The Mirror World of Melody Black

16

A LETTER, UNDELIVERED

Hello Abby.

I don’t know how else to start this letter. I’ve been looking at a blank sheet of paper for God knows how long, and this is all I’ve come up with. But it’s probably best to keep things simple. Please assume that my words fall short of what I actually want to say.

I came to see you a couple of days ago, or I tried to. I made it as far as reception. I thought that if I could get someone to call you – if you knew I was already there – then you’d have to change your mind and let me in. Turns out you’re not taking calls, either. I should have known. I’ve left about twenty messages on your mobile.

They sent a doctor out eventually. He was nice. He made me a cup of coffee and let me rant at him for five minutes. Then he repeated what I already knew: he couldn’t let me see you, couldn’t even take a message, since this is expressly against your wishes. Barbara finally agreed to pass this letter on, but only when she thinks you’re ‘capable of reading it’. That paints a pretty bleak picture.

Needless to say, the doctor I saw at reception couldn’t tell me anything about how you are – patient confidentiality. All he could give me were generalities: that you were in a safe environment and would be receiving the best possible care, etc., etc.

I had a plan, of sorts, when I walked into the hospital. I was going to wait as long as it took, just refuse to leave until someone had communicated with you on my behalf, or at least given me some concrete information. Instead, I found myself leaving within half an hour, having apologized profusely to the doctor and receptionist. All very British. They gave me a number I could call if I needed to speak to anyone again. It’s for some sort of mental health support charity. I haven’t used it yet.

I’m sorry: a couple of pages in and I’m already sounding bitter and self-pitying. That really isn’t my intention. I’m not telling you any of this to make you feel bad. I imagine you feel bad enough already – much worse than I do.

I have this problem that never seems to get any easier. When you’re at your lowest, I always think that there must be some magic combination of words that would help you. But I can never find them. They’re always just beyond my grasp.

All I can find to say right now is that I’m here for you, whenever you’re ready.

There’s one other thing too, and again it’s something you might not find particularly easy to hear. But I promised I’d tell you if I managed to get in touch.

Your mum phoned, the day after you went into hospital. I hadn’t really figured out what I was going to say to your family at that point – I was hoping I’d get the chance to see you first – but I wasn’t going to lie to her, obviously. She’s called or texted every day for the past week, and yesterday she came over to the flat. (She was here at ten, so God knows when she left Exeter.)

She’s worried: that goes without saying. She’s worried and she wants you to call her. Please just think about it.

I love you. I miss you. I don’t think there’s anything else I can add.

Beck x