BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

Okay, he was nothing like Quin, who was all over hard news and popular culture, consuming everything with an impatient hunger, trying to glean the gist of a thing as quickly as possible. Also unlike Quin, Luke had a tendency to think the best of people until they proved otherwise—well, he had once upon a time, it could be different now. But that didn’t make him ‘not the brightest’.

However, I kept my mouth shut. Quin was entitled to his opinion. And for me to openly disagree with him, to actually defend Luke, that would be weird.

51

After Yara died, Luke took a week off work, while his deputy Gustavo ran things—then he had to go back. Me, though, I found myself unable to get out of bed. My sadness was unbearable.

It was impossible to stop scanning the timeline of my pregnancy, moving back and forth along the months, searching for the break, the point at which I’d done something that had damaged her. Was it that long-haul flight to Ireland? Even though I’d only been five months gone then, so it should have been safe. Could it have been the chemicals from hair dye? I’d got my roots done just before I knew that I was pregnant—was that when the damage had been done? Or had it been something I’d eaten?

I sobbed and sobbed all day, every day. Luke would come home from work and find me exactly where he’d left me eight hours earlier.

‘I’m sorry.’ I told him. ‘This is terrible but I can’t help myself.’

‘It’s okay.’ He was so weary. ‘It’s okay.’

When the inevitable call from HR came, I said I couldn’t come back just yet. ‘Can you use the therapist you’d got to cover my maternity leave?’

‘Oh…yes, I guess.’

But a report from my family doctor was required so Luke helped me into the shower, to wash myself for the first time in six days.

Dr Esposito—Carlotta—had been our GP for about three years and she was kindness itself. After she’d written the report which said I wasn’t faking my devastation, she offered me antidepressants.

I was reluctant. ‘I don’t know…I’m not depressed. This is grief, right? Shouldn’t I just feel it?’

‘But look at you, Rachel!’ She waved her hand at my swollen eyes, my baggy sweatpants, my grey skin. ‘You’re not doing well here.’

‘Carlotta, you know I’m in NA, don’t you? I shouldn’t take tablets.’

‘Antidepressants aren’t addictive. They’re not mood-altering—well, I guess they are, but the change is subtle and slow, it’s hard to abuse them. They don’t get you high. Hey, your call. I’m here if you need me.’

With some information about self-help groups for bereaved parents, she sent me on my way.