A phone call alerts Jane to changes in Dan’s mood and attitude. She takes a train to London to try and intervene before it is too late. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

Chapter 32                                                   

JANE

                           

                          ‘God could not be everywhere, therefore he made mothers’

                                                                                                                      Rudyard Kipling

 

‘Revenger’s Tragedy’ is performed in front of an audience of casting agents, directors, student colleagues, and members of the public.

‘He’s back!’ I breathe, relief and excitement flooding my being as we applaud wildly after the final bow. ‘Dan is an amazing actor’ say our companions. ‘So many lines to learn!’

‘An energetic and magnetic interpretation of a complex and demanding role’ states one critic.

‘The reviews are somewhat mixed, but you have come out on top, smelling of roses darling!’  the director confides in Dan’s ear.

Another agent from the top ten big names has been in touch and is keen to represent him.

‘Did you enjoy it Em?’ I enquire of our daughter.

‘Not much.’ she replies. ‘I felt as though I was watching a play in a foreign language!’

Well at least she is honest!

About a week after his stage triumph, Dan phones me full of excitement to tell me that his relationship with the new agent is going to be a really positive one and he has already agreed to be represented. ‘But’ he adds ‘although acting is still significant in my life, I know that God is much more important and I can see that all these things are all happening for a reason.!’

There it is. Those tell-tale words, the ones that stop me in my tracks and are paralysing in their effect. A Christian might receive them as positive, affirming truths. But for me they are a frightening warning sign, an all too familiar echo of last year. Those words are the indicators that Dan’s delusions are returning.

It’s morning break in the school library, my busiest time. At the end of that call, I know I need get to my son as quickly as I can. But at first, I can’t seem to move at all. My legs feel shaky, incapable of supporting me. I know I must get down the corridor to the school office then I need to phone Graham urgently, to tell him what is happening. I can hardly breathe. Perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps I am over-thinking Dan’s words and jumping to conclusions. There is only one way to find out. If I can get to him quickly, maybe I will be able to persuade him to restart his medication right away and stop things getting any worse.

It is the twelfth December, the date considered by senior staff to be close enough to Christmas to begin to decorate the halls and classrooms, without sending the younger kids over the edge with excitement. I realise it’s unlikely that I’ll be back before the end of the term, because of this. I glance sadly behind me at the half-hung crepe paper streamers I’d begun that day with some of my library monitors, recalling our shared excitement as we climbed on top of the tables, passing blue tack and sticky tape, calling out our design suggestions to each other. The newly cut snowflake shapes lie discarded in the middle of my desk. The sight of them brings tears to my eyes.

I tell my friend Helen, who is busy in the office what has happened.

‘You must go right away. Get to your boy. I will do any explaining needed to senior staff’.

I leave school in a daze, drive straight home, just as Graham had instructed, pack a few things, grab the spare keys to Dan’s flat, phone my neighbour to ask her to see to the dog, then order a taxi to the station. There is a London train due in around fifteen minutes.

My stomach is tense. My mouth dry. I have a pack of tic tac mints, and a bottle of water but nothing else. I send a text message to Dan to tell him I am on my way and will be at his flat before he finishes the day’s rehearsals. I message Rob and Tom to tell them what has happened too. I know they will be upset and will want to help. I sit in a sort of paralysed trance for the remainder of the journey. I had honestly started to believe that Dan had enough insight into his illness and its consequences, to avoid a relapse but I’m now seeing how quickly things can change and I wonder how I could have been so wrong.

The train journey, tube ride, and twenty-minute walk through London’s busy streets pass by in a semi-conscious blur. As I enter the flat, filled with a cold dread, the first thing I notice is Dan’s drama scripts in the waste bin, then at the sight of the open Bible on the settee, I flinch. For some mothers, the sight of an open Bible might be reason to rejoice, but for me it has become an unmistakably bad sign.

Dan arrives and I give him a hug before asking him why he has thrown his play scripts away. He explains,

‘It’s because the Jacobean play is about Revenge which is against the will of God and the Marines’ code of conduct in ‘A Few Good Men,’ puts God too far down the list!’

“Company, Corp, God, Country,” is the chant. I know it well. I stare at my son in disbelief.  Is his brain now stuck on this permanent loop? How is it even possible for him to slide back into the same beliefs that he had been freed from, such a short time ago? Will he be calling himself the Messiah in a few days’ time?

It is agony to think that all the hard work we have put in to help him recover, can be so easily undone. We have teetered on the highest point, just beneath the summit of the mountain, for only a short while. But in these paralysing moments, I see that a serious and devastating fall is inevitable. All I can do is brace myself for the impact.

At least he is calm and still making some sense for now. I ask if he has been talking to anyone else about his recent thoughts and he says that he has just had a pretty heavy debate with Kim, (his ‘dualog’ partner). He wonders if he might have been a bit forceful, pushing his views onto her too strongly. I feel sick with fear. I know it is completely up to me to act now. I am the only one here and my family are depending on me. Maybe if I start to develop a ‘Madonna-like’ status in his eyes again, I’ll have some small chance of succeeding. I want so much to talk to him, to sit him down and persuade him to take his medication again. I know there are plenty of left-over tablets in the flat. We order a takeaway. Dan eats most of his, so I am guessing his appetite is unaffected as yet. The smell of the fried chicken pieces turns my stomach. I feel empty and weak but really can’t face food right now.

I take a deep breath and remind Dan that he promised just a few weeks ago that if there was a return of any symptoms, he would definitely restart his medication. He replies that although he remembers promising something, he also knows that there is no reason to take any action right now for God is sustaining him and giving him peace about all his decisions. This other world that Dan is stepping into, separates him from me. I feel completely alone. As he talks, I start to recognise many of the familiar phrases from last time

‘I am not worried and you shouldn’t be either, because everything is in God’s control’ and ‘People just need to listen to one another.’ I am lacking the strength and ingenuity I need to tackle this. Clearly, he’d been too positive and too relaxed in the weeks before this happened. That seemed to be the only indicator that he was building towards another psychosis. Perhaps his recent theatre performances had even been enhanced by the growth of his super-confident persona. But until I had something concrete, I couldn’t be sure. He really had continued to sleep and eat well which had thrown me off the trail.

I must try everything I can to change his mind, pull out every trick and persuasion tactic I can think of to get him to take his meds. He is saying,

‘No-one has ever told me what the meds are for, or even what they do!’

Of course they had, many times. I sigh, suggesting he phone his brother again, to ask him to explain once more. Tom stays on the phone with Dan and spends almost an hour patiently going over and over what the meds are for, trying hard to convince him why he should take them. I can hear the frantic note in his voice as he speaks. When I take the phone back, he sighs and says resignedly,

‘There is no way you are going to get him to take anything tonight Mum’.

I know he is probably right, but I am not ready to give up quite yet.

Graham rings on his way home from work, offering to come down to London to join me right away. He is contemplating bringing the car this time, rather than getting the train, so that we can start collecting Dan’s things together and clearing out his flat. It all sounds so depressing, so final, but Graham is always realistic in his planning and preparing for negative outcomes ahead. There will be no way Dan can stay in London or remain at drama school if he is refusing medication and becoming unwell again. He is right but I want to keep trying for a bit longer.

‘Of course, I want you to be here’, I say to him, but I think that it will be better for you to get some sleep now and then start the driving in the morning.’

Rob phones too, remembering Dan’s previous walkabout in London. He instructs me to lock the doors of the flat before I go to bed. He doesn’t try to argue with his brother about anything but simply tells him one instruction, to look after me.

I am relieved that Dan is staying calm, despite all the discussions and impassioned pleas. He is tired after rehearsals. I suspect he will sleep well. After the phone calls, I argue some more with Dan, read scriptures aloud to him, attempt bribery, and I even end up begging on my knees, ‘just do it for me!’ But Thomas is right. Nothing will change his mind. Eventually I give up and go to bed at around midnight, exhausted and vaguely wondering about drugging his food. I lie awake contemplating how this might work. Could I dissolve some tablets into a cup of tea or chop one into quarters and pop it inside a cheese sandwich perhaps?

Dan is asleep, snoring gently but my own night is restless and tense. If I sleep at all, it is for a very short time, interrupted by a series of startling body jerks, like electric shocks.  My dreams are unwelcome, doom-ridden nightmares. In the most vivid of them, I find myself inside the cockpit of an aeroplane which is plummeting to earth in a terrifying, vertical nosedive. There is no-one piloting it, no-one at all sitting behind the controls. I am paralysed with fear knowing that it is all up to me. There is something I must do and right away, pull the joystick back or something, but I’m not sure I have the strength.