Page 6 of Clever Little Thing

A headache blooms on the right side of my forehead. Pete has filled her in already. She will likely report on our sessions to him. I probably gave permission on the form I signed when I was so distraught. I have to convince him of my sanity so he will take me seriously and help me save Stella. But if Dr. Beaufort is reporting to him, I need to get her on my side too.

I pick up a marble egg and weigh its coolness in my good hand. I want to roll it over my brow, to soothe its ache. But I must remain calm, polite, composed—while also making her believe me. I need to choose my words carefully, share the monstrous truth a little at a time. “Yes, I am worried about Stella,” I say.

Dr. Beaufort nods. “It can be very hard when a new baby comes.”

“Stella’s not herself,” I say. Literally, I think.

“And what about you?” she asks. “You just gave birth, and ten weeks early at that. Hormones can have a powerful effect on the brain, especially when coupled with stress. Have you noticed any change in yourself?” She looks at me, kindly, gently, seeming to take in every detail. I haven’t eaten properly for months. Blood oozes from between my legs, and my stitches throb. Dr. Beaufort looks at me, as if she knows that becoming a mother sends your pain tolerance sky-high, and that isn’t always a good thing.

She wears no makeup, and her complexion is reddened. She looks like she washes her face with soap and water and rushes out of the house, too busy for a glance in the mirror. On her finger is a Peppa Pig plaster. She is a mother. Maybe she will help me.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I have been stressed, and the pregnancy and birth were difficult.” Horrendous, in fact. “But I’m still the same person. Stella isn’t.” The cancer that killed Pete’s dad began small, with an ache in his lower back. My childhood cancer started small, with a cough that wouldn’t go away. Stella’s transformation also began quietly. The first signs were subtle, so subtle, but something was taking up residence inside her, biding its time.

“I’m listening,” says Dr. Beaufort, and I begin to talk.

then

4.

The day after the trip to the beach, I woke up feeling terrible. “I brought you some peppermint tea,” Pete said, setting the cup by my bedside before he left for the office. “I’m sorry I have to leave you on your own with Stella.”

I was nearly a week into my second trimester, but the morning sickness seemed to be getting worse. After Pete left, I stumbled to the bathroom and dry-heaved in the sink: nothing. I risked a glance in the mirror. I looked ghastly. I am the kind of redhead who appears washed-out unless I wear makeup, my eyebrows barely there, my lashes pale as a pig’s. But because my face is such an indistinct canvas, I can draw on smoky eyes and mulberry lips and look va-va-voom. I didn’t have the energy for that today, but I did my best to make myself look respectable.

Stella was sitting at the dining table, drawing a mighty fortress with swallowtail battlements. “Good morning, Mommy,” she said. I longed to squeeze her tight and bury my face in her hair, but she’d always had an aversion to snuggling. I gazed at her instead. We’dagreed that if we gazed at each other for three seconds that would be our version of a hug. Stella gazed back at me. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. On three, she looked away. “Is Blanka coming back?”

I stared at her. “Why are you asking, honey pie?”

“She promised she’d come back and see me,” Stella said.

I frowned. When would Blanka have had the chance to make this promise? As far as I knew, she never even said goodbye to Stella.

I dolloped porridge into a bowl, careful to let it cool before I gave it to Stella. She was focused on her picture, her little face intent. Unlike mine, her features were distinct, with a straight nose, rosebud mouth, and big green eyes. I always thought her face like one you’d find in a seventeenth-century portrait, the face of a child reared to think that children should be like little adults. I could see her in a velvet dress with a lace collar, holding a spaniel on her lap. Not that she would ever permit such an outfit.

Could she have checked last night’s search history on my laptop? She did know my password, and even though she was only eight, she knew her way around my computer better than I did.

“SoisBlanka coming?” Stella asked.

“Blanka moved back home,” I said.

“But England is her home. She’s lived here since she was a teenager.”

I decided to brazen it out. “She wanted a change.”

After that, Stella barely touched her breakfast. Maybe she was hurt to learn that Blanka had moved abroad. I felt a pang for her, but I didn’t regret my lie. Stella wasn’t squeamish about death itself, as evidenced by the rotting gannet. But she could not handle dying: the tiniest loss was tragic. When slugs attacked his kale, Petedrowned them in beer traps, and Stella always wept when she found one. There was no way she could deal with Blanka dying, which was hard enough for adults to wrap their heads around.

After breakfast, as I was clearing away the dishes, I noticed a mark on the kitchen wall: a penciled cross, at about the height of my chest. It looked like someone had been planning to bang in a nail there—maybe to hang something from.

“Stella, did you do this?” I asked, pointing to the mark on the creamy paint.

She looked solemn. “The only thing you draw on is paper.”

I wet a sponge and carefully removed the cross. I would ask Pete about it later. It felt like a reminder of an incomplete task, which was not his style. If something needed doing, Pete took care of it at the earliest opportunity. He’d already texted to say that, as promised the previous evening, he’d sent lilies and a note to Blanka’s mother.

I stepped back to make sure I’d removed every trace of the mark: the wall was pristine. But instead of feeling satisfied, I had a nagging feeling of incompleteness, like I was the one who had abandoned a task halfway through.

•••

Around five, Pete texted to say he’d be home for dinner for once. I wasn’t in the mood to think about food, and he said he’d pick up a takeout pizza. I used to love cooking, layering flavor and texture. But when I prepared Stella’s food, cooking felt like it stopped one stage short of what it should be, ingredients rather than an actual meal. Maybe that was why Blanka never accepted my invitation topartake. She brought her own food in old yogurt pots from home and left the microwave smelling of meat stew. Though for some reason, she never took a bite in front of me.

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