Chapter Twenty
The situation with Rosie just didn’t compute for Michael. He arrived home in a state of near hysteria forcing Rosie, who I’d managed to coax out of her room, like a shy animal, to retreat, and close her door behind her.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How could she not do her exams? She should at least give it a go… she couldfail…’ He blanched at the thought but carried on gamely,‘but it would be better than not doing them. There was a lad in my year. Failed the whole lot. Estate agent now. Makes a packet. Lives in the South of France, drives some tiny, red car and roars about Villefranche.’
‘And that’s what you want for Rosie?’
‘No! It’s just that even if you don’t think you are going to do well, you should just do them. Never give up. Don’t cop out. Failure is notan option. Us Fogartys…’
‘Fogartys can’t give up. Fogartys are made of sterner stuff. Fogartys aren’t allowed to be seen to fail, is that right?’
‘Well, it’s just that Lucy…’
‘Lucy? What’s her advice? Lucy is just like you, Michael. She never shows weakness, vulnerability, never puts a foot wrong. She’s not going to know what to do…’
‘Lucy suggested it was vegetarianism. Don’t look at me likethat. Hear me out because I think she might have a point. Milk. Does Rosie drink milk? Big glasses of it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said wearily. ‘She has it in tea and on her granola, but…’
‘Lucy says all the young ones like to drink almond milk or whatnot.’ He put his hands up as if to present an open and shut case. ‘Is that what she’s doing?’
‘Michael,’ I said, ‘I don’t think milk is the answer.’He looks shocked as though I’d said that the sky wasn’t blue or Brussels wasn’t the centre of the universe. ‘I think it’s something that will take a bit of time…’
‘Time… but we don’t have time. Life is short. She…’
‘She needs time. Things are going well with her counsellor…’
Michael’s brow furrowed. ‘Counsellor… clap trap. Milk would be better Vitamins and minerals and a good dose of protein.I think Lucy might have a point...’
*
All week, before I left for school, I’d check on Rosie. She was permanently tear-streaked and washed out. At lunchtime, I’d come home to make her something to eat, and later find the sandwich only half eaten or the soup untouched. But she was getting a little bit stronger. The school had been immediately responsive, full of empathy and practical supportand organising a counsellor which Rosie had seen on Friday. She hadn’t said too much about it but she had appeared slightly brighter yesterday evening and had watched the news with me.
This day, when I stood at her bedroom door, my heart broke at the sight of her, still in her pyjamas, lying on her bed. She didn’t seem to be doing anything not reading, not watching television, just sleeping orstaring into space.
‘Why don’t you talk to Alice?’ I said. ‘Give her or Mary a call.’
‘I can’t. They’re working.’
‘But a quick phone call or a pop round would be okay, surely?’
She nodded. ‘The counsellor said I should tell people.’
‘And why don’t you?’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘Apparently. It’s what stops all of us from doing emotionally healthy things. And I’m quoting. That’s what she said.I’m to tell people and that will rid me of shame.’
‘So?’ I asked. ‘So, are you going to tell people? You could call Alice. Call Mary. Put it up on Facebook.’
‘That’s what I should do. But I’m working towards it.’ She looked at me. My battered and bruised baby.
‘I’ve got to go out. Board meeting. I’ll be two hours. No longer.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’ I smiled at her. ‘Love you Ro.’
‘Love youtoo.’
