That was her disease talking. I want to hate her, but it feels wrong because it’s all Lacey. Sometimes I sense someone else in there when I talk to her. I can see darkness and cruelty lurking behind her eyes, an entity just waiting to latch onto my girl and drag her down to hell.
Right now, Lacey’s terrified, so she’s retreated behind what she knows. Therapy. Eating plans. Doctors. Nothing in her life for her. Nothing that makes her happy. Nothing that makes life worth living. My chest aches at the thought. How long can she go on like that, knowing that happiness is right there, but denying herself? She’s at the limits of her strength right now. What if next time I see her that other Lacey is looking back at me?
What if I never see her again at all?
I get on the Tube at the next station. At home, I go out into the garden with the intention of working on a particularly tricky cascade I’m trying to train with wire, but I’m still too riled up. The museum is the only place I can distract myself from the pain of not having Lacey, so I do the minimum of upkeep required on my plants and then head in, even though it’s Saturday.
The foyer is packed with visitors, but the staff areas are blessedly empty. In my office I boot up my computer and get to work, but my concentration is patchy. I find myself staring at the sofa in the corner of my office where Lacey used to eat her lunch, going over and over the events that landed her back in that ward.
Something’s been bugging me about the conversation we had this morning. Specifically, about the box she uses to trap her anorexia. It seems all wrong, because isn’t therapy about overcoming fears, not trapping them? Or is that some pop-psychology bullshit I got from TV?
I want to go back to the ward and ask her about it, but I’m not sure that they’d let me see her twice in one day, or if Lacey would appreciate me bursting in there again. I could call Petrou, but he’s sick of hearing from me and won’t be drawn into detailed discussions about Lacey’s health. I wonder if it’s too frightening for him, and I don’t blame him.
There’s one other option. Before I met Lacey, Petrou gave me his home number in case I needed him urgently over the Laxos matter, and I still have it. If I call it, Mrs. Petrou might pick up, and I think she’s the one I need to talk to. Not just because she seems heavily involved in Lacey’s treatment, but because she’s another problem I need to overcome. Mrs. Petrou despises me. I can’t do anything about Lacey’s anorexia pouring poison into her ear about me, but I can try to show her mother that I’m not the enemy. I could use fewer enemies when it came to Lacey.
I think about it a moment longer, and then pick up my desk phone and dial the number. A woman answers on the third ring.
“Don’t hang up, please. It’s about Lacey.”
There’s a pause, and then Mrs. Petrou says accusingly, “Is that Stian Blomqvist?”
“Yes, it is. I saw her this morning, and she said something that worried me. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
I hold my breath, hoping that maternal concern wins out over her distrust of me.
In an only slightly less unfriendly tone, Mrs. Petrou says, “Well? What did she say?”
“Lacey was talking about a box where she mentally places her anorexia in order to cope with it. That’s why she can’t be happy, because other things get trapped in there, too. It worried me, and I needed to know that someone else was aware of it.”
Because Lacey won’t let me talk to her about it, and it’s killing me.
Silence stretches on the line. I ball my fist and press it hard against the tabletop, aware of how strange I must sound but desperately hoping that Mrs. Petrou can see past her dislike of me to listen to what I’m saying.
“It seemed to me like a strange way to cope with her disease. Does it sound right to you? Has she mentioned it to you?”
Mrs. Petrou takes a shaky breath. “No. She won’t talk about these things with me at all. She never has.”
I suspected as much. Lacey’s too good at pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not. “I just thought you should know. I don’t like going behind her back but considering where she is and that she won’t… Anyway. Maybe it’s something her therapist should know. Goodbye.” I go to hang up, but Mrs. Petrou tells me to wait.
“Thank you, Mr. Blomqvist,” she says jerkily. “I appreciate the call.”
“Please don’t thank me,” I tell her, and hang up.