Chapter 34
Now
34.
Pete’s latest text reads, Kids both eating well. Visited Luna first thing this morning, now Stella’s asked to go swimming . I message back, Do NOT take Stella swimming! I’m ready to leave as per agreement. When can you collect me? Three dots indicate he’s typing a message, but then none appears. I call him, and he doesn’t pick up. I leave a message telling him to come and get me ASAP. I call him twice more—nothing. I pump for Luna—still nothing but colostrum. Maybe the stress will stop my milk coming in at all. But I can’t think about that now. I go to see Dr. Beaufort.
She looks more put together today, without the poncho, in tailored dark wool trousers and draped cream jumper, her hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell claw. The Peppa Pig plaster is gone. I read her Pete’s latest text. “He’s taking good care of your children,” says Dr. Beaufort.
I shake my head. “He’s not taking me seriously. Stella isn’t safe around water. How could he agree to take her swimming? She already tried to drown herself once.”
“In the bath?” says Dr. Beaufort. “You said. I’m not sure that’s even possible. That would take tremendous determination.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Blanka is nothing if not determined.” But I see in her eyes that even though I’ve now told her everything, she still doesn’t share my perspective.
I hunch over my bad hand, which is throbbing crazily. “Last night you told me you’ve known people who have had encounters with the dead and you didn’t think they were mad. You saw your own dead mother. So why don’t you believe me?”
Dr. Beaufort looks taken aback. “I did see my mother very clearly, yes. But I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I had what you might call a waking dream. It’s so common that there’s even a technical term: hypnagogic hallucination. My point was that the bereaved can have very vivid experiences of seeing the dead. Grief can do crazy things to your mind.”
Finally, I understand that I’m not going to convince her. I misjudged her last night. Even when you present all the evidence, people simply won’t believe something that contradicts their deepest beliefs: that death is final, that a spirit can’t transcend the limits of the body.
“You gave birth five days ago,” says Dr. Beaufort. “Hormones can have very powerful effects on the brain too. They can distort our sense of reality.”
“Haven’t we covered this? Mothers have hormones, but we also have instincts. We’re hardwired to know when our children are in danger.”
She says nothing, and I think if she had children, there would be a picture of them in the room. “Are you a mother?” I blurt out. Dr. Beaufort opens her mouth, and I say, “If you’re going to answer with a question, I’d prefer it if you didn’t answer at all.” I look at the ugly vase of thistles. “Just tell me who made that.”
“A patient,” she says.
Suddenly I’m certain that she doesn’t have children. She doesn’t get it. No wonder she has a bookshelf full of books about understanding motherhood: she has no personal experience of it.
I think back to what I’d told Cherie: a mother’s hand knows. As her mother, I always know when something is wrong with Stella. That same intuition tells me she is in danger now.
“What happens if I just walk out of here?” I ask.
Dr. Beaufort looks disappointed with me. “It would be against medical advice. We’d notify your husband. We might want to put proceedings in motion to ensure you are not a danger to yourself or others.”
“Proceedings?”
She sighs. “Your husband might seek to keep you in a psychiatric care facility, whether or not you agree.”
“He would never do that,” I protest. “He loves me.” But I realize now, I can’t be sure. He put me in here, didn’t he? He promised to take care of Stella, but instead he’s taking her near deep water. He promised I could leave after two nights, and now he’s not answering the phone.
I reach for a marble egg, weighing it in my hand, and Dr. Beaufort shrinks back. Her office is on the ground floor. I could just climb out the window and run. Dr. Beaufort is watching me, holding the arms of her chair a little too tightly.
But if I run, where will that get me? For all I know, they’ll send two men sprinting after me with a straitjacket. Even if I get away, they’ll call Pete, and he might try to hide Stella from me. I need to leave secretly and be well away before they discover my absence. I must be cunning, play meek and obedient.
I sit, replace the egg, and watch her exhale. I was wrong about Dr. Beaufort being a mother, but I think my guess about her being fairly new to this was spot-on. She must be a novice, because if she’d had many patients, she would know that moms separated from their children don’t want to cradle eggs, they want to throw things. A real therapist would never place a bowl of projectiles within reach of a patient.
“Perhaps I’m not seeing clearly,” I say. “I just gave birth. It’s been less than a year since I lost my mother. I need to stop worrying about Stella.” I continue, repeating various things she’s said to me in our sessions, but she acts like I’ve had a major breakthrough.
“This is a huge step forward,” she says, beaming.
I go to a restorative yoga class and spend the rest of the day in my room, staring out the window. Eventually, I get a text from Pete: Can’t make it down there today. Talk tomorrow?
Great!!! Feeling so much more relaxed! I type. Person-in-lotus-position emoji, heart, heart.
I have dinner in the dining room with the other moms, about ten of us, plus Kelly, the cheery young woman who is obviously there to keep an eye on us. Our white pajamas look out of place in the Georgian dining room, with its marble fireplace and plaster ceiling roses. We serve ourselves from a sideboard buffet of kale salad studded with pomegranate seeds and quinoa with roasted vegetables.
Some moms came to the Cottage with their babies. These are now tucked up in bed—babies are not allowed at dinner—but these moms cluster together at one end of the table and chatter about sleep schedules and breastfeeding difficulties. The moms who came here without their babies pick at their quinoa. We’re second-class citizens who can’t be trusted with our offspring. Chapped Hands from the lounge is here, and she launches back into her story, announcing to the table that her husband’s laissez-faire attitude to hand hygiene is endangering her twins.
When I heard Chapped Hands yesterday, I thought she sounded crazy, but as I listen to her talk now, I realize that she doesn’t sound much crazier than most of the moms I know. Most of those mothers are afraid. Being a mother is frightening. Emmy is afraid of Lulu touching a dead bird or eating the wrong thing. Every mother goes a little bit crazy in her own particular way.
I almost envy other moms though. All they have to do is let go, stop protecting. Let Lulu eat gluten and discover that it’s not always healthy, but sometimes it’s worth it so you can have a slice of birthday cake with everyone else. Even Chapped Hands—all she has to do is stop her obsessive handwashing. Let her boys play in the sandbox and catch colds. Let them eat dropped toast, even when it lands jammy-side down. She’ll realize that they don’t get sick—in fact, they’ll be stronger.
If I can save Stella, I vow that I will stop cutting up her fruit. I’ll make her go to the group swimming lessons, even though she doesn’t like the noise. I will not protect her from ordinary difficulties and disasters.
But the danger threatening her now is one I can’t let her fight alone.
I go up to my room, and Kelly knocks and asks if I want anything.
“I’m about ready for bed,” I say, yawning elaborately.
“Are you sure? It’s only half seven.” Kelly frowns.
I smile, making sure it goes all the way to my eyes. I need her to leave me in peace. “I must still be recovering from the birth.”
“Some milk before you turn in?” says Kelly.
“Are you going to offer a bedtime story too?”
She laughs politely. “It’s not in a bottle! It’s golden milk, it’s got turmeric and a big squeeze of honey. I have it myself every night.”
“Wonderful,” I say. More turmeric.
When Kelly brings the mug, I ask if I’ll see her again before morning. “If I need something,” I continue, not wanting to arouse suspicion.
“Not to worry, my love, I’ll pop in around nine and bring every mom an essential-oil burner. Valerian and whatnot to promote deep rest.”
Translation: I check on all the moms to make sure they’re not trying to off themselves.
“I can take it now,” I say. “I’ll be dead to the world by nine.”
Kelly brightens. “One less room for me to visit.” She returns with a ceramic oil burner and matches for the tealight inside.
Once she’s gone, the decorative pillows come in handy for making a somnolent mound under the bedclothes. I open the window. It’s dark outside now, and very cold. My room is one flight up, but wisteria climbs up a trellis outside. The trousers they gave me don’t have any pockets, so I have to hold my phone.
I finger the cashmere throw draped over the chair by the window, longing to cocoon myself in it. I’m scared. Even after two nights here, my body is still exhausted from giving birth. But I push the chair out of the way and suck in deep breaths of the night air. The cold is bracing. I heave a leg over the windowsill and search for a foothold on the trellis.
Because it’s winter, the wisteria is mostly dry stems and a thick trunk. If I put one foot on the trunk and one foot on the trellis, I don’t need to trust my full weight to the trellis. I feel with my foot for the next foothold. I hold on to the wisteria. I find the next foothold and wince at the pressure on my stitches. I cling to the wisteria for a moment, thinking maybe they’ll come apart, my insides will start to fall out, but the pain subsides. A splinter enters the pad of my left thumb, but it doesn’t hurt. I feel it, but it doesn’t hurt.
The next time I put my foot on the wisteria, the branch gives way, and I slip, grazing my bare forearm, and plunge to the gravel. My legs crumple, and then I’m on the ground, my phone flying. I lie there for a moment, cheek on the gravel; then I hear footsteps, and I sprint round the side of the house and press myself against it. Shaking, I heave myself to my feet. My ankle hurts, but I can walk fine. Just a tiny sprain. The front door opens. Someone takes a few steps into the dark, sighs, and goes back inside.
I brush gravel off my chin. I’m lucky: there’s a gibbous moon casting enough light to see by. Miraculously, I find my phone. The screen is cracked, but it switches on, and then immediately dies. Probably the cold. I stick it inside my nursing bra to warm up. I’ll find somewhere I can charge it. I set off down the driveway towards the gates, swinging my arms to keep warm, my breath smoking. It’s only a quarter of a mile to the gates, but they are shut.
I could try to find someone and scream until they open them, but then they’ll call Pete. I could try to climb over the stone wall, but it’s eight feet high, and after my ankle sprain, and with my right hand still bandaged from the broken glass at Irina’s, I don’t want to risk any more climbing.
Is there anyone in the gatehouse? It looks uninhabited. I think they control the gate remotely. I’m stuck. I can’t get out this way. I’ll have to walk the perimeter of the property, hoping to find a place where I can scale the wall.
But then an approaching car slows, and I know what I have to do. I go as close to the gate as I dare, and then crouch low behind a leafless bush, like a frightened rabbit. I hope the car’s lights won’t pass over me, that the bush will give me enough cover. Is this why they make us wear white, so we’ll be easy to spot if we escape?
As soon as the car is on its way up the driveway, I bolt through the gates right before they close, curling my toes to keep my shoes on without their laces. It’s still just after Christmas, and people are at home eating leftovers and watching Christmas specials. Meanwhile, I’m alone on a dark road, and it’s late. I’m shaking with cold. I have no idea what to do next. Then a shape slips across the road: a fox. She pays no attention to me; she has her own business to attend to. But the sight of her cheers me: she’s managing fine out here. I can do it too. I have to get moving. Left, right? Left. I begin to run, to warm up my body, even though my stitches pull and my legs feel shaky from lack of use.
···
The road goes over a little hill and winds past houses, and I think about stopping at one of them, but if there is a village, maybe there is a pub. Eventually I find one, the Hare it is intensely sweet and tastes like cinnamon and something floral, perfumed. I feel the sugar ignite my brain. She doesn’t “do” stress. Is this the key to who she is? This could explain how she survived so much, how she keeps moving forward, embracing whatever comes.
You can care about your child and not be destroyed by their loss. You can love your child and destroy them too. Still, although Irina’s love might have warped Blanka, it wasn’t enough to make Blanka take her own life.
I pull up the photo of the diary on my phone. I can’t read the Armenian alphabet, but I’ve memorized the words. “ Yes atum yem ayd mardun. I think it means ‘I hate that person’?”
Irina snorts as I mangle her language. Then she glances down at my phone and abruptly pulls over, without signaling. She stops on the hard shoulder and grabs the phone. She studies the picture. “This is Blanka’s handwriting. Where did you get this?”
“I found it in Stella’s room,” I hedge. “It just has this one Armenian phrase, I hate that person, over and over again.”
“That is one translation,” Irina says. “Can also translate like this: I hate that man .”
I stare at her. That narrows it down a lot.
“Why is Blanka’s book in Stella’s room?” Irina demands. “Why does she leave it there?”
I think of the little house in the forest, the husband shut in the oven, the journey over the mountains. If anyone can handle a difficult, fantastical truth, it is Irina. “It’s Stella’s book,” I say. “But she writes like Blanka now. In Armenian.”
I wait for Irina to draw the obvious conclusion, that Blanka has possessed Stella. “She maybe see Blanka writing and copy,” Irina says, and my heart sinks. “And she is very smart girl, sharp like knife. She can find Armenian online. Why, I don’t know.”
It’s just like with Dr. Beaufort. I thought I had unassailable evidence that Blanka was possessing Stella. But of course not. No evidence can ever prove that, not even an eight-year-old learning to crochet almost overnight, not even keeping a diary in someone else’s handwriting. The only person who can ever truly know that Stella is possessed is me.
The car shakes as a lorry drives by. I hastily put the hazard lights on. Irina stares into the winter darkness as we listen to them clicking. Then she says, “Who is this man she hates so much?”
“Exactly,” I say, feeling better. Even if she can’t grasp the truth, Irina can still help me. “What man?” The horrible thought occurs to me: If he harmed Blanka, will he harm Stella too? Maybe Blanka has been trying to warn me.
As Irina pulls back onto the road, I decide I must go and see Stella and ask her or, rather, ask Blanka-in-Stella. She’s not a fan of giving direct answers to direct questions, but maybe she’ll give me another clue.
“Where to?” Irina said. “Home?”
“I can’t have Pete see me,” I say.
“What is matter?”
“Pete thinks I’m not well.” How can I explain this to her? When she showed me the hot tub where Blanka died, she said Blanka “has sickness here” and thumped her chest. “He thinks I’ve got a sickness here,” I say, tapping my head. “If he sees me, he might try to send me back to—to where I was. But I don’t have that kind of problem. I’m fine.”
“Hm,” says Irina, not the woman to offer false comfort as Cherie would have done. She doesn’t tell me I’m fine, and she doesn’t tell me I’ll feel better soon. She doesn’t live in that privileged world where “no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.” Cataclysm is possible, and she isn’t about to tell me anything different.