BBC: Dr Schafer, you’re considered one of Great Britain’s foremost experts in the diagnosis and treatment of schizophrenia. In your opinion, is Laura Bright’s alleged behaviour typical?
DR RUTH SCHAFER: I must begin by saying I’ve never met Ms Bright, let alone treated her or been privy to her medical records, so I’ll be speaking in generalities. Schizophrenia affects roughly one out of every hundred people in the United Kingdom, and it presents differently in each person with the diagnosis. There are a variety of positive, negative, and cognitive symptoms—
BBC: Positive and negative symptoms?
RS: Positive in the sense that they gain symptoms—hallucinations and delusions, for instance, which are both extremely common in those diagnosed with schizophrenia. Negative symptoms are the absence of certain important behaviours, including difficulty talking, withdrawing from others, apathy, or the inability to convey emotions. Cognitive symptoms may involve poor memory or concentration, struggling to express thoughts, disorganized thinking, or trouble understanding the information being presented, though of course these are only a sample of the symptoms patients with schizophrenia may experience.
BBC: And what of Laura Bright’s reported symptoms, including her alleged attempt to drown her daughter?
RS: Again, I am not her doctor, so I can only speak in generalities. There are several different types of schizophrenia, and should a case similar to Ms Bright’s be presented to me in a clinical setting, I would likely explore a potential diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. This is marked by the aforementioned hallucinations and delusions, particularly that an entity may be out to get them or their loved ones.
BBC: You believe this is why she allegedly tried to drown Evangeline?
RS: It’s impossible for me or any other doctor to say without knowing the facts of Ms Bright’s case. Given the circumstances we’re aware of—her relationship with His Majesty and the likely fear that she and her daughter would be exposed in the press—it would be feasible that someone suffering from paranoia and acute psychosis might believe they are acting to protect a loved one from a worse fate.
BBC: Is violent behaviour common in patients such as Laura Bright?
RS: Perhaps the most prevalent and enduring misconception about what it means to be diagnosed with schizophrenia is the strong association with violence. People living with schizophrenia are by and large nonviolent toward others. The real danger is self-violence, and it’s estimated that ten percent of people living with schizophrenia die by suicide. Less than a quarter of all individuals who experience acute psychosis—which can be brought on by many different factors, including thyroid issues, brain tumours, and the use of illegal drugs—exhibit violent tendencies. And to equate being diagnosed with schizophrenia with being dangerous and deranged is enormously harmful to the hundreds of thousands of people in the United Kingdom living with and managing this mental illness.
BBC: Will Laura Bright ever be able to live a normal life? Is it likely she’s living a normal life now, wherever she is?
RS: Again, I cannot speak to Ms Bright’s case specifically, but I have seen marvelous improvements in patients. With the help of proper ongoing treatment, which may include medication and therapy, an individual living with schizophrenia can lead a very normal, very healthy life.
—Transcript of BBC News’s interview with mental health expert Dr Ruth Schafer, 26 June 2023
ALEXANDER AND I STAND SIDE by side on my mother’s porch as the sound of the doorbell echoes through the house.
I grip an apple pie from a bakery my mom loved when I was a kid, and he holds a bouquet of irises and forget-me-nots—her favorites, according to him. My heart is pounding so hard I think it’s going to crack a rib, but when I glance at Alexander, there’s a small smile on his face, and he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Almost as if I’m not the only one who’s finally home.
Suddenly, before I can fully prepare myself, the front door opens. And for the first time in almost seven years, I come face to face with my mom.
She’s still a few inches taller than me, and her frizzy auburn hair is pulled back in a loose bun with spiral curls framing her face. Instead of the paint-splattered apron she’s always wearing when we VidChat, she’s in jeans and a cream cashmere sweater, and her grin is so wide that every beautiful laugh line on her face is visible.
“Evie!” She pushes past the screen door with such speed that I’m sure she’s going to hug me. Before she can close the distance between us, however, she stops abruptly, and uncertainty flickers across her face.
Does she think I’m afraid of her? Does she think I’m upset? Both possibilities feel like a knife to my heart, and even though I’m all but frozen in place, I clumsily shove the pie into Alexander’s free hand and wrap my arms around my mother as tightly as I dare. She’s startlingly angular and bony underneath her sweater, but I can feel her strength as she hugs me back fiercely.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she says in a choked voice, and those five words vanquish every worry I had about coming here. “Are you okay?”
I can tell from her tone that this isn’t just a polite question, and my stomach twists into knots. “I will be,” I say. It’s the closest I can get to the truth without Robert Cunningham stealing this moment from both of us. “What about you? Are you all right?”
She hesitates, and in that split second, I know she’s aware of every single word the media is saying about her. The knots turn into nausea, and I feel an overwhelming urge to fight every so-called journalist who seems to think telling the world about the most difficult time in her life counts as news—or worse, entertainment. “As long as you’re okay, so am I,” she says at last, offering me a smile I almost believe. “How was the flight? Have you had anything to eat today?”
“The flight was fine,” I say, my tongue heavy with the things I want to say, but can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “I had lunch earlier.”
“That was back in London, though,” says Alexander quietly, seemingly reluctant to intrude on our conversation, but I don’t mind. And judging by the way my mom squeezes his forearm like there’s no barrier between them at all, neither does she.
“It’s nearly midnight there,” she says. “You must be starving. Come on—I’ve made lasagna.” But as she reaches for the door again, she falters. “Do you like lasagna, Evie?”
“I love lasagna,” I say. “It’s one of my favorites.”
My mom visibly relaxes and leads the way inside. The house is smaller than I expect, probably because I’ve spent more than a third of my life in sprawling boarding schools and, up until this afternoon, lived in an actual castle. The furniture is shockingly neutral, but her paintings hang unframed on the walls, their abstract designs and bold colors adding liveliness to the otherwise tidy decor.
When we walk into the warm kitchen, with its red walls and gold accents, a flood of impressions and snippets of memories suddenly overwhelm me. “Whoa,” I say, stunned into reverie. “I think I remember this place.”
“You do?” She sets the pie down on the counter and grabs oven mitts to extract the lasagna. “You used to stand on a stool and help me bake.”
I look at the pattern in the countertop, and an image of yellow frosting flashes through my mind. “I remember that, too,” I say, even though I’m not sure I do. But the way my mom beams makes up for any uncertainty on my part, and she insists Alexander and I take a seat at the table while she serves us.
As he and I sit down across from each other, he catches my eye. “All right?” he says so softly that I read his lips more than I hear him, and I nod. I’m not entirely okay—I feel like I’ve walked straight into a dream, and there’s a faint buzzing in my ears. But there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.
My mom carries out plates of lasagna and garlic bread, and as she joins us at the table, there’s a moment when we’re all silent and glancing at one another. A surreal sensation washes over me, as if I’m watching this scene unfold in a cheesy movie, but I can feel the cool wood of the table beneath my hands. I can smell the plate of food in front of me, and my mouth is watering. This is as real as it gets, and the fact that I’m sitting at a dinner table with my parents—it’s everything I’ve ever wanted and never thought I could actually have.
The conversation focuses entirely on me. My mom asks about my time in London, about the shows and movies I’ve been watching and the book I’m reading. She asks about the staff—several of whom she names specifically, including Jenkins and Louis—and what my favorite part of my trip was.
This last question gives me pause. I think about all the horrible days I spent in Windsor Castle, under the tutelage of strict etiquette instructors or holed up in my room, with only my laptop and the opinions of strangers for company. I think about all the articles the tabloids and gossip blogs have written about me, and I think about all the nasty things my father’s family has said to my face. It’s hard to see the good beyond those bleak moments, but as I swallow my bite of lasagna, I know my answer.
“There’s this little ice cream shop in London,” I say. “Kit—this boy I met—he took me there. And it was the best ice cream I’ve ever had.”
“You met a boy?” says my mom with an odd mixture of protectiveness and delight.
“Kit is Christopher Abbott-Montgomery,” says Alexander. “He’s Helene’s nephew. Her brother’s younger son.”
He says his wife’s name easily, like he’s used to discussing her with my mom, and I can’t help but watch for her reaction. I expect—I don’t know. Hurt, maybe. A flicker of bewilderment and distress, like I’ve seen so many times on VidChat. And when my mom frowns, my insides clench.
“Is his older brother the one who passed?” she says, and I exhale. How does she know about that?
Alexander nods, oblivious to my surprise. “Kit is staying at Windsor for now. Evan, Tibby mentioned you two have been spending a great deal of time together.”
My face grows hot. As much as I’m enjoying having a normal family experience, being grilled about my social life is more than I bargained for. Especially considering all the grief Kit caused. “Yeah,” I mumble, stabbing my lasagna. “How did you know about his brother, Mom?”
She blinks. “Alex told me,” she says, glancing at him for confirmation. “Sometime last year, I think. I remember we spoke right after the funeral.”
I look between them. “You two still talk?” I say, trying to mask my astonishment with mild interest. It doesn’t work.
“Of course,” says my mom, and she smiles at Alexander like they share an entire lifetime of secrets. “I’ve mentioned that before, haven’t I, Evie?”
I nod, my appetite gone. Not because I’m upset with them, but because I’m furious with myself. I’ve spent years dismissing my mother’s preoccupation with Alexander as a sign of her illness—yet another tangled delusion that separated her world from ours. But I’m the one who’s been so caught up in my own reality that I can’t tell truth from fiction.
“Tell me more about Kit,” says my mom with such warmth that I can’t refuse. I press my lips together and stare down at my plate, hoping my face isn’t as red as I think it is.
“He took me to a concert a couple days ago,” I say. “And we’ve hung out a bunch. But—I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
“Oh?” She sounds disappointed. “Why not?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. After years of keeping our family’s secrets, I can’t admit that the leak about her illness came from me. “It’s a long story. And I’m still not really sure what happened.”
“If he isn’t worth your time, then walk away and don’t look back,” she says, reaching across the table and taking my hand. Flecks of green and purple paint stain her short nails, and I squeeze her fingers gently. “But if he’s one of the good ones, then you owe it to yourself to try. You deserve wonderful things, Evie. And you deserve to be surrounded by worthwhile and supportive people.”
I try to smile, but I can feel it come out as more of a grimace. “I am,” I promise. “I have you and Alexander and Jenkins.”
“You need more than just us, as much as we all love you. Did you meet Maisie while you were there?”
At the casual mention of his legitimate daughter, the corners of Alexander’s mouth turn downward, and he’s suddenly fascinated by the crusty remains of his garlic bread. No doubt he’s thinking about the meeting yesterday morning, and what Helene and Maisie tried to make me do.
“I did,” I say. “It was a rocky start, but—she stopped by before I left, and we had a nice talk.”
“Did you?” says my mom eagerly. “I always hoped you two would meet one day. What’s she like?”
“Very much a princess,” I say wryly, and when I glance at Alexander, I think I see a faint smirk. “But once you get past the layers of pride and snobbery, she seems like a good person.”
The topic flits to the others I’ve met—Ben, Nicholas, Tibby, even Helene, although when my mom asks what I think of her, Alexander hastily changes the subject to the painting hanging on the wall. While she enthusiastically describes the nearby park that’s become her most recent inspiration, I excuse myself.
It takes me a minute to find a half bath with lilac walls and gold furnishings, and after I’ve done my business and washed my hands, I pause. This wasn’t the bathroom where it happened—where my mother tried to drown me in the throes of a psychotic break. And while every part of me cringes away from that painful thought, I suddenly have a burning need to see it for myself. To see the four walls where the course of my entire life changed.
I slip out into the living room. The floorboards creak as I walk, but there’s no pause in the conversation filtering in from the dining room, and I hurry toward the staircase.
The upstairs hallway is dark, and I consider turning on the light, but I don’t want to alert my mom or Alexander to the fact that I’m snooping. I shouldn’t be so scared of getting caught—this is my home, after all. But even though that’s technically true, I’m now certain that while I may have lived here when I was little, this is no more my home now than St. Edith’s ever was.
I grope around until I find a door to my left. Twisting the knob, I slowly ease it open and reach for the switch that has to be there. And while I’m not entirely sure what I expect to see, as soon as I turn on the light, I freeze.
Pink curtains, a neatly made bed covered in teddy bears and a purple quilt, a cushioned window seat that looks out over the backyard—I don’t remember this room, but I’m sure it was once mine. There’s a beautiful pastel mural of a garden on one wall, hand-painted in my mother’s distinctive style. I look around, taking in the rows of picture books and the collection of finger paintings framed on the dresser. Almost fourteen years after I last slept here, it’s a time capsule more than anything, and I can’t help wondering why my mom keeps it like this. Is she afraid she’ll forget if this room ever changes? Or does she simply miss me, and this makes her feel closer to the family we once were?
I should be nostalgic for this childhood I barely remember, but while there’s a pang inside me for the life I could have lived, I easily push it aside. This room belongs to a little girl I haven’t been in a long time. These aren’t my memories—they’re my mom’s, and I leave them undisturbed as I step into the hall again and softly shut the door.
I almost go back downstairs. This feels like a bad idea—like I’m dragging the tip of a knife across a long-healed scar, practically begging for it to reopen. But I’m here now, and I need to know, and so I open the door across the hall and flip the switch.
Light fills the room, and instantly I know this is it. There’s an incongruous modern feel to the bathroom, like it’s been remodeled within the past decade even though the rest of the house has stayed the same. The granite countertop is clear of any clutter. The tile floor is pristine, and pearl-gray hand towels hang neatly on their hooks. And opposite the toilet, where I’d expect a bathtub to sit, is a shower stall with stone walls.
I stand there, my entire body numb as I take it all in—the gleaming fixtures, the small window with a gauzy gray curtain, the fluffy bath mats that look like they’ve never seen a drop of water. A long moment passes, but at last I understand why this room feels so wrong.
She’s never used it.
My mother must have a suite, because this bathroom, expensive and luxurious as it is, has never been touched. There isn’t even a toothbrush on the counter or a single long hair on the floor. Alexander may have had it remodeled for her, but just like my old bedroom, this place is also frozen in time.
Yet again I step back into the hall and close the door. This isn’t my life anymore, and it feels wrong to breach the threshold of my mother’s inner world. These rooms—these memories—are none of my business, and the only version of me that has a place in this house is four years old. I don’t need to be here to find forgiveness, because there’s nothing to forgive. It wasn’t her fault. She did the best she could, and she shows me she loves me every day by taking her medication and taking care of herself. That’s all I can ask for, and that’s all I’ll ever need.
I head back downstairs, careful not to make a sound. The conversation in the dining room has gone silent now, and my heart skips a beat. Do they realize I’m missing? Will my mom take one look at me and know where I’ve been?
But when I turn the corner, I stop cold. Soft music plays from a stereo by the foot of the table—some old nineties song that sounds vaguely familiar—and Alexander’s arms are wrapped around my mom as they sway in place. His nose is buried in her hair, her head rests on his shoulder, and their eyes are closed as if they’re in their own world.
The love between them is obvious, and even though I’ve never seen them together before, I don’t know how I could have missed it. They’re two puzzle pieces that form a single perfect image—two stars that have been orbiting each other since before time began, and it makes me ache for something I’m sure I’ll never be lucky enough to find. I’m glad they did, though. And suddenly I grieve every single day they’ve had to spend apart.
I watch them for another few seconds before turning away. I might be the product of their love, but I have no place in this moment, and I exit on silent feet, leaving them to their song.