around their therapists and everyone else; it’s part of the illness. So if Gwydion was playacting, there was probably a good reason for it. And if he wasn’t, I was being unkind. Whatever the case, in my impatience I’d risked losing my chance to find out what that reason might be.
“I’m sorry, Gwydion.” I paused. “I shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t matter whether you look at me or not. Just carry on talking. I’m listening.”
But Gwydion remained facing the wall, saying nothing.
He went on saying nothing for the next half hour, and I went on kicking myself inwardly for interrupting him in mid-flow. But eventually my impatience began to leave me, and instead a deep sadness came over me. Here was this young man, in his prime, lying in a darkened room, letting his life slip slowly by, unable to grasp it, to savor it. And no one seemed to be able to help him, to reach him, least of all me.
I looked over at the window, and saw that, behind the curtains, the sun had come out. A tiny ray of sunlight was beginning to creep along the window ledge. I thought of a fragment of poetry that I knew, one that my mother had taught me as a child.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn . . .
With a start I realized that, in my reverie, I’d spoken aloud. Then I heard Gwydion’s voice, finishing the verse.
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
As he whispered the words, tears filled my eyes. Tears for Gwydion in his anguish, and for something else as well: for the sudden realization that my mother had never taught me the last two lines of the verse—hoping to shield me perhaps from the pain of growing up, from the ultimate powerlessness of her love, and keep me a while longer in the safety of childhood. She’d done her best for me in those early years, I realized now. Like most mothers. Like Arianrhod, most probably. And if it hadn’t been good enough, well, that was the world’s fault, and growing up’s fault, not hers.
“About the dream, Gwydion.” I realized I was whispering, to keep the urgency out of my voice. “Was it exactly the same—or was there something else? Some little detail, perhaps, however small, that might help us to find out what’s wrong . . . what you’re running from?”
Gwydion remained facing the wall, motionless.
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
He shook his head, but he didn’t turn round.
I felt suddenly exhausted. I needed to get out of the dark, airless room and back into the daylight.
“Gwydion. I think I’m going to go now. Unless you want me to stay.”
He shook his head again.
“You’ve got my phone number. You can call me any time you want. Or . . .” I hesitated a moment, then said, rather recklessly, “or I can come back to see you here.”
There was no response, so I got up and walked over to the door. I stood there for a moment, waiting to see if he would speak to me before I left. But he didn’t, so I opened it and walked out into the corridor, closing it quietly behind me.
5
When I went downstairs I found Arianrhod in the kitchen. She asked how I’d got on, and I told her that Gwydion hadn’t said much, except to tell me about a dream he’d been having. She seemed disappointed, and asked me if I could possibly stay the night and talk to him again in the morning. I refused, saying that I had to get home, which was true enough: Bob would be working late, and I’d need to organize the girls’ evening, and catch up on some papers myself before work tomorrow. At that, she looked even more downcast, and then suggested I might like a walk around the grounds before I left, to stretch my legs before the drive home. I agreed, even though I knew that what she really wanted was a chance to discuss Gwydion further with me, and I was somewhat reluctant to do so.
We went into the
“I’m sorry, Gwydion.” I paused. “I shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t matter whether you look at me or not. Just carry on talking. I’m listening.”
But Gwydion remained facing the wall, saying nothing.
He went on saying nothing for the next half hour, and I went on kicking myself inwardly for interrupting him in mid-flow. But eventually my impatience began to leave me, and instead a deep sadness came over me. Here was this young man, in his prime, lying in a darkened room, letting his life slip slowly by, unable to grasp it, to savor it. And no one seemed to be able to help him, to reach him, least of all me.
I looked over at the window, and saw that, behind the curtains, the sun had come out. A tiny ray of sunlight was beginning to creep along the window ledge. I thought of a fragment of poetry that I knew, one that my mother had taught me as a child.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn . . .
With a start I realized that, in my reverie, I’d spoken aloud. Then I heard Gwydion’s voice, finishing the verse.
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
As he whispered the words, tears filled my eyes. Tears for Gwydion in his anguish, and for something else as well: for the sudden realization that my mother had never taught me the last two lines of the verse—hoping to shield me perhaps from the pain of growing up, from the ultimate powerlessness of her love, and keep me a while longer in the safety of childhood. She’d done her best for me in those early years, I realized now. Like most mothers. Like Arianrhod, most probably. And if it hadn’t been good enough, well, that was the world’s fault, and growing up’s fault, not hers.
“About the dream, Gwydion.” I realized I was whispering, to keep the urgency out of my voice. “Was it exactly the same—or was there something else? Some little detail, perhaps, however small, that might help us to find out what’s wrong . . . what you’re running from?”
Gwydion remained facing the wall, motionless.
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
He shook his head, but he didn’t turn round.
I felt suddenly exhausted. I needed to get out of the dark, airless room and back into the daylight.
“Gwydion. I think I’m going to go now. Unless you want me to stay.”
He shook his head again.
“You’ve got my phone number. You can call me any time you want. Or . . .” I hesitated a moment, then said, rather recklessly, “or I can come back to see you here.”
There was no response, so I got up and walked over to the door. I stood there for a moment, waiting to see if he would speak to me before I left. But he didn’t, so I opened it and walked out into the corridor, closing it quietly behind me.
5
When I went downstairs I found Arianrhod in the kitchen. She asked how I’d got on, and I told her that Gwydion hadn’t said much, except to tell me about a dream he’d been having. She seemed disappointed, and asked me if I could possibly stay the night and talk to him again in the morning. I refused, saying that I had to get home, which was true enough: Bob would be working late, and I’d need to organize the girls’ evening, and catch up on some papers myself before work tomorrow. At that, she looked even more downcast, and then suggested I might like a walk around the grounds before I left, to stretch my legs before the drive home. I agreed, even though I knew that what she really wanted was a chance to discuss Gwydion further with me, and I was somewhat reluctant to do so.
We went into the
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