Chapter 26
BEFORE
Dear Lexie,
How do I begin your final chapter? By then, writing had taken you over; become your way of reaching people.
After you went undercover for the newspaper, I knew it was a step too far.
It wasn’t just the once. More farms followed.
I worried that what you had seen was too much for someone so sensitive, who felt so deeply. But it didn’t stop you.
It’s hard to keep track of the timing of what happened. It must have been some months later when I came in from work to find you sitting in front of the TV, an empty wine bottle on the table in front of you.
‘Hey, Lex. How was your day?’ I asked.
‘Shit,’ you said. ‘Right now, it feels like everything is.’
Going in, I went and perched on one of the chairs.
‘Has something happened?’ You were like this, some days: down.
Though I knew you would always come up again.
But in your world, something was always happening.
It always would be, until the day came when animals were no longer exploited and cruelty ended.
‘The paper have stopped the articles.’ You slurred your words slightly. Picking up your glass, you drained it then reached for the empty bottle. ‘I’m going to get another.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ I said. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t want tea,’ you flashed back at me, then stopped yourself. ‘Sorry, Mum. But tea doesn’t make anything go away.’
‘Nor does wine.’ As I followed you into the kitchen, my fear was back as I watched you open another bottle.
You rolled your eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’m not like Dad.’
‘I know you’re not. But drink didn’t help him with his problems.’ You were so different to Ryan, it was hard to believe he was your father. I tried to deflect you. ‘Have you spoken to Ollie lately?’
‘No.’ Your hand shook as you picked up the bottle. ‘Have you?’
‘I haven’t actually.’ Back in the UK, since finishing uni, Ollie was working in Bristol. ‘Lexie, what are you going to do?’ I regretted the words as soon as they were out. The timing was so wrong.
‘Nothing.’ you said. ‘I’ve put everything I am into making a difference in the world. I’ve been doing it for years. But I have absolutely nothing to show for it.’ Your eyes glistened with unshed tears.
‘That isn’t true.’ I rushed to your defence. ‘You can’t say that. You’ve no idea how many people have read your pieces in the press, or your social media posts. I can guarantee you’ve made a difference.’
‘Do you ever look at those posts?’ You gazed at me.
‘People write horrible comments. Some of them take a delight in cruelty. They don’t care how much animals suffer.
How can you change people who think like that?
’ Turning away, your shoulders were tight.
‘I’m strong, Mum. And I’m determined and I work tirelessly when I care about something.
But if someone like me can’t make a difference, who can? ’
You were all those things; you were also vulnerable. I didn’t want to think what it would do to you if you didn’t have a direction to channel your drive in. ‘Just give yourself a breathing space,’ I suggested. ‘You know so many people. Something will come up.’
But as more days passed, you withdrew further. Like your father, looked for solace in a bottle where, of course, you couldn’t find it.
‘I’m worried about Lexie,’ I told Ollie. ‘Really worried. It’s like she’s going off the rails.’
‘I can come down at the weekend,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her out – try to get to the root of what the problem is.’ He paused. ‘Try not to worry too much.’
But it was impossible not to. I read your social media posts, saw the support you had behind you, the other side of which were the deliberately inflammatory, abusive comments that seemed targeted personally at you, and I couldn’t deny what you were up against.
Ollie duly appeared late on Friday night. I was sober, worried; you were drunk.
‘What’s the celebration, sis?’ Ollie teased you.
‘I’m drowning my fucking sorrows,’ you told him. ‘Join me?’
But Ollie rarely drank. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea with you.’
I left the two of you talking and went to bed, listening to the sound of your voices drifting upstairs. It was a moment in which it would have been easy to pretend that everything was OK, that you and Ollie were just having a brother-and-sister catch up.
At 3 a.m., there was a knock on my door.
‘Mum?’ Ollie whispered loudly. ‘Sorry to wake you. But it’s Lexie.’
Sitting up, I scrambled out of bed. ‘What is it?’
‘She’s been throwing up – for over two hours. I’ve tried to get her up the stairs, but I can’t.’
I hurried downstairs after him, then into the sitting room, where you were lolled awkwardly on the sofa. ‘Lexie?’
You half opened your eyes, before they fluttered closed again.
‘Come on, Lex,’ I cajoled. ‘Let’s try and get you to bed.’
But between Ollie and me, there was no moving you. ‘How much has she had to drink?’ I asked Ollie.
‘Two bottles of wine – something else, too. I’m not sure what.’
‘She barely eats,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t help.’
‘Do you think we should call an ambulance?’ Ollie’s eyes were anxious.
‘Maybe.’ I was indecisive. But as you turned and retched again, the decision was made for me. I knew the chances were you’d be angry with me, but if it got you the help you needed, it would be worth it.
I sat with you as we waited, watching your face, your breathing. The paramedics were with us in less than half an hour. After examining you, they took you to hospital, Ollie and I following in my car. Over the next twenty-four hours, you were rehydrated and subject to questions about your drinking.
You hid it so well, Lexie. The deep-rooted pain you sought an escape from. You smiled blithely; it was a mistake, you told them. You’d forgotten to eat that day. The alcohol had gone to your head. You were so sorry to waste their time.
A psychologist spoke to you about looking after your health, maybe seeing a therapist. You told them it wasn’t necessary. You were fine. But as I drove you home, you were silent.
‘Lex, talking to someone might really help,’ I said.
‘There’s no point.’ Then in the next breath, you summed it all up.
‘I know exactly what’s going on with me.
I drink to escape a reality I can’t change, or live with.
It’s probably in my genes – and I’m programmed from years of watching Dad to know that it works.
I know it causes distress to you. And I’m really sorry.
But at the moment, I can’t stop it. And once I start, I don’t care. ’
‘There are experts who can help you,’ I said.
‘Yeah. But what’s the point? I’ve failed, Mum, at everything I’ve set out to do. And it fricking hurts.’
Hearing the emotion in your voice, my heart broke for you. ‘There has to be a better way,’ I said. ‘Something you can do that doesn’t destroy you.’
‘I’m already destroyed.’ Your voice shook. ‘At least that’s how it feels. I’m so sorry to put you through this, Mum. You don’t deserve it.’
‘I just want to help you.’ There was desperation in my voice.
‘I don’t think you can.’ Your voice was flat again. ‘No one can.’
Your words stole fear into my heart, a heart I could feel being torn into a hundred pieces. It was more than I could bear to see you lose faith in life, in yourself. At home, I kept you warm, tried to persuade you to eat hot, nourishing food.
Then the following day, in another attempt to help you, I drove to the animal shelter and spoke to Lea, who you used to work with.
She came to see you. Tried to remind you how much difference you’d made to all the animals you’d cared for.
But your self-criticism was brutal. Whatever you’d done, for as long as the suffering went on, it wasn’t enough.
It was as though everything was catching up with you. But instead of seeing it as a sign to step back, you refused to let it get the better of you. Instead, you became even more driven.
We might have been living together, but it was as though some weeks I barely saw you.
Then early in 2023, that fateful day you were in the car accident.
When I saw the wreckage of your car, I wasn’t sure how you’d survived.
I’ll never forget that time. For a while, your life hung in the balance but you held on, came back; my precious girl with pale blue eyes, who saw more than most of us.
Your strength started to return. But you were still in pain when I took you home. I made nutritious food, made our home as comfortable as I could for you. I never knew how bad your pain was.
Having come so close to losing you, they were so precious, those days. But as you waited for your body to heal, it was as though you’d lost your fight.
‘If things happen for a reason, what was the point?’ You were referring to the accident. ‘Do you think I was meant to die?’ you asked me.
My reply: ‘No way, Lexie. You have a whole life ahead of you.’
I remember you frowning. ‘The thing is, it doesn’t feel like that.’
‘You’re still healing,’ I told you. Your body was traumatised from the accident; it seemed your mind was, too. I remember your eyes wide as you gazed at me.
‘I can’t imagine the future.’ But it was as though it had been taken away from you. ‘When I picture it, there’s a blank space.’
You’d always had a plan. The next in a long line of causes drawing you on, and I tried not to show how frightened I was. I knew how your mind worked, that you had a sixth sense that others didn’t. But I had to believe you’d get over this.
* * *
Over the weeks that followed, things escalated. I remember a day at the workshop when the door opened and you wandered in. You were in jeans and a T-shirt, and your eyes were lacklustre; you looked preoccupied.
‘Hey, Lexie,’ I called out to you, wondering what was on your mind.
‘Hey, gorgeous girl.’ Lucy went over and hugged you. ‘Am I pleased to see you. You’ve come in our hour of need.’
Your eyes glanced towards me. ‘Sorry. I can’t stay.’ You hesitated. ‘Mum? Do you have a minute?’
‘Of course.’ I smelled the alcohol on your breath as you came closer; alarm bells were going off. But then I looked around at all the flowers that needed arranging for the wedding. ‘Could it wait until this evening?’
A look I couldn’t read crossed your face. ‘Sure.’ You hunched your shoulders. ‘I’ll leave you to it. You’re obviously busy.’
I watched you walk out, frowning slightly as Lucy turned to me. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘I was thinking the same.’ I was still watching you through the open door as you made your way down the street. But even before the accident, something seemed wrong in your life.
Lucy was silent. ‘Maybe she’s just preoccupied about something. Hopefully she’ll come back.’
‘Maybe.’ But my mothering instincts were kicking in; suddenly, I felt guilty. ‘I should go after her.’ I was already taking off my apron. But outside, when I jogged down to the end of the road, there was no sign of you.
I took my phone out of my pocket and called you. But it went straight to voicemail.
‘Hey. It’s Lexie. Leave me a message.’
I tried you again. The same thing happened. And I didn’t.
If only I’d persevered. Called you again. Walked further along the street, then back the other way until I’d found you. Sent you a message, followed by another and another, until you answered.
Mum
Lexie, it’s Mum. Call me.
Whatever was on your mind, I would have listened, Lexie. The flowers would have waited. Who in their right mind rates flowers above their child? Yes, we had a wedding on, but I could have taken some time out, worked into the evening, if that’s what it took.
It’s my biggest regret that you needed me that day, but I wasn’t there for you. You never did tell me what it was on your mind. And if only you had, things might have been different.
It wasn’t your fault, Mum. It’s how it goes. I don’t blame you. You were busy – and our worlds are very different.
The echo of your voice startles me. I was shocked to know that was how you saw us. In many ways, you and I were close. But time changes things; changed us. Maybe there was an uncomfortable truth in your words.
Do you honestly think it’s that simple? One day didn’t make me who I was.
I was the product of everything that happened in my life.
We all are! Think of everything that went on before my earliest memories were formed; everything that’s come after.
You and Dad at loggerheads, me and Ollie wondering if you were going to split up.
We spent most of our childhood anticipating divorce.
A memory comes back of something I once said to you.
I’m always going to be here for you.
I meant every word. That day you came into the shop, wanting to talk to me. I wasn’t there for you that day, was I? I let you go. Watched you walk away.
Would it have made a difference? I knew you were troubled; were still healing from the accident.
In my limited way, I tried to do what I could.
I’ve never been good at expressing myself – but you know that, don’t you?
I internalise things, keep my head down, keep going.
I always believed you were the same. That it was easier for both of us, to just carry on putting one foot in front of another.
To trust that everything would work out.
It didn’t enter my head that it wouldn’t.