Chapter 33
33.
The next day, a nurse wheeled me to the front entrance of the hospital, and Pete pulled up in the car. I gingerly settled myself in, careful of the bandage around my hand.
“I’ve found the perfect place in the country,” Pete announced.
“The country? I thought we’d find a place in town.”
“Most places around here are pretty fancy. I assumed you wouldn’t be in the mood for that.” True. I wore a maternity tunic and leggings. Pete had brought a bag from home, but had forgotten to bring other shoes, so I was still wearing the trainers that I’d worn to Irina’s, which had recently been soaked in amniotic fluid.
“I just wanted to get away from everything and be together,” Pete said. “It will be good to be out of London, don’t you think?”
“I can’t walk far.” I was still bleeding and had to wear a heavy-duty pad.
“Honey, you just gave birth,” Pete said. “I don’t expect you to walk anywhere. Relax, I’ll take care of you.” Pete played Paul Simon on the drive, and the car heater was on. I stared out the window as grey buildings gave way to brown fields and leafless hedges. After living in California, it felt like in the English midwinter, the sky never really got light, even at midday. I fell asleep.
When I woke up, Pete was pulling up to a gate in a large privet hedge. A discreet sign advertised the cottage . He pushed a button, and the intercom crackled. “Pete Mason, with Charlotte Mason. I made a reservation,” he said. The gate swung open.
“What is this place? Seems very exclusive.” I was touched. I imagined a special vegetarian restaurant with a biodynamic garden. Pete squeezed my hand.
“It is, baby.” His beard was starting to look unkempt—the birth had been stressful for him too. It was so sweet of him to make this big effort to spoil me with a special day out.
The driveway led through manicured grounds to a large Georgian house with paned sash windows and brown wisteria climbing the wall, a fanlight over the front door. Pete parked in the horseshoe driveway, and an older woman in a khaki skirt and pressed white shirt came out of the house. “I’m Rosemary,” she said.
“Pete Mason, we spoke on the phone.” They shook hands.
“Charlotte Mason,” I said, uncertain of the etiquette. Was I supposed to introduce myself too?
“How did you find out about this place?” I murmured to Pete as she entered something on a clipboard. “I’ve never heard of it. Did you read about it or something?”
“I did a lot of research, that’s for sure,” Pete said, pulling at his collar. He was wearing a proper shirt instead of a T-shirt. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to dress up more for this occasion.
“Coffee and herbal tea are waiting for you in the conservatory,” said Rosemary, indicating we should follow her. The conservatory had cushioned wicker chairs and glass-topped coffee tables arranged in discreet groups, a view of a close-trimmed lawn with a rectangular lily pond. There were a couple of other groups, murmuring quietly, white-haired parents talking to their adult daughter, a woman sipping tea alone, another woman, also alone, discreetly nursing a baby. It was impressive to take yourself out to lunch to a place like this with your baby in tow.
We sat down, and another person in khaki trousers and pressed white shirt brought us coffee and biscuits and an herbal tea “that aids lactation.”
I turned to Pete, who was glancing at his phone. “How do they know I’m lactating?” Could they tell by looking at me? I shifted and felt blood pulse out of me, and I hoped it wouldn’t soak through my pad and my maternity leggings and onto the pristine oatmeal-colored sofa cushions. “This place is a little weird,” I whispered. “Why is that woman going out to lunch alone with her baby on Boxing Day? Why is there no menu?” I glanced back at the parents with their adult daughter and realized that the daughter was weeping. Blackness crowded the edges of my vision. But I wouldn’t faint. I dug my fingers into the bandage over the cut in my right palm and the pain made me alert again. “How do they know I’m lactating?” I hissed at Pete. The mother of the weeping woman glanced around, and I realized I’d spoken louder than I’d thought.
Pete’s face was that of a stranger. “I’ve consulted with my mom and a couple of other people, and I think it’s best you rest here for a few days. Luna is getting the best care possible in the NICU. You need to focus on getting well.”
“What is this place?” I whispered.
“It’s a well-being clinic.” He cleared his throat. “With a focus on maternal peri- and postnatal health.”
A moan escaped me. “You can’t do this. You don’t understand. Stella is in danger. It’s her we need to worry about. She’s in terrible, terrible danger.”
“Charlotte, this place is the best. You have no idea how lucky we are that I was able to get a spot here. Most people don’t even know places like this exist. You’ll be comfortable here, get the best care.”
I thought of something. “Listen, did you tell Kia about watching her in the bath?”
Pete picked up a biscuit, broke it in half. He looked like he wanted to grind it into powder. “That therapist called. Wesley? He was worried you might try to hurt Stella. Cherie was worried too.”
Everyone I’d confided in had betrayed me.
The glass-topped tables and wicker chairs with their tasteful cushions seemed to cluster closer. Outside it was getting dark, even though it couldn’t be later than three in the afternoon.
Pete shifted away from me slightly, sat up a little straighter. “It’s best for everyone if you stay away from Stella until you feel better.”
“What are you saying, I’m a danger to my own daughter? She is all I think about, day and night.”
Pete seemed to reach the limit of his patience. “You put a dead bird in her bed.”
“ On her bed,” I said sharply, causing the white-haired parents to look over. Rosemary was standing discreetly in the doorway, watching our whole exchange.
Pete continued reciting my misdeeds, a litany he had stored up. “You think she’s keeping a diary in another language.”
“It is in another language. Armenian.”
“You gave her alcohol and then left her wandering around at night on her own. An eight-year-old. You were physically abusing her.”
“I admit I shook her that one time,” I said. “But listen, I wasn’t really shaking her—I was shaking Blanka.” He gaped at me, and I clarified, “Blanka is inside Stella. That’s what I was trying to tell you yesterday.”
Pete’s voice was very quiet. “She’s possessed.”
“Exactly.” I exhaled. “Finally, you get it. We can talk about how to help her.”
“You’re the one who needs help, baby,” Pete said gently. “There’s a name for this. Capgras delusion—the delusion that your loved one has been replaced by an exact duplicate.”
“You planned this speech,” I said, sick at the depth of his betrayal. “Anyway, that isn’t it. This is her, but it’s just her body. She’s a vessel.” I stopped. My voice would hardly work.
Rosemary was suddenly at my elbow with a clipboard, which she handed to Pete, and he gave me a pen. “Sign yourself in here,” he said. “Take a couple of nights and rest. Please. They have massages, a saltwater pool.”
“No, no, no. I have to see Stella. I have to save her.” My lungs were constricted. Once, when we lived in San Francisco, a friend persuaded me to swim off Ocean Beach, and the cold water caused a gasp reflex, where I couldn’t stop gulping air, as if my body wanted to prepare me for submersion. But my friend said if I counted to fifteen and kept swimming, by the end I would be breathing normally. I would be able to handle the cold. And now as I struggled to breathe, I kept thinking, In a minute, I’ll be OK. But I wasn’t. I felt like I was sinking downwards, leaving Stella on the surface, out of reach.
Rosemary placed a hand on my back and said, “Charlotte, you are doing fine. You’re safe here.”
The rudeness of her intrusion snapped me out of it. “Will you please step away? We are having a private conversation.”
Pete leaned close. “Baby, if you promise to eat, sleep, and rest and stay here for two nights, then I’ll listen to what you have to say about Stella. I’m serious: you eat three proper meals a day, not rice cakes, and you get the massages and the therapy and get a good night’s sleep. If you still believe…” He trailed off.
“Blanka is inside Stella,” I supplied.
He flinched. “Right, if you still believe that, I will take you seriously.”
“You have to keep her safe until then,” I said. “Do you promise?”
“I always keep my promises,” Pete said. “You know that.”
This was true: he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. And he’d been focusing on me, thinking I was the problem. Without me there, he’d have more attention for Stella. She was off school for the two-week Christmas holiday. And this was the first chance they’d had since Blanka’s death to spend an extended period of time together. He’d finally see that something was wrong. Staying here for a couple of nights was worth it if that was what it took to get Pete on my side. I needed him. I’d tried to get rid of Blanka on my own, and failed.
“Fine.” I signed the form.
Pete got up. “I’ll call later to check on you.” He started edging away, reminding me absurdly of a parent dropping their young child off on the first day of school, knowing there will be screaming and wanting to be away before it starts.
“Wait, what about Luna?” I called.
“The hospital will take care of Luna. She’s still nine weeks premature. She won’t even know you’re gone.”
“I need to feed her,” I said. Even though Luna hardly nursed, I pumped four times a day in hospital, and my milk was going to come in soon, just when I was separated from her.
“You can pump. They’ve got your pump and a bag from home with your things.” Of course, he’d brought a bag from home. He’d planned carefully.
“We can courier the milk to your baby,” Rosemary murmured. But as Pete turned to go, I stumbled after him, feeling like I was coming apart at my stitches.
“Don’t leave, Pete. Please, please, please.” I knocked over a vase of winter branches as I threw myself against him. I couldn’t believe the way he was treating me, the love of his life. What had gone wrong between us? I thought of all those times I had left things unsaid or saved things up, waiting for when he would be most receptive. Now I knew that he too left some things unsaid and hoarded others until he deemed the time was right.
“Charlotte. I have no choice. My heart is breaking here.” But he didn’t look like his heart was breaking. He seemed cold and efficient. In his pressed shirt and khaki trousers, he looked less laid-back California surfer, more groomed corporate executive. I understood now that he had dressed up not for me, but so that he would look like the sane one.