Bella would not answer her phone, or open the door to me.
Three days dragged by like this with no contact. The anxiety, resident in my being, had taken root for good.
Next evening, Husband was out, Bella rang me. Said how desperately unhappy she was. I told her I would come over, and that is what I did.
She opened her door, sat down on the stairs, forcing me to stay in the hallway.
She sparked up a fag, blew smoke in my direction. She had a mug of cold water whee used dimps floated.
She said she didn’t want to live anymore–nothing but misery.
She was drunk, morbid, and scruffy.
‘You need help,’ I said, feeling helpless.
No, she didn’t need help, to end it all. I stood outside for a second, rang for an ambulance without her knowledge.
The ambulance crew arrived; the police came in tow.
Bella stood, accused me of making a show of her in front of work colleagues–she knew the ambulance men. They offered to take her to the hospital, but no, she would not go.
‘Please take her, help me with my daughter, I don’t know what to do,’ I cried.
‘We can’t take her, against her will.’
‘Then section her, she needs the help of professionals.’
‘Ooh, you don’t want to do that Love. Take her home with you, instead.’
So I did.
And waited for Husband to return home.