‘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.’
