Greg, Rob and the children go out for lunch with Phyllis. This time, Greg returns to the house. Only at the very last minute does he prepare to head back to the hospital. I feel like a school-hating child on a Sunday night, longing for just one more day. That changes when Greg says, ‘I’m ready to come home.’

I stop folding the hoodie I’ve been packing.

‘I’ll tell Betty when I get in,’ he says with a certainty I don’t share.

We’ve discussed the logistics of his coming home. I’m supposed to stay living in the house until he’s feeling better. I’m to monitor his moods and call the hospital if I feel he’s becoming too animated or too down. I was fine with that – happy, even, to be finally included in his care. But his sudden announcement changes that. Am I really the right person to do this? Wouldn’t Rob be
better
? He’s known Greg his entire life. How can I tell the difference between a normal mood swing and an abnormal one? I don’t want to ring the hospital, worried, only to discover he’s just fed up about something any
one would be.

‘OK,’ I say with a brightness I don’t feel. Now that he’s finally making progress, I’m not going to be the one to stop it.

Two days later, Greg comes home for a trial period of a week. As advised, we try to settle into a routine. With Fint’s agreement, I go back to working from home. I think it best that the children continue to go to my parents’ in the afternoon, although for shorter visits. I don’t want to land too much on Greg, and, although I don’t say it, I feel it wise to stick to the routine, in case things don’t work out.

After three days, I ring Betty, worried about his progress.

She establishes that he’s getting up in the morning, eating and sleeping at night, then hints that the problem might be mine. She talks of letting him take his first steps himself, encouraging him and appreciating that even the smallest steps will be monumental to him. She suggests I get out of the house for a few hours in the morning. And so, it’s back to half-days at the office.

When Greg is officially discharged a week later, he does everything by the book. He takes his little white tablet every night and the coloured ones during the day. He attends every appointment: Prof Power fortnightly, anxiety management once a week, outpatients every two weeks to have his lithium levels checked. Getting better is a full-time job. I do my bit, keeping a nervous eye out for mood swings.

Betty’s right. The small steps, when made, do seem monumental, even to me. An offer to help with homework. A dinner
prepared
. Another quiet, but firm refusal to drink. The very first time Greg gets up before eleven – especially that.

‘Thank you, Dad, for the lovely dinner,’ says Rachel.

‘Thank you, Dad, for the story,’ says Toby.

They notice every little thing he does for them. And he notices them noticing. It makes him try harder. He starts to swim, every morning. It gets him out of bed, kick-starts his day. We buy a punchbag and install it on the landing, so we can all have a swing at it whenever the mood grabs us. Toby takes a particular shine to it, contributing as it does to his ambitious muscle development programme.

As the weeks pass, Greg begins to collect the children from school. Twice a week, they go to my parents’; otherwise, Greg brings them to whatever activity they have on, or else home. That the children are increasingly happy is evident from random snatches of conversation.

‘What’s Mr Incredible called again?’ Toby asks Rachel.

‘Bob.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

Not so long ago, Mr Incredible wouldn’t have mattered.

With every new responsibility he takes on, Greg moves towards recovery, regaining his pride, his life. Not yet ready to resume writing, he finds an outlet for his creativity in the garden, a place that’s tolerant and forgiving of his lack of concentration and slowed mental agility. He and the children begin to plan a vegetable patch. They look up books, consult the local garden centre and map out the garden. Then they get going. To look out and see three backs hunched over together, busy planting, is to imagine a brighter future.