Page 61 of Statistically Speaking
It is a temporary coping mechanism that my psyche has thrown up to help me get through everything—a barrier to protect me from the barbarian hordes. A wall of safety to buy myself the space and time to process what has happened, the way it has affected me.
The thing about walls, though, is that they don’t only keep the bad stuff out—they keep the good stuff out as well. I know that, and I am alert to the fact that I need to tear them down again if I want to live the kind of life I am starting to see glimmers of.
That, though, will be a task for tomorrow, I think. I am not superhuman, and I am not perfect, and I am not capable ofswitching change on and off like a lightbulb. It will take time, and today I need to give myself permission to retreat.
The journey home takes me the best part of three hours, between toilet breaks and traffic snarls, and it is fully dark by the time I park outside my flat.
I sit in the car for a moment, relieved to be here but also emotionally queasy at the thought of heading inside. My flat will be cold, and empty, and bleak. It is what I need, but it is not what I want, and there is a world of difference between the two. I feel heartsick and lonely and utterly incapable of reaching out to any of the people in my life who might make me feel different.
I know that I need to call in and say hi to Margie and let her know I am safely home. I know this because I am very perceptive, and also because of the text she sent me earlier that said,Make sure you call in and say hi and let me know you’re home safe.
She’s not fooling me—I’m sure she wants to know all about everything, down to the last oatcake, but I am too tired for that. I have driven hundreds of miles and been in a time machine and have eaten nothing but service-station food all day. I can manage “Hello, look, I am alive,” but I think that is about all.
I let myself into the communal hallway and hear a welcome-home woof from Bill. Margie has left the door to her flat open again, and I smile as I see he is waiting to greet me just inside as I push it open. I crouch down and let him give me a big slobbery hug with a lot of face licking.
Down the hall and into the lounge, I am greeted by not only Margie but Erin and Katie too. They are all sitting around the TV screen, the lights are off, and whatever they are watching is casting an eyeball-searing neon glow around the room.
I stare at the TV, hearing a mishmash of accents and seeing cupcake-colored characters involved in some kind of dispute—horses, I realize. They’re talking horses. It’s all very surreal.
“The wanderer returns!” announces Margie when she sees me, pausing the pink horses midsentence.
“Sit down, love!” she says. “We’ve been watching TV shows we loved as kids. Katie’s been finding them on her phone and then throwing them onto the telly—”
“Casting them, Margie!” Katie interrupts, giving me an eye roll as though to sayOld people, huh?when in reality I have no idea what is even happening.
“I choseThe Flintstones,” declares Margie excitedly. “It made me feel all Yabba Dabba Doo! Erin went forThe A-Team, because apparently she was once in love with Face.Now here we are...My Little Pony!”
“This is mine, in case you hadn’t guessed,” Katie adds. “It’s the one where Applejack tries to do the whole harvest on her own, refusing all help until she realizes that she needs her friends...”
“I still don’t understand,” says Erin, who is sitting next to her on the sofa, “why they have farms and harvests. I mean, they’re ponies!”
“Yes, but they’re anthropomorphic ponies,” replies Katie, in the slightly exasperated tone of someone who has had to explain this before, “so they live human-style lives.”
Erin winks at me behind her back, and I see it is a running debate between them.
“Well, I’m just glad they didn’t take it too far,” she adds. “I mean, can you imagine?My Little Pony: The Slaughterhouse Edition?”
Katie groans and punches her in the leg, and Margie gestures toward the chair that is going spare.
“Come on, love, we saved you a space... and there’s an open bottle of Baileys around somewhere—unless Katie’s necked it all.”
“Yes, that’s me,” says Katie jauntily, “just turned eighteen and a complete alcoholic! Gemma, sit down, will you, so I can see how Applejack’s story ends?” I have not said a word throughout this exchange, this explosion of banter and convivial chat. I have smiled, and nodded at the right places, and absentmindedly scratched Bill behind the ears as he sits next to me.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that all three of them are here. That all three of them have obviously been filling in time, waiting for me to come home. They know this might have been a difficult day, and they are, in their own slightly bonkers way, offering me a kind of support group. A soft cushion to land on after any traumas I might have endured.
It is sweet, and I appreciate it, but I still feel the urge to run. To hide away in my own space and lick my wounds.
“Ladies, this all looks wonderful,” I say, “and on any other night I’d have an episode ofThe Worst Witchon quicker than you could say abracadabra, but I’m absolutely wiped out. It all went fine, and I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but for now I need to crash out. I’m not being an Applejack, my lovely friends, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I say good night?”
Katie gets to her feet, clambers over the tangle of dog and human legs, and presents me with a half-empty bottle of Baileys. Aha—she did have it after all.
“There you go,” she announces, wrapping my hands around it, “a half-full bottle of Baileys for you.”
Half full, I tell myself as I prepare to leave. Half full, not half empty. An important distinction.
Katie throws her arms around me and gives me a squeeze. Before I know it, all three of them are surrounding me. I get hugs from them all, Margie tucks my hair behind my ears, and Erin kisses me on the cheek.
I feel overwhelmed, in both good ways and scary ways. These three women have waited up for me. They care about me. They are showing me that so clearly that it almost makes me cry. I know they all want to hear about my day, but I don’t have it in me to talk.
