Chapter 3
now
3.
I compose my face, trying to appear calm, but not too calm. I must appear exactly as calm as a sane person would in this situation. I am sane, I remind myself. Still, it’s hard to look sane when I’m forced to wear what amounts to pajamas. I sit up straight on the edge of the sofa, feet planted on the floor. Dr. Beaufort, my new therapist, has a round, earnest face, greying brown hair cut sensibly short, and a navy poncho that looks like it has dog hair on it. “Sorry about this old thing,” she says. “I feel the cold. Do you? Snuggle up in the blanket, why don’t you.”
“I’m fine.” A blanket isn’t going to help me right now. On the wall is a painting of a woman standing in a river, facing away from the viewer. She looks like she’s trying to hold her ground, but any minute a mighty current will sweep her away.
“Do you need the tissues?” Dr. Beaufort asks. “I moved them onto that side table there. I used to have them on the coffee table, but then a patient said they made her feel like I wanted her to cry. I don’t want you to cry. That is, not unless you want to.”
“OK?” I say. She’s babbling. Maybe she’s new to this job. Perhaps she got her qualification after her kids started school. To the right of her is a bookcase, which has heavy psychiatric diagnostic manuals, but also Mind Over Mother and Good Moms Have Scary Thoughts . Is she a mother who has had scary thoughts? On a side table at her elbow sits a misshapen vase of dried spear thistles. There are no family photos, but that ugly vase definitely looks like it was made by a child.
“Charlotte?” Dr. Beaufort has asked a question.
“Sorry?”
“Can you tell me why you’re here?”
I stroke my throat. When I was seven, my mother took me to see a doctor about a persistent cough. Three doctors later, we learned it was thyroid cancer, and I endured surgery and radioactive iodine treatment that left my throat sore, my mouth tasting of dirty coins. Even though they’d cured me, I’d disliked doctors ever since.
“Why are you here?” Dr. Beaufort repeats gently. I stare at the bowl of marble eggs on her coffee table.
“My husband thinks I need a rest.”
Dr. Beaufort nods. “What mother doesn’t, right?”
I chuckle obligingly.
She studies me with her serious gaze. “The intake form says you’re concerned about your daughter Stella.”
A headache blooms on the right side of my forehead. Pete has filled her in already. She will likely report on our sessions to him. I probably gave permission on the form I signed when I was so distraught. I have to convince him of my sanity so he will take me seriously and help me save Stella. But if Dr. Beaufort is reporting to him, I need to get her on my side too.
I pick up a marble egg and weigh its coolness in my good hand. I want to roll it over my brow, to soothe its ache. But I must remain calm, polite, composed—while also making her believe me. I need to choose my words carefully, share the monstrous truth a little at a time. “Yes, I am worried about Stella,” I say.
Dr. Beaufort nods. “It can be very hard when a new baby comes.”
“Stella’s not herself,” I say. Literally, I think.
“And what about you?” she asks. “You just gave birth, and ten weeks early at that. Hormones can have a powerful effect on the brain, especially when coupled with stress. Have you noticed any change in yourself?” She looks at me, kindly, gently, seeming to take in every detail. I haven’t eaten properly for months. Blood oozes from between my legs, and my stitches throb. Dr. Beaufort looks at me, as if she knows that becoming a mother sends your pain tolerance sky-high, and that isn’t always a good thing.
She wears no makeup, and her complexion is reddened. She looks like she washes her face with soap and water and rushes out of the house, too busy for a glance in the mirror. On her finger is a Peppa Pig plaster. She is a mother. Maybe she will help me.
“You’re right,” I tell her. “I have been stressed, and the pregnancy and birth were difficult.” Horrendous, in fact. “But I’m still the same person. Stella isn’t.” The cancer that killed Pete’s dad began small, with an ache in his lower back. My childhood cancer started small, with a cough that wouldn’t go away. Stella’s transformation also began quietly. The first signs were subtle, so subtle, but something was taking up residence inside her, biding its time.
“I’m listening,” says Dr. Beaufort, and I begin to talk.