26

Faith and Celeste went to visit Victor the following week as planned, but Faith’s face wore the results of an unsuccessful day when she dropped their mother back to the house.

She pulled Glory aside as she was leaving. “Is she taking the prescription the hospital gave her?”

“What prescription?”

“Glory! I need you to pay attention to people besides yourself!” Faith clicked her fingers a few times. “She was given a prescription that she was meant to be taking. Little orange and white capsules to keep her mood stable.”

“Would Mummy even take them? You know she only believes in prayer and blessings from holy men.”

“Well, something was working for all these weeks. How do you think I managed to convince her to go back to work?”

“What were the pills?”

“Some antipsychotics or something—I can’t remember the name.”

“Mummy’s psychotic?”

“No, Glory! You sound like one of the aunties from Nigeria. Are you trying to tell me that my sister is mad? She’s not mad, or psychotic, she just needs mood stabilizers. It’s just medication for her mind. That’s it, OK?”

Glory nodded.

“So what happened on the visit?”

Faith sighed and massaged her temple with two fingers.

“She just started acting weird. As soon as we were searched she started getting agitated. Then when we finally got in to see Victor, it got worse. She was acting like she wanted to climb up the walls and go out the window. Soon as the hour was over Victor practically ran out of the hall.”

Faith pinched the bridge of her nose and all Glory could do was contribute a sympathetic grunt.

“There was this horrible moment when we left the hall and they had us waiting in this little room for a while, Mummy pushed to the front of the queue and started banging on the door! It was so embarrassing, I thought she was going to smack the officer in the face when he finally came. And then she’s been talking under her breath the whole drive back. I’m really worried, Glory.”

Truth be told, since Celeste had confessed about Hope and the Markshams, Glory had noticed that their mother had been in a constant state of irritated distraction, not even having the presence of mind to scold and rebuke Glory as she normally would. But not only was this a self-serving silver lining for Glory, she didn’t want to admit that Faith had been right, and that talking about Hope had only caused further upset for their mother, and nothing else.

Glory checked Facebook often, but Hope Kehinde had not accepted her request or responded to the follow-up message she sent a day later:

Hi, sorry to bother you, but Im looking for a long-lost relative and wonder if she might be you? She was born in London but grew up in the Midlands, I can give you more details if you want them.

“Just keep an eye on her, please?” Faith said as she walked out to her car.

Celeste spent the rest of that evening in her bedroom, so all Glory could do was eavesdrop through the sealed door. The conversation was muffled, but Glory could work out that her mother was on the phone and not talking to herself as she had first thought in alarm. When Glory came to say goodnight, the conversation was still going.

At three o’clock in the morning, Glory was woken by her mother standing over her bed in the dark.

“You must pray with me,” she said in a hoarse voice.

Glory began to protest, but Celeste cut her off.

“I had a dream!” she hissed, and Glory was dragged out of her stupor and through to her mother’s bedroom.

The harsh light in the room made Glory blink stupidly. At the foot of the bed, Celeste pushed a heavy hand on her shoulder to prompt her to kneel. Celeste began to speak in tongues, unintelligible syllables flowing unceasingly from her mouth, and then she pressed a thumb smeared with oil onto Glory’s forehead, wrapping the rest of her fingers around Glory’s skull in a tight grip and praying so hard that Glory’s own head began to shake with fervor.

It was only when her mother commanded her to pray that Glory took full stock of what was happening.

“Mum—”

“Pray!”

“But—”

Celeste began to drown Glory out with more tongues, a steady drone as she reapplied oil to her daughter’s forehead until it began to drip down the bridge of Glory’s nose.

That’s when Glory did begin to pray. She repeated variations of “Oh God, what’s happening?” over and over under her breath, but that seemed to satisfy Celeste who began to call out instructions and encouragement.

“Yes, amen! Those who call on the Lord will be saved! The prayers of the righteous availeth much! Whatever is bound on earth will be bound in heaven! Whatever is loosed on earth shall be loosed in heaven! Shonda-robbo! Blood of Jesus! Iski-baba!”

And it continued, Glory muttering under her breath and Celeste exhorting until her voice began to crack with exhaustion.

“This is good,” she said as her strength eventually began to flag and she dismissed Glory.

Glory woke up later that morning, her pillowcase stained and forehead still greased with oil. She tiptoed around the house while her mother slept.

She called Faith. No answer. So she showered and dressed and when she finally crept into Celeste’s bedroom, she found her mother spread eagle on the bed, mouth open as she snored softly. The bottle of oil from the night before had tipped over, and its contents had seeped across the side table and onto the floor.

Glory carefully picked up the bottle and read the now translucent label. All it said was “Holy Anointing Oil” in a medieval-looking font, under which was the address of a church in Lagos. Glory mopped up the spilled oil with tissue from the bathroom and disposed of the bottle.

She called Faith again, then sent her a message. Then she called the family GP and made an appointment. The type of private therapy that her American health insurance had afforded her was not an option, so she would have to swallow her pride and settle for an NHS referral. Either way, in the haze of last night’s frantic prayer session she had resolved that she was not prepared to let her own madness catch her unawares.

When Glory finished that call, she checked her phone again. There was still no response from Faith but she could not wait any longer. She neither wanted to be alone in the quiet house, nor did she want to be around to find out what mood Celeste would wake up in.

She pulled on her coat and shoes and left, letting the door carefully click shut behind her.