Remy
REMY
I had no intention of floating the idea of coauthoring the book with Simone, but I did want her to read everything I’d written before I permanently deleted the document from my laptop.
I’d planned to leave the printed pages on her doormat, but then Simone answered the door and she looked… like I’d never seen her before.
But I had seen it before.
People who have suffered from depression rarely discuss its true scope with those who haven’t, often because it’s too difficult to describe pragmatically.
An example of this I’ll never forget came from a TV show. A woman in bed, in the throes of depression, wets herself. The incredulous part? She had an en suite.
All this woman had to do was walk mere meters to the toilet; she didn’t even have to flush or wash her hands (we could forgive her for that, given the circumstances), but she chose to voluntarily urinate on herself instead.
Watching this, I’d thought, it’s never that bad.
If anything, you’ve made matters worse; now you have to change your clothes, your sheets, possibly your mattress too.
This woman on TV had made her life harder than it would have been if she’d just mustered up an ounce of temporary strength to use the toilet.
Then, one day, I wet the bed.
At the age of twenty-four, at noon, with my curtains closed and my head under the duvet, I wet myself.
I can’t remember what I was thinking, but I will always remember how I felt.
The memory is so much more powerful than the physicality of it.
My bladder had stung and burned but my head was nothing more than a block of cement, my thoughts so dark and heavy, it was impossible to lift up on my own. Naturally, my bladder gave up on me.
Even now, I can’t explain how it was so impossible to get myself up, even just for fifteen seconds, only that I couldn’t, and that if I were to have a worst enemy, I wouldn’t wish that helpless feeling on them.
And now I stand in Simone’s bedroom doorway, watching her slide back into bed and close her eyes. I see her succumb to that very feeling, knowing that I bear some responsibility for what she is experiencing.
It’s an hour later, sitting on the train home, when I pull out my phone and press send on a message before I lose signal.
Can we meet for coffee?
I have something important I need to tell you. R x
When I meet Jenni in a coffee shop of her choosing, I reveal everything.
That not only do I know her sister Simone, but that I’m friends with her, that I was friends with her when we met and that I knew Simone was the sister/friend Jenni was pouring her heart out about.
That I planned to reunite them because they clearly needed each other, but that in the process, I got too involved in their business.
That I’d used aspects of Simone’s life for my own creative interests and that, even though I’ve scrapped the book, Simone now hates me for it.
I’m expecting stunned silence or verbal vitriol; I’m even bracing myself for physical violence. What I did not expect was…
“I knew it!”
My jaw falls open. “What do you mean?” I stutter. “Knew what?”
“That you knew Simone,” Jenni says. “When you came to church, I knew you looked familiar, but in a way that the person at the supermarket you see every now and again looks familiar. I couldn’t place you, but after we met for those ice-cream sundaes, it hit me once I got home: You were at the restaurant with Simone that day. ”
I’m opening and closing my mouth while my brain struggles to compute. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jenni folds her arms. “Not that you’re one to talk, but I guess I hoped that since you were possibly friends with Simone, I might get closer to her through you, without having to see her until I was ready. I keep waiting to be ready.”
“Forget about me,” I say. “I confessed for a reason: Simone needs you. She really, really needs you. I genuinely don’t know what happened between the two of you and I will never ask, but I need you to help your sister. Please.”
Jenni chews her lip and then clenches her jaw. She nods. “Do you have her address?”