Page 47 of Clever Little Thing

“Why did she tell you and not me?” I ask, though I know the answer: it would have been too much like apologizing. My head still hurts, and I press my forehead against the wall. “Why didn’tyoutell me?”

Pete’s voice is soft. “I did tell you, baby. You must have forgotten.”

The phone slips from my hand. Maureen tried to tell me too, when I went to visit her in the home that time, and she mistook me for Edith. “Sharon’s got the baby blues. Just like you, she’s on her own.”

But now I think what she said was “Sharon’s got the baby blues, just like you. She’s on her own.” Maureen forgot who I was, but she remembered what I needed to know. I just didn’t want to hear it.

I was so certain I knew Stella inside and out—who she was and who she wasn’t. But hormoneshadaddled my mind. Nobody can see into their child’s heart.

Then

26.

The next day, Pete said he’d take Stella swimming. As soon as they left, I went to Stella’s room to look for the diary. It wasn’t on the desk anymore. It wasn’t under her pillow or her mattress. I rifled through her drawers. I pulled out the books on her shelves and shook them.

I sat back on my heels. It wasn’t here, because Stella hadn’t hidden it. Pete had. I searched our room. Nothing. He’d hidden it somewhere crafty, and I wasn’t going to find it without tearing everything apart.

I went down to the kitchen, planning to make some tea, and then I thought, Cherie. If anyone would understand that I had to keep fighting for my child, it was her. She fought for Zach all the time. I texted Cherie to ask if I could drop by.OK,she texted back. One word, no smiley face. At least she answered. I picked up chocolate éclairs from one of Muswell Hill’s three patisseries.

When Cherie saw me, her gaze took in my body, and she said, “You look…”

“Haggard?” I explained about the nausea, how it made it hard to eat. Still, the baby was OK.

“You look good,” I told her. For once, Cherie’s hair was down, instead of in a ponytail. She’d colored it too, got rid of the grey.

“About before,” I continued. “When you pushed for Stella to get assessed, I got defensive. I’m sorry.” The question whether Stella should see a doctor now seemed trivial, and my apology came easily. I had much bigger problems now. “And I didn’t mean to insult Zach,” I said.

Cherie hugged me. “I’m sorry too. I pushed you too hard about Stella. That first assessment can be a psychological hurdle, especially if there’s a chance the parent is on the spectrum.”

“Wait, now I’m autistic too?” I bristled. Autism was more broadly defined now, but that didn’t mean she had the right to go around diagnosing everyone around her. But then I thought about it. “I guess I have some signs,” I said.

Cherie sighed. “Or maybe I’m a hammer, so the whole world looks like a nail, or whatever the quote is.”

“Well, right now I don’t have time to think about it,” I said. Cherie nodded. We didn’t entirely understand each other, but she was trying. I could try harder too.

She led me into the kitchen, where Zach was pounding soap in a mortar. He looked up and met my eyes. I was surprised. His were the vivid green of young ferns. I realized that even if he never responded, I could still greet him. “Hello, Zach.”

“Hello, Charlotte,” Cherie prompted.

“Hello,” said Zach. He had never spoken directly to me before. Cherie smiled to herself.

“Is that some more slime you’ve got there?” I asked.

He nodded. “I changed the activating agent, and it created a super-sticky substance, like, industrial-level sticky.”

“Amazing,” I said. It seemed poignant that someone who struggled to connect to others was so interested in sticking things together.

Cherie was glowing. She brought our tea to her living room. “We got him a social-skills therapist, and we’ve been doing these exercises.”

“I’m glad he’s doing so well.”

“How’s Stella?”

I told her how Stella had changed. Cherie was delighted. “That’s fantastic.”

I took a bite of chocolate éclair. It tasted at once too bitter and achingly sweet.

“But?” Cherie said.

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