Page 9

9

PART OF

Here’s something I do remember. It’s a nice thing, I promise.

I didn’t have loads of friends when we were in Lewes. Still don’t. The ones I did have dropped off after the move, but I work better as a lone wolf anyway.

Lewes was a very nice town – near enough to Brighton to be cool, but far enough away to feel safe and rural middle class. When I was twelve, Mum and Dad thought I was lonely because I just sat inside and painted all day. If I wasn’t doing that, I was on my bike. I loved my bike. It was yellow. I used to just ride round in circles on the driveway for hours and hours.

I think they grew concerned that I wasn’t socialising. So, they said they would be my friends and asked me what I’d like to do. I said I wanted to go into the woods and build a tepee. I was half joking to see how they’d react, but they said OK. That sounds like a nice idea . And so, we did. We went out into the woods at the back of the house, the three of us, found fallen branches and built.

I loved it. We’d spend days out there, building these tepees right in the middle of the woods. It was nice spending time with Mum and Dad. I remember thinking they were so clever, teaching me how to tie all those knots with the rope, showing me which branch to put where. Dad brought his toolbox out and started to really take it seriously – using his drill, shaving the branches down into points so they would dig into the ground (impale it). He even let me use the nail gun to pin them together at the top, which I thought was so cool.

What I really loved was that they’d let me dress up however I wanted in stuff from my dressing-up box. As elves, gnomes and other friendly woodland creatures. (Yes, I was different back then too.) We tried to get Lucas involved, but he was too busy with his actual friends who were his actual age.

Then something amazing happened. Dad said we could try and make a proper hut.

It took weeks. It had a real roof, an actual floor, a window and four walls, which we painted in colourful patterns. We hung curtains and put a rug down. It even had a proper door with a lock. It was like a miniature house.

Dad helped me paint a whole solar system on the ceiling – each planet a different colour. Not childish, though. Detailed. The moons and rings and craters all there. It looked incredible. It took us about a month to finish it, every night after school. Dad said I could use it as my artist’s studio.

I was so happy.

But then Dad was elected as MP for Lewes and we stopped going. He even had a driver. This big bloke with a bald head, who always wore a leather jacket and leather gloves. His name was Karl, which I thought was a funny name, but now I realise that’s very judgy. I liked Karl a lot – he was always kind to me. He loved Dad. Said Dad had given him a chance and he’d always be loyal to him. He was a bit like a biker but not (actually ex-military), with a thick, south London accent. Gentle Giant, Dad called him.

There was this one night I was up in my room when I heard Dad rush outside and get his Cadillac out of the garage. He got back really late. When he got in, he was dead tired and a bit grey . I asked if he wanted to go with me to the hut the next day to get some fresh air, but he said no, that sadly he didn’t have time. He was very busy. His new job as MP for Lewes was very important. I didn’t ask him again.

I went back to the hut a few times on my own, but it wasn’t as fun. Then I just stopped. I wish I’d gone more. I don’t even know if it’s still standing. Anyway, I think what I’m trying to say is that my parents have always tried to look out for me.

After the crash, I was in hospital for two months while they monitored my brain and did the skin grafts on my torso. Dad was also in the hospital, but he got out sooner than I did. They said he was lucky. The wound was deep and had caused internal bleeding, but the doctors who operated on him were able to stop it.

Because of his job, things had to be kept quiet. There was no announcement. Nothing in the press. I think people in the government helped. They told the staff that Dad had a hernia operation, which they said would deflect any questions. Dad didn’t want me to receive any backlash, he said. He was worried people would get angry with me.

Dad’s now the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care, you see. I don’t know if I told you that. So, yeah. Important. Lots of people know who he is.

Dad is very liked by the public. He’s done lots of good things, for lots of people who need it. I think having a mental son isn’t really the image his party want for him, which makes sense. So, they made it all go away. I actually think they’re helping to pay for Melinda, but I might be wrong.

So, Dad had his hernia op, then was back to the House of Commons and sat next to all the other important politicians like nothing had happened. Which is just how they wanted it to be. Keep calm and carry on. I hate that saying.

When I left the hospital, I came straight to the new house. Mum, Dad and Lucas had already moved in, so I never went back to the cottage in Lewes. I didn’t speak for weeks, if you can believe that. I just felt like a zombie. Lobotomised.

Mum and Dad moved us here to help me, to give me a fresh start. They loved the old house. We all did. Things were simple there. Everyone was happy. And it was my fault that it changed.

I don’t blame the meds. I don’t blame my ADHD. Not for this. This isn’t like getting bollocked at school by the head teacher for setting off the fire alarm to escape an exam. This isn’t constantly forgetting to do homework. This is different.

I take complete responsibility for the crash. For nearly killing my dad.

I know it’s my fault. I’m fully aware. My actions, my choices. I was out of control, but I should have listened to Dad. I should have got out of the car.

And while I don’t feel any guilt, I’m sorry. I really, really am.

Shave your head .

I stare at my reflection. My face is sweaty but cold, the face paint claggy on my skin. As I push the uneven strands of my choppy mullet back from my forehead, the white paint smears into it. I hold my hair back and widen my eyes, then blow out my cheeks, making the red Joker smile morph and grow.

I look ill.

To be fair, this bathroom lighting isn’t helping. I always look a mess in here. But that might be because I typically am a mess in here. The pain of the thunderclaps has often brought me blindly fumbling up the cellar steps and into the ground-floor bathroom. I’ve found myself scrambling to get to the sink in time, but falling short and collapsing into a pool of vomit on the marble floor.

I catch the reflection of the wallpaper behind me. Green swirls with gold triangles repeating across it. It’s expensive, but thankfully wipeable. I’ve wiped a lot of my own sick off that wallpaper. The pattern makes my head swim. I involuntarily gag.

I glance down at the floor, by the toilet, where the pile of books sits. Mum’s strategically placed a quote book at the top – a Christmas present from Lucas. I’ve read it over and over while lying on the tiles.

I resume eye contact with myself in the mirror and trace the tip of my forefinger over the bumpy scar on my temple. A raised line, two inches long, clinically straight, just above my eyebrow.

Shave your head . Fine. Fine .

I open the cupboard door beneath the sink and root through the spare toilet rolls, the posh hand soap and room spray until I find a small basket at the back. Mum’s for emergencies box.

I consider this an emergency.

Inside I find Dad’s spare beard trimmers. I take them and pull off the length comb so it’s just the bare metal blades. The short ones. I click the button and it begins to buzz.

As I push the vibrating blades into my tangled hair, I feel my whole head shake. They nip at my scalp, but I don’t stop. I move it slowly backwards over the curve of my head, watching the matted and uneven strands drop limply into the basin in front of me. It’s difficult at the back where I can’t see what I am doing, but I get the hang of it. I begin to speed up, ignoring the sharp nicks. It takes less time than I thought it would.

When it’s all off, I stare at myself. Interesting.

I pull the photograph out of my pocket and place it in the basin on top of my pink-hair pile, face down.

Don’t forget. Never. Never forget . You can’t – please – remember him. Shave your head .

It’s very intense. But I guess I am intense. Remember him .

If I was referring to the old me, perhaps I thought shaving my head would make me a blank canvas that I could rebuild from. Remember that sweet, innocent boy and bring him back .

I stare at my scrawled handwriting. I don’t know when I wrote it. It must have been some time after the crash, in the middle of the Gap when I was all a bit hazy. Not hazy. Blank.

Maybe I was referring to Dad. Or Lucas. It would be a shame to forget either of them.

Or maybe I was referring to the paramedic I think I half saw in my memory. Maybe I fancied him. Tried to get his number and failed because I was too busy bleeding out. Maybe this is true. Paramedics are hot.

Shave your head . Why so earnest, Past Eli?

Maybe I just thought I’d suit it. That I urgently needed to remind my future self how good I’d look with a skinhead. Well, Past Eli, you were wrong. I look like a clown who’s suffering a long and invasive illness.

I don’t know what I was expecting. That’s a lie. I was expecting that with each clump of hair that fell from my head a new emotion would come flooding back, one by one, filling me up.

My phone pings in my pocket. Strange. I rarely receive texts these days.

Melinda. Oh. Unexpected.

Hi Eli,

Well done today. You seemed a little flustered at points.

Flustered? I wasn’t flustered.

This isn’t a bad thing, just something I was aware of. It can be tricky to end therapy and the journey you’re now on could potentially feel isolating. I wondered if you’d like to join an online aftercare support group that I run. It starts at 6 – so soon – just for an hour.

There’ll be people who are in a similar position to you. Some of them are my patients, others just want to connect as part of a shared experience. I think you’d really benefit. I’ve cleared it with your parents. We think this might help you move forwards. To see that our sessions have worked. I’d like to see that too. You might find your tribe there. Your people. It’s good to feel ‘part of’. I’ve emailed you the Zoom link. Hope to see you at 6.

Melinda

Part of . No, thanks. I compose my response.

I’m good. Don’t worry. I feel fine and ready and great.

Thanks though. For everything!!!!

You therapy Jedi! I’m cured!

I hover my finger over the send button.

‘Eli!’ Dad’s voice comes from behind the door. ‘We’re going to eat at six. Melinda has just messaged about the support group – we think that sounds really helpful. What do you think? It might be good for you to meet some people who get what you’re going through.’

A shared experience with trauma victims, or a shared experience with my family. Maybe one is the lesser of two evils.

Potentially feel isolating . Like-minded people .

‘I think I’ll do the support group… But I’m actually feeling –’ nothing – ‘fine.’

‘OK, son. It’s really good for you to be getting life back on track, speaking with other people who’ve struggled too.’

Sounds horrendous. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about now.’

As I hear him head into the kitchen, I delete the message to Melinda, then gather up the hairs from the sink, shove them into the toilet and flush them away.

Back to Operation TraumaLand. Which reminds me, I need to prove that I’m an adult. ID required .

I slide my phone into my pocket and creep through the hallway, checking that Lucas is in the kitchen with my parents. I then tiptoe up the stairs into his bedroom and open his bedside table. I half close my eyes in case there’s anything I absolutely do not want to see, but it appears to all be fairly innocent: paracetamol, a nasal spray, Vaseline, his mouth guard for teeth grinding and bingo – his wallet. I lift it – expertly avoiding the other items like I’m playing a game of Operation – and take out his driver’s licence.

Twenty years old. I can pull that off. His blonde curls and wide eyes make his mugshot look angelic, which may be a problem. However, without my hair I can now say I’m going through an identity crisis, which isn’t a lie.

I feel something under the tips of my fingers behind it. Along with the driver’s licence, I’ve lifted out a business card of some sort.

TEAR Solutions Contact us for support Helping your loved one can be difficult. We are here to guide you

TEAR? Like cry ? Or like rip ?

Neither are filling me with much confidence. Or clarity. Or joy. I flip it over. Nothing. I guess Lucas needs help too. I hadn’t really thought of that.

The clock on his bedside table beeps.

18:00

I pocket the driver’s licence, slide the business card into the wallet and place it back inside the drawer. I hurriedly creep out of Lucas’s bedroom and down the stairs to my cellar, bolting the door shut behind me. I then get my laptop out, open my emails and find Melinda’s Zoom link. I hover the cursor over it.

Your tribe . Your people .

‘Fine,’ I say out loud. ‘ Fine .’

I plug in my headphones and click the link.