Page 18 of Clever Little Thing

I didn’t like seeing that expression on Stella’s face. I went to stand by her side. On a car journey, just the two of us, Stella had once asked, “When do cows say meow?” When I didn’t know the answer, she explained, “When they think they’re cats.” This led to us imagining a series of books about animals that think they’re other animals.

Meow, I’m a Cow

Woof, Where’s My Hoof

Neigh, I’ve Got Eggs to Lay

From time to time, one of us would start the game again.

“Meow, I’m a cow,” I said now. Stella said nothing. She must not have heard me. “Meow, I’m a cow,” I said.

Usually, she shot back an answer without thinking. Today, nothing. How could she have forgotten our game?

“Stella?” I said, and she didn’t even react to the sound of her name. “Meow, I’m a cow!” I said, my voice sharp.

Stella blinked. She shook herself as if she were waking from a nap. “Ribbit, I’m a rabbit,” she finally said.

now

11.

“You didn’t like how Stella was changing,” says Dr. Beaufort.

It’s only half past two, but outside the window, light leaches from the winter sky. After this morning’s session, Rosemary, the director here, showed up to tell me about all the therapeutic activities available for the afternoon. But I’m not going to waste time doing restorative yoga or basket weaving when I need to convince Dr. Beaufort of the truth. So far, I fear I haven’t been doing very well, so I asked for this second session.

“I’m fine with Stella changing,” I explain. “But this change didn’t feel like her.”

Dr. Beaufort puts her head on one side. “Stella was starting to fit in.” She pauses. “But that was difficult for you.”

“Ilongedfor her to fit in. I was terrified of her being alone. I dreamed of watching her turn a cartwheel on the beach, of plaiting her hair.” I press my good hand to my mouth. I’ve never admittedthis before. “I just don’t want her to fit in at the expense of losing herself.”

Dr. Beaufort shrugs. “Children are always changing, no? When we’re talking about a child, a person still in the process of becoming, it’s hard to say definitively what their essential nature is.”

My bad hand throbs. I get what she’s saying. Common sense says that this new Stellaisthe real Stella. The girl who burned so brightly, my curious, playful, brilliant girl—thatgirl was merely a phase, and this dull, stolid person is her true self.

On the night of Stella’s birth, I smelled the secret sweetness at the heart of everything and thought then that even if she became a serial killer, I would love her. I can’t let my love waver now simply because her spark has gone out.

I cradle the hand in my lap. Maybe it is infected, and if so, I deserve it. I need to do better. But I feel so weary. I slump back against Dr. Beaufort’s sofa cushions and pull her nubbly throw over myself. I made a promise that I would do anything for Stella. I would fling myself under a train. But that sacrifice, over in a moment, would be so much easier than having my child turn into someone I don’t recognize.

Then

12.

In the car on the way home from the wildlife center, Pete was jazzed. “Nick said he’ll tell Emmy to set up a playdate for the girls,” he said, clearly thinking we could put the birthday party behind us after all. As he drove, he felt the stubble on his chin. “You know, I think I will grow a beard.”

At home, Pete said he would take charge of dinner. “There’s some broccoli that needs using,” I began. “Stella needs to eat as soon as possible.”

“Uh-uh,” said Pete, shaking his finger at me. “You have to learn to let people look after you, Charlotte. Go lie down.”

“Thank you, baby,” I said. Nick pretending to be a monster in the playground was probably his parenting contribution for the entire week. He retweeted men’s rights activists. I doubted whether he cooked or did the dishes, and definitely not both on the same night. I was lucky that Pete did his share and more when he was home.

I lay on the living room sofa while Stella sat at the coffee table with a notebook that Pete’s mother, Dianne, had given her, stampedwith the humorous title,World Domination Plans. She was scribbling in the notebook.

“What are you writing, darling?” I asked.

“It’s secret.”

I felt uncomfortable. If it was secret, did that mean it was something she thought I wouldn’t like? Perhaps she was writing her thoughts about Pete and me. Pete announced that dinner was ready: burritos.

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