Chapter 30
THIRTY
‘Slate had a nightmare last night’ –Frances applied a careful curve of scarlet lipstick before snapping her compact mirror closed and tucking it in her purse – ‘but he’s all good now. Me, not so much. I’m shattered. And Parker’s got a bit of a cold coming on, I think. She’s been grouchy all morning.’
‘Gotcha.’ Beatrice’s bus had been delayed, and she was only just stepping out of the elevator, rushed and flustered.
‘I’m in meetings all day and I’ve got a product launch this evening,’ Frances went on. ‘Likely I’ll only get in about nine. Peter might be back earlier, but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Okay.’ Beatrice suppressed a sigh and forced a smile. It was going to be a long day.
Already, she could hear Parker grizzling from the kitchen island and Slate’s feet kicking his stool in a way that set her teeth on edge. The summer holidays, which had started two weeks before, seemed never-ending, with both kids home all day – she wouldn’t even have the respite of packing him off to pre-school.
‘I’m out of here.’ Frances stepped into the elevator. It seemed to Beatrice that she might as well have been getting on a magic carpet that would take her away from the grind of motherhood, out into a world where everything was adult, stylish, clean and interesting.
‘Right,’ Beatrice said. ‘Have a great day. Okay, Parker, I’m coming.’
She hurried into the kitchen in response to the little girl’s whines, stepping on some abandoned Lego bricks on the way, skidding and almost going flying.
‘Fuck.’ She couldn’t help the word slipping out as she fought to regain her balance on the treacherous polished floor.
‘Bibi said a bad word,’ Slate crowed. ‘Did you hear, Parker? Bibi said fu?—’
‘That’s enough, mister.’ Beatrice fought to keep her tone light. If she made a drama out of it, he’d be chorusing fuck-based songs at her all day – and, worse, at his parents when they arrived home in the evening. ‘Sometimes grown-ups say bad words when they’ve had a shock, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for little kids to. So pardon me for my French.’
‘What?’ Distracted, Slate stopped kicking the island. ‘You weren’t talking French.’
‘No, but I can.’ Sensing an opportunity, Beatrice launched into a flood of schoolgirl French. ‘ Voici les chaises, et la fenêtre. Tu as joué avec les briques de Lego, mais maintenant tu vas manger le petit déjeuner avec ta petite soeur .’
Slate gazed at her, impressed. Beatrice dropped a kiss on Parker’s head. The little girl did look poorly, she reckoned – her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red-rimmed and her nose crusty.
Great , she thought. One kid ill and the other bored shitless. Fun times.
‘What’s for breakfast then, Parker?’ she asked brightly. ‘Toast and peanut butter? Oatmeal? Or I can make you an egg.’
‘Pancakes?’ Slate suggested hopefully.
‘No.’ Parker thumped down on the floor on her bottom. Beatrice sensed that the word was addressed to the world in general, rather than pancakes specifically. She conducted a rapid risk-reward analysis in her head. Pros of pancakes: tasty, easy, took a bit of time, could distract the kids by making shapes. Cons: utter pain in the ass to clean up, Frances wouldn’t approve if she put cinnamon sugar and maple syrup on them, which, let’s face it, she would, and if they liked them they’d start demanding them every day.
The lure of an easy win came up trumps.
‘Pancakes it is, then.’
Slate jumped off his stool and did a victory dance round the kitchen island, but Parker stayed where she was, thumb in her mouth.
‘Come on, Parker,’ Beatrice cajoled, ‘come help me and Slate make the batter. I’ll show you how to put a hole in the eggshell so the witches can’t sail away in it.’
Where the hell did that come from? she thought.
As she whisked the lumps out of the flour, helped Slate measure out a cup of milk and gave Parker an empty eggshell and a spoon, Beatrice fought to keep her mind from – not so much wandering as veering away. Away to Mr Isaacs’ living room and the things he’d told her there. To Orla’s bedroom, where she’d been hunting for the missing puzzle piece she knew must be there, somewhere in that house. To Livvie’s outraged reaction to finding her there and Beatrice’s success in deflecting her anger.
She didn’t know what she was going to do next. If she’d asked anyone sensible, anyone she trusted, like Frances, say, or even Neil, she knew what they would say.
Talk to Orla.
It was the obvious thing to do. Tell her what you know, and ask her for the truth – if she even knows it. If she doesn’t, then you know you were on a wild goose chase.
But that was the problem. The threat of denial, and not knowing whether that denial was true or a lie. The rejection that would compound every other rejection and leave Beatrice with nothing. And also – the thought hovered at the very fringes of her consciousness, too elusive to put properly into words – Beatrice wasn’t sure she was ready to know the truth.
It was easier, safer, to pry around the house, have tea with an old man, go to the library, than it was to ask a simple question.
‘Woah, steady there, Slate. You almost tipped that whole basin over, and then what would we have had for breakfast?’
‘You’d have made more.’ Cheekily, Slate stuck his tongue out at her.
‘I would not, because there are no more eggs and besides I’d have been too mad at you. And if you carry on with that attitude, I could still change my mind.’
Meekly, Slate returned to stirring the batter and Beatrice set a pan on to heat, adding a fat slice of butter that soon began to sizzle.
After breakfast, the morning dragged on. She took the kids out for a walk, but Parker cried and said she hated the park and wanted to go home, and Slate slipped on a dog turd and fell over, getting it all over his jeans, so Beatrice did end up taking them home.
Then Slate wanted to do drawing, but lost interest as soon as he’d scattered his crayons all over the table. Parker wanted to blow bubbles, but cried inconsolably as soon as the first one popped. Slate spilled his juice on the sofa. Parker vomited up her pancakes.
At last, order temporarily restored, Beatrice resorted to switching on the telly, which provided a bit of peace at least. But she was concerned about Parker. She gave her Calpol, but that didn’t seem to help. She offered her warm Ribena but she wouldn’t drink it. She put her down for a nap but the little girl wouldn’t settle, her nose too blocked and her lips too dry and the whole world too unpleasant for her to deal with.
By teatime, Beatrice’s weary resignation was beginning to crystallise into worry. Parker’s cold seemed to be settling in her chest. Her breathing was noisy and she gave occasional barking coughs. Her temperature remained stubbornly at almost a hundred degrees.
She fed the children mac and cheese and salad – one of their favourites – but Parker only picked unenthusiastically at it, chewing with her mouth open because she couldn’t breathe through her nose and saying everything tasted funny.
‘Okay, fine.’ Beatrice gave up. ‘You’re not hungry. Let’s have a bath and more Calpol and put you to bed, and I bet you feel better in the morning.’
But when Beatrice took Parker’s clothes off, she was alarmed to see the little girl’s belly hollowing as she struggled to get air into her lungs. Should she call Frances and tell her she was worried? But Frances had emphasised that she had a full-on day at work; it was Beatrice’s literal job to take care of things at home.
Steam , she thought. Hot water and steam will help. And plenty of fluids.
Parker seemed calmer after her bath and so Beatrice put her to bed, read her a story and took Slate into the living room to watch a bit more television before his own bedtime. Although she’d left the children’s bedroom door ajar, she and Slate were soon so engrossed in Little Red Tractor that she didn’t hear Parker calling for her at first.
When she did, the sound was so alien she almost didn’t recognise it – and then she did.
‘I’ll be back in a second,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I’m just going to check on your sister.’
Parker was sitting up in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her voice was so hoarse she could hardly get Beatrice’s name out, and her lips were purply-pale.
‘Bibi,’ she gasped. ‘Bibi!’
‘Shhh. I’m here.’ Beatrice sat down on the bed, panic coursing through her. She could hear the desperate whine of Parker’s breathing; her body felt floppy and far, far too hot.
Shit. She can’t breathe. She’s going to suffocate, right here, with me in charge.
‘It’s okay, honey,’ she soothed. ‘We’re going to get you to a doctor. You need to try and stay calm, okay? Slow breaths.’
The little girl’s ribcage heaved as she fought to get air into her lungs and when it exited again she made that terrifying barking sound again, like a dying seal.
‘Come on.’ Beatrice scooped Parker up and carried her through to the living room.
‘What’s happening?’ Slate asked, his eyes wide and frightened.
‘Your sister’s not well. I’m going to call your mommy.’
But Frances’s phone rang out to voicemail, and Peter’s went straight to voicemail without ringing at all. Beatrice left messages for them both, trying to sound calm, telling them their daughter had what she thought was croup – Is it even croup? It could be an asthma attack. It could we whooping cough. It could be just about any-fucking-thing – and Beatrice was going to get her seen by a doctor, just in case.
She couldn’t bring herself to tell them that she was going to call 999, but that’s what she did.
After an agonising twenty-minute wait – during which Beatrice veered between thinking that Parker was getting better and she’d been overdramatic and thinking that she was getting worse and was going to die – the ambulance arrived.
‘It’s croup,’ a smiling paramedic confirmed after she’d checked the little girl over. ‘Normally gets better on its own, but we’d better take her in. They’ll want to give her steroids to ease her breathing. She might need to stay in hospital overnight.’
‘I can’t get hold of her parents.’ Beatrice felt as if she could barely breathe herself, her chest tight with panic. ‘And I can’t leave her brother. We’ll have to come and wait while she’s seen.’
The paramedic agreed and soon Beatrice found herself in a taxi with Slate, creeping with agonising slowness through the traffic that the siren and flashing lights of the ambulance had been able to part with ease.
‘Is she going to die?’ Slate kept asking, and Beatrice had to keep answering that of course she wasn’t, she was going to be fine, the doctors would make her better – over and over on repeat, praying that what she was saying was true.
As they were pulling up outside the hospital, her phone rang at last. But it wasn’t Frances or Peter – it was Neil.
‘Hey,’ he said when she answered, his voice sounding so improbably calm and cheerful it might as well have come from another planet. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I can’t talk.’ Beatrice bundled Slate out of the taxi, thrusting a twenty-pound note at the driver. ‘I’m at the hospital. Parker’s sick and I’m waiting for a call from her parents.’
There was silence for a moment, then Neil said, ‘Mile End Hospital?’
‘Yes.’ Slate’s hand in hers, Beatrice hurried through the revolving door and approached the reception desk.
‘Want me to come and wait with you?’
Relief washed over her. Though it wasn’t his responsibility to look after the children, the thought of having someone to look after her felt like a life buoy in a storm.
It took Neil just fifteen minutes to get there, and Frances arrived half an hour later. Although she’d received Beatrice’s updates – Parker had been seen, she’d been medicated, she was going to be okay – she was still frantic with worry, more distressed than Beatrice had ever seen her. After pressing her son into a hug, she hurried straight through to the children’s ward and left Beatrice playing tic-tac-toe with Slate on a notebook Neil had produced from his bag.
Peter arrived shortly after and, after checking in on his wife and daughter and thanking Beatrice profusely, said, ‘Come on then, big guy, time for bed,’ and set off home with Slate.
All at once, everything was calm. Beatrice found herself shaking all over, her teeth chattering even though the hospital was tropically warm.
‘Hey,’ Neil said. ‘You’ve had a shock. I can’t believe how well you held it together. Everything’s going to be okay.’
Beatrice nodded, her hands clasped together in her lap.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Or would you like a drink?’
‘I don’t think so. I should head home and get some rest. Thanks for coming – it means a lot.’
But she spoke automatically, barely conscious of Neil’s words of reassurance as he walked with her through the warm night to the bus stop.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’
‘You too. Thanks again.’
She waited until he was out of sight, and then started walking. She didn’t want to be on a bus with other people – she wanted to be alone. Throughout the evening, she’d remained calm, doing her job to the best of her ability. Now she was overwhelmed with emotions she didn’t understand and, as she walked, she made an effort to process them.
Her feet found the sidewalk without feeling it. The balmy air dried the sweat on her palms without her noticing. A black cab blared its horn as she crossed a street without looking left or right.
It was only as she approached the house on Damask Square, its elegant white facade gleaming in the glow of a street lamp, that she was able to put a name to what she was feeling.
She hadn’t just been worried about Parker because she was doing her job and responsible for the child’s welfare.
She loved her.
In those terrifying moments when she’d thought Parker might die, she’d felt as if her own heart would stop. The fierceness of her love was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and with it came another emotion, almost as strong.
It was anger: a vast, overwhelming rage.
How could anyone abandon a child? How could Beatrice’s mother have given her away?
Why had the woman who’d given birth to her not loved her like she loved the little girl who wasn’t even hers?