Page 60 of Clever Little Thing

After Kia had gone, I went back to the NICU and I held Luna. She was still curled into herself, asleep nearly all the time. No matterhow hard I tried to feel the sweetness at the heart of it all, I still felt like I was holding an ordinary baby.

I called Pete to wish him Happy Christmas, and he said he felt bad I had to spend Christmas Day alone. “I want to make it up to you. I want to take you out for lunch tomorrow. I’ll make a reservation somewhere really nice—”

“Pete, I just gave birth. I’ll fall asleep halfway through the appetizers.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of place. I meant somewhere comfortable, where we can just sit by the fire. That’s what I really want: just the two of us, no distraction. We’ve become so disconnected.” His voice was wistful.

“You’re right,” I agreed, hope warming my chest. “I blindsided you yesterday when I told you about the diary. It wasn’t a good time to explain, with Stella right there. Don’t say anything now: I want you to hear me out properly. A quiet place, with good food. That’s what we need. A chance to talk.”

“We’re going to figure this out,” Pete said. “We’re a team.”

“And you know what, you could ask Kia to watch Stella,” I said. I didn’t think I could ask Irina, after she’d done so much.

Pete thought that was a great idea, and I felt hopeful. Time alone, away from her, was a rare opportunity. If we were together, really focused on each other for a few hours, I believed I could make him understand what was going on.

33.

The next day, a nurse wheeled me to the front entrance of the hospital, and Pete pulled up in the car. I gingerly settled myself in, careful of the bandage around my hand.

“I’ve found the perfect place in the country,” Pete announced.

“The country? I thought we’d find a place in town.”

“Most places around here are pretty fancy. I assumed you wouldn’t be in the mood for that.” True. I wore a maternity tunic and leggings. Pete had brought a bag from home, but had forgotten to bring other shoes, so I was still wearing the trainers that I’d worn to Irina’s, which had recently been soaked in amniotic fluid.

“I just wanted to get away from everything and be together,” Pete said. “It will be good to be out of London, don’t you think?”

“I can’t walk far.” I was still bleeding and had to wear a heavy-duty pad.

“Honey, you just gave birth,” Pete said. “I don’t expect you towalk anywhere. Relax, I’ll take care of you.” Pete played Paul Simon on the drive, and the car heater was on. I stared out the window as grey buildings gave way to brown fields and leafless hedges. After living in California, it felt like in the English midwinter, the sky never really got light, even at midday. I fell asleep.

When I woke up, Pete was pulling up to a gate in a large privet hedge. A discreet sign advertisedthe cottage. He pushed a button, and the intercom crackled. “Pete Mason, with Charlotte Mason. I made a reservation,” he said. The gate swung open.

“What is this place? Seems very exclusive.” I was touched. I imagined a special vegetarian restaurant with a biodynamic garden. Pete squeezed my hand.

“It is, baby.” His beard was starting to look unkempt—the birth had been stressful for him too. It was so sweet of him to make this big effort to spoil me with a special day out.

The driveway led through manicured grounds to a large Georgian house with paned sash windows and brown wisteria climbing the wall, a fanlight over the front door. Pete parked in the horseshoe driveway, and an older woman in a khaki skirt and pressed white shirt came out of the house. “I’m Rosemary,” she said.

“Pete Mason, we spoke on the phone.” They shook hands.

“Charlotte Mason,” I said, uncertain of the etiquette. Was I supposed to introduce myself too?

“How did you find out about this place?” I murmured to Pete as she entered something on a clipboard. “I’ve never heard of it. Did you read about it or something?”

“I did a lot of research, that’s for sure,” Pete said, pulling at hiscollar. He was wearing a proper shirt instead of a T-shirt. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to dress up more for this occasion.

“Coffee and herbal tea are waiting for you in the conservatory,” said Rosemary, indicating we should follow her. The conservatory had cushioned wicker chairs and glass-topped coffee tables arranged in discreet groups, a view of a close-trimmed lawn with a rectangular lily pond. There were a couple of other groups, murmuring quietly, white-haired parents talking to their adult daughter, a woman sipping tea alone, another woman, also alone, discreetly nursing a baby. It was impressive to take yourself out to lunch to a place like this with your baby in tow.

We sat down, and another person in khaki trousers and pressed white shirt brought us coffee and biscuits and an herbal tea “that aids lactation.”

I turned to Pete, who was glancing at his phone. “How do they know I’m lactating?” Could they tell by looking at me? I shifted and felt blood pulse out of me, and I hoped it wouldn’t soak through my pad and my maternity leggings and onto the pristine oatmeal-colored sofa cushions. “This place is a little weird,” I whispered. “Why is that woman going out to lunch alone with her baby on Boxing Day? Why is there no menu?” I glanced back at the parents with their adult daughter and realized that the daughter was weeping. Blackness crowded the edges of my vision. But I wouldn’t faint. I dug my fingers into the bandage over the cut in my right palm and the pain made me alert again. “How do they know I’m lactating?” I hissed at Pete. The mother of the weeping woman glanced around, and I realized I’d spoken louder than I’d thought.

Pete’s face was that of a stranger. “I’ve consulted with my mom and a couple of other people, and I think it’s best you rest here for a few days. Luna is getting the best care possible in the NICU. You need to focus on getting well.”

“What is this place?” I whispered.

“It’s a well-being clinic.” He cleared his throat. “With a focus on maternal peri- and postnatal health.”

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