Don't Be Afraid (12 page)

 

Isabel

That night, after having spent the day with Clara, I tossed and turned. The whole day had been so weird. Having a stranger in the house . . . who didn't feel like a stranger. Telling her about my father and Gillian. And most of all, I couldn't believe I'd been up to my studio.

Yes, that was the most surreal event. After months of trying, after all the tears I'd cried because my studio felt like such a dead place and I didn't want to set foot in it . . . I'd finally gone up.

And it felt like I'd brought something back with me; it felt like I had brought
the scent of colours
with me. I kept smelling paint on my skin, in my hair. And an image played before my eyes – a blue butterfly in a lush, colourful garden . . .

I was restless. Angus was sleeping soundly, exhausted after the long drive back. I sat up and slipped off the bed.

“What's wrong?” came Angus's sleepy voice.

“I have an idea for a picture.”

“But it's the middle of the night . . .”

“I know. You sleep, okay?” I whispered, tucking the duvet around him and running my hand through his hair, as if he were a sleeping child. I stood up and quickly pulled my jeans on and slipped a cardigan over my nightie. The night was very still and silent, and I was frightened. But not frightened of the dark.

Frightened of not feeling the spark again.

Would I be able to work, I asked myself as I tiptoed up the spiral staircase? Or would it be a complete failure? I was panting in fear, my heart racing, and still I couldn't let myself go back to bed. It was the scent of colours that called me.

I walked into the attic and pressed the light switch.

It was so peaceful.

A time that was mine alone.

Slowly, I sat at my working table. Everything was still like I'd left it the day I realised I couldn't work any more. An illustration from the
Scottish Legends
book – an enchanted piper in a cave made of gold overcoming a dragon with his music – sat unfinished. But something made me put that drawing aside and find a fresh piece of paper. I switched the desk light on.

And my fingers hovered over the colours: the pencils, the watercolours, the oil paints. I could hear myself breathing, the fast breath of a little bird caught somewhere.

I was so afraid to open that part of me again, but I couldn't stop.

I choose a pencil: deep, deep blue.

And oh, it felt good as it glided on the paper, the colour soft, malleable. Spreading like butter. I drew like I was possessed, and when I was finished, the paper was full of blue butterflies dancing in a tropical garden.

 

Isabel

“Bell! Oh my God, Bell!”

Angus's cries resounded all over the house, and I awoke with a jolt. For a moment I didn't know where I was, then I remembered: I had started to doze at my table and then, half-asleep, had cocooned myself in the sleeping bag on the floor of my studio. I blinked, my eyes sticky with tiredness. I rubbed my left eye, only to realise that my fingers had paint on them. Just like old times.

“I'm here! I'm okay!” I called, and dragged myself up, slightly dizzy.

“Bell!” came his panicked call again.

“Angus! I'm here! In my studio!”

“Bell!” I heard his footsteps, and I hurried down the spiral staircase.

“I'm sorry. I didn't think . . .” I said as I made my way down as quickly as I could without falling. He was standing on the landing looking up, as pale as a ghost.

“Thank God. I woke up and the bed was empty, I couldn't find you . . .”

“I'm sorry,” I repeated. He held me tight, kisses on my hair, on my face.

“I thought I'd lost you.”

I think that was the first time I realised how scared he really was for me. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheeks, and then his mouth, over and over again.

“I'm okay. Really.”

“What were you doing? You're hurt . . . Your eye . . .”

“That's just paint,” I said, letting him rub it off my eye. “I was working. And then I fell asleep up there, you know I keep a sleeping bag in case—”

“You were
working
?” he said.

“Yes. I was illustrating a story. About butterflies in a magical garden.”

“But this is amazing . . . Bell, you haven't worked for
months
.”

“I know. This . . . Well, it just came out.”

Angus held me tight again. “It's okay. You are okay,” he whispered into my hair.

“I kept smelling the colours on me.”

“Will you show me?”

I smiled and said nothing, I just took his hand and led him upstairs, to my studio. My work table was, as usual, very tidy even in the middle of work – I had to keep things organised and nice to look at; it was my nature. The watercolours and oil paints – I was using both – were neatly arranged – and several glasses of coloured water were lined at the edge of the table. All around the desk were shelves, put up for me by Angus, filled to the brim with art materials and different kinds of paper. There was a corkboard hanging beside me, full of postcards and sketches, and on the other side a small bookshelf with all my art books. It was my favourite corner of the house. The best thing was that it looked alive again – not abandoned.

“Is this it? Bell, it's beautiful!” Angus said, lightly touching the edge of my work in progress. In the colourful garden, among the butterflies, ran a little girl in a summer dress. In the foreground, close up, I had drawn a chrysalis, waiting to open and reveal its magical content to the world.

“Do you really think so?” I wasn't fishing for compliments; I'd always been insecure, now, after so many months of inactivity, more than ever.

“Yes. I think it's one of your best pieces yet. It's . . . inspired. Is it a stand-alone?”

“I don't think so. I'd like it to be a story . . . a picture book. Not necessarily for children, though.”

“I'm so proud of you,” he said. That was the best compliment I could ever hope for.

 

Isabel

I'd never showed my work in progress to anyone but Angus, but it felt natural to show Clara. I was a bit apprehensive as she gazed at my picture in silence. Maybe she wouldn't like it. Maybe my work wasn't as good as it used to be before I got ill, but Angus hadn't wanted to say in order not to hurt my feelings. I knew I would only get an objective opinion when I sent it to my agent, and I had no plans, then, to do so – but my heart was in my throat anyway.

“It came into my mind because I keep seeing blue butterflies,” I explained nervously. “And you never see butterflies in winter. It's inspired by the garden Angus made for me, but made magical . . . like it's out of a dream.”

“Isabel, it's amazing,” she said finally. “You have such talent!” she added, with one of those serene smiles of hers. I felt myself blushing, and for a moment I was a bit choked. I felt so lucky – when I had no faith in myself, both my husband and Clara believed in me. “Can't you see?” she said. “Can't you see how beautiful your work is?”

“Thank you. I'm thinking of turning it into a story. A picture book. It's called
Chrysalis
. . . and it's about a butterfly. As you probably guessed!” I laughed.

I felt happy. Maybe just for a moment, but I felt happy.

That seemed like a miracle in itself.

I remembered something Angus had said to me years ago, after he'd finished working on a composition that had left him exhausted and glowing: “Happiness comes from creation.”

He was right.

And I had always, always known it.

I spent the day in my studio and didn't even come downstairs for lunch. Clara brought me a baked potato and tea at some point, but I didn't stop for more than twenty minutes. The story was sweeping me away, just like my work used to, and it felt amazing. It felt
right
.

Every once in a while, as I gazed out of the small window, I realised once again how lovely the view from my studio was – how beautiful my loch was.

After dinner, I went back to the studio. Clara was due to sleep in my house, because Angus was away in Glasgow and would stay away until tomorrow. After working for about an hour, I heard Clara's voice calling me from downstairs.

“It's best if you don't get too tired, Isabel,” she said.

It was strange to be looked after this way. I don't think I ever had been, not even when I was a little girl. I had never experienced something like this, not until I met Angus, and even then it was different.

Maybe this was what having a mother felt like.

I kneeled close to the stairs and called out, “I know, sorry. I'll go to bed now.”

“Well, if you can't sleep, you can come and share some warm milk and cookies with me.”

“Yes please!” I said, and put my work to sleep for the night.

“You're never too old for milk and cookies.” Clara smiled as she placed a plate in front of me. I hadn't eaten so much in months. And I was even allowing someone else to cook in my kitchen.

We sat in quiet companionship – it was so peaceful. And still, a thought kept stinging me. I was still not taking my medication.

I had tried twice more, but I just couldn't. In my mind, it was like drinking poison. And I knew that even if I had returned to work, even if I was feeling better, those medicines had been prescribed for a reason. Because I needed them.

It was a battle, and the battleground was my mind. And for now, I was losing.

“Isabel.”

“Yes?”

“What time do you take your pills? Because I never see you—”

“Well, I haven't yet. I'd said to Angus I would start on Monday.”

“When did you say that to him?” she asked gently.

“The day they let me out of the hospital.”

“That was weeks ago, Isabel.”

“Oh . . . I must have forgotten,” I said with a reassuring smile. “I'll take them tomorrow morning.”

“Would you like me to remind you? If you show me what you have to take—”

“No, thanks, it's okay. I'll do it myself. I'm tired now,” I said and stood up. “Goodnight, Clara.”

Her eyes studied my face. “Goodnight, Isabel.”

The next morning I got up when it was still dark, so that I could try to take my meds before Clara woke up. There was no way I could tell them my secret, Clara or Angus. There was no way I could explain to them I couldn't take my medication and ask for help, though I was desperate for someone to help me overcome this. A part of me, the lucid part of me, the one that whispered among the screams of my panic, knew that I had to take my medication and was desperate for help, that taking it could really improve things for me. Make me better. Maybe even make me recover.

I lined up the bottle and the blister pack. I prepared a glass with water in it.

But I couldn't get past the idea they were poison – my panic screamed too loud for my rational mind to be heard. Drying my tears, I replaced the cap and threw out the pill. I knew it was going to be a bad day. A blue day, I called it in my mind.

Defeated, I just sat and cried and cried, until Clara came to find me.

“What's wrong?” she said, alarm painted all over her face.

“Nothing. Just a moment. Just a moment.”

“Are you okay? You got too tired yesterday. I knew you shouldn't have worked so hard. Have you taken your medicine?” she said, gazing at the bottle and the little box.

“Yes. It's fine. It's all fine.”

She just gazed at me, uncertain as to what to say next – I could read it in her face.

“I'm just going to sit here for a bit, Clara, if that's okay. You just . . . do your thing . . .”

“Of course. I have some laundry to fold; I can do it here and keep you company.”

“Oh, please, you're not here to do the housework,” I protested.

“It's no trouble. Maybe you could come upstairs with me and we could put the clothes away.”

I shook my head. “No. I'm just going to sit here for a while.” I knew there would be no work today.

I had this thing: if I was immobile, if I moved as little as possible – barely enough to go to the bathroom or grab a glass of water – the universe wouldn't notice I existed and it would not send some terrible catastrophe to me. So I did that. Even when Clara tried to get me to do things and stand up, I sat at the table like a limpet clinging to its rock, refusing to move.

I know. Weird. But it was one of those rituals that kept me going and helped me deal with panic when it struck. Sometimes I sat at the kitchen table, sometimes in the living room, hugging my knees on the sofa and watching day turn into night. Sometimes I curled up in the bedroom, gazing at the loch – looking at it for hours on end, without moving.

Thinking of my mum.

Clara went about her business without bothering me; I preferred it that way, and I was grateful. She made me lunch – I had explained that a cheese and ham toastie and a hot chocolate was what would get me through a blue day, no other food would do – and occasionally she touched my shoulder, and I was so grateful for that contact, in the painful rigidity of my panic, I could have cried. Finally, the sun set and it was dark. Thank God, the blue day was ending. Angus came back and it was time for Clara to go. I heard them whispering in the hall.

I tried to forget I was deceiving them both by not taking my medicines.

I tried to forget that I was deceiving the love of my life.

I don't know what to do,
I thought in dismay and felt the tears swell in my eyes once more – no, he couldn't find me crying.

“Hey, baby . . . Clara said you had a bad day . . .”

“No, no. I'm fine. Just . . .” I wracked my mind for an excuse and I couldn't find one. “Just one of those days. Blue. I'm sorry.”

He held me in his arms and I just stayed there, in the comfort of his woollen checked shirt, breathing in the scent of Angus, the scent of comfort and home.

“Don't apologise, my love,” he said, and rocked me gently, like you would rock a child who's had a nightmare. “You even worked again, didn't you? Remember, your butterflies . . .”

I sighed imperceptibly, thinking of how much I would have loved to spend the day in my studio, instead of immobile and frozen at the table, desperately trying to
disappear
.

“You've been taking your meds for weeks now, so soon we'll see some improvement, the doctor said, remember?”

Six weeks, and the medicines should work. Yes, the doctor had said that. But for that to happen, I had to take them.

If only
I could force myself to down them,
I thought, burying my face deeper into his chest. If only I could dissolve this idiotic belief that the pills would kill me like they'd killed my mother, or so my dad said. But Dad's voice still resounded in my ears and I couldn't silence it.

I waited until Angus was upstairs getting changed, and then I stood up.

One last try.

One last try.

Again, I poured the drops; again, I took a pill out of the blister pack.

My hands shook so much I could barely hold the glass . . .

And then I poured all my drops down the sink, tears streaming down my face.