Page 102 of Where Do We Go From Here?
W: …
H: Wendy? You’re not crying again, are you?
W: No, no… I’m trying to remember. Honestly, I am. But… I mean, are you sure?WasI drinking when Mum died? Because I don’t think?—
H: Not the drinking, so much, Wendy. I didn’t really mean the drinking. I’m talking about the anger.
W: The anger?
H: Yeah. You changed when your mum died, Wendy. And you’ve been angry ever since.
She has just put her phone down when Manon bangs on the window making her jump.
‘Bonjour,’she says quietly. She’s raw from her conversation with Harry, and if possible she would have hidden in the bathroom all over again, but she’s been caught in broad daylight. ‘I don’t usually see you at this time,’ she says.
‘Yes, I am working!’ Manon replies. ‘You have mail!’’
She takes the envelope from Manon’s outstretched hand and immediately recognises the weight and shape of theenvelope – a Christmas card. The handwriting she knows well enough, too. It’s from Harry.
‘Thank you,’ she says, forcing a smile and waving the envelope like a fan.
‘You are OK?’ Manon asks.
‘Yes, I think so. I didn’t sleep well, so I’m tired. Very tired, actually. But I’m fine.’
‘You look… I don’t know…’ Manon says.
‘I’m trying not to drink,’ Wendy announces. ‘Everyone seems to agree I have a drink problem, so I’m trying to find out if they’re right.’
Manon nods. ‘I think you are very brave.’
‘Or very stupid.’
‘No,’ Manon says, reaching out to touch Wendy’s shoulder. ‘Never this. I can phone you? To see you are OK?’
Wendy feels suddenly tearful at this young girl’s concern for her wellbeing. ‘That’s very sweet of you. So yes. Please do. And thank you!’
Manon glances at her phone. ‘You know, I don’t have your number?’
‘Oh gosh, yes, that’s true.’
‘You put in?’ Manon says, handing Wendy her phone.
‘Yes, of course.’
Once Manon has left, she sits in the sunshine and takes stock of the sensations in her body. She’s feeling anxious – which strikes her as fairly normal, all things considered, but also clammy, and a bit slow of thought, as if suffering from the beginnings of a fever. She’s also still shell-shocked from her conversation with Harry, but more hopeful about the future, too.
She remembers the flu she had when she was snowed in and ran out of wine. Perhaps that wasn’t viral after all. Could it just have been lack of booze? Either way, she got through it, she thinks. So she’ll get through it again thistime. She’ll be fine.
She is not fine.
She is not fine at all.
But the worse she feels the more convinced she becomes that what everyone has been saying is true: she really is dependent on alcohol. It’s madness that she has never allowed herself to realise this before, but now she has, she’s determined to push through to the other side.
She barely sleeps that night and when she does manage to doze off, she wakes up feeling panicky a couple of hours later. Even when asleep, she has terrifying nightmares that are so vivid they’re more like hallucinations. These are bad enough sometimes to make her doubt that this is humanly achievable without help. But when she imagines returning home as the new, sober Wendy and compares this mental image with the alternative in which she has to admit that she tried and failed, and that her addiction – something she hadn’t even accepted as existing – turned out to be more powerful than the sum total of her willpower, she steels herself to push through.
She will simply attack the problem like the medical professional she is. So she takes half a tab of Oxazepam from time to time – enough to calm herself down when her anxiety starts to feel unmanageable. And whenever she feels particularly agitated or restless she checks her heart rate, promising herself that if it ever goes over 110 she’ll get help. She’s not sure quite what kind of help that would be, but she reckons Manon or Madame Blanchard could get a doctor to her if things get bad. At worst, they could always bring her some wine!
