Page 62 of Clever Little Thing

“Wait, what about Luna?” I called.

“The hospital will take care of Luna. She’s still nine weeks premature. She won’t even know you’re gone.”

“I need to feed her,” I said. Even though Luna hardly nursed, I pumped four times a day in hospital, and my milk was going to come in soon, just when I was separated from her.

“You can pump. They’ve got your pump and a bag from home with your things.” Of course, he’d brought a bag from home. He’d planned carefully.

“We can courier the milk to your baby,” Rosemary murmured. But as Pete turned to go, I stumbled after him, feeling like I was coming apart at my stitches.

“Don’t leave, Pete. Please, please, please.” I knocked over a vase of winter branches as I threw myself against him. I couldn’t believe the way he was treating me, the love of his life. What had gone wrong between us? I thought of all those times I had left things unsaid or saved things up, waiting for when he would be most receptive. Now I knew that he too left some things unsaid and hoarded others until he deemed the time was right.

“Charlotte. I have no choice. My heart is breaking here.” But hedidn’t look like his heart was breaking. He seemed cold and efficient. In his pressed shirt and khaki trousers, he looked less laid-back California surfer, more groomed corporate executive. I understood now that he had dressed up not for me, but so that he would look like the sane one.

Now

34.

Pete’s latest text reads,Kids both eating well. Visited Luna first thing this morning, now Stella’s asked to go swimming.I message back,Do NOT take Stella swimming! I’m ready to leave as per agreement. When can you collect me?Three dots indicate he’s typing a message, but then none appears. I call him, and he doesn’t pick up. I leave a message telling him to come and get me ASAP. I call him twice more—nothing. I pump for Luna—still nothing but colostrum. Maybe the stress will stop my milk coming in at all. But I can’t think about that now. I go to see Dr. Beaufort.

She looks more put together today, without the poncho, in tailored dark wool trousers and draped cream jumper, her hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell claw. The Peppa Pig plaster is gone. I read her Pete’s latest text. “He’s taking good care of your children,” says Dr. Beaufort.

I shake my head. “He’s not taking me seriously. Stella isn’t safe around water. How could he agree to take her swimming? She already tried to drown herself once.”

“In the bath?” says Dr. Beaufort. “You said. I’m not sure that’s even possible. That would take tremendous determination.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Blanka is nothing if not determined.” But I see in her eyes that even though I’ve now told her everything, she still doesn’t share my perspective.

I hunch over my bad hand, which is throbbing crazily. “Last night you told me you’ve known people who have had encounters with the dead and you didn’t think they were mad. You saw your own dead mother. So why don’t you believe me?”

Dr. Beaufort looks taken aback. “I did see my mother very clearly, yes. But I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I had what you might call a waking dream. It’s so common that there’s even a technical term: hypnagogic hallucination. My point was that the bereaved can have very vivid experiences of seeing the dead. Grief can do crazy things to your mind.”

Finally, I understand that I’m not going to convince her. I misjudged her last night. Even when you present all the evidence, people simply won’t believe something that contradicts their deepest beliefs: that death is final, that a spirit can’t transcend the limits of the body.

“You gave birth five days ago,” says Dr. Beaufort. “Hormones can have very powerful effects on the brain too. They can distort our sense of reality.”

“Haven’t we covered this? Mothers have hormones, but we also have instincts. We’re hardwired to know when our children are in danger.”

She says nothing, and I think if she had children, there would be a picture of them in the room. “Are you a mother?” I blurt out.Dr. Beaufort opens her mouth, and I say, “If you’re going to answer with a question, I’d prefer it if you didn’t answer at all.” I look at the ugly vase of thistles. “Just tell me who made that.”

“A patient,” she says.

Suddenly I’m certain that shedoesn’thave children. She doesn’t get it. No wonder she has a bookshelf full of books about understanding motherhood: she has no personal experience of it.

I think back to what I’d told Cherie: a mother’s hand knows. As her mother, I alwaysknowwhen something is wrong with Stella. That same intuition tells me she is in danger now.

“What happens if I just walk out of here?” I ask.

Dr. Beaufort looks disappointed with me. “It would be against medical advice. We’d notify your husband. We might want to put proceedings in motion to ensure you are not a danger to yourself or others.”

“Proceedings?”

She sighs. “Your husband might seek to keep you in a psychiatric care facility, whether or not you agree.”

“He would never do that,” I protest. “He loves me.” But I realize now, I can’t be sure. He put me in here, didn’t he? He promised to take care of Stella, but instead he’s taking her near deep water. He promised I could leave after two nights, and now he’s not answering the phone.

I reach for a marble egg, weighing it in my hand, and Dr. Beaufort shrinks back. Her office is on the ground floor. I could just climb out the window and run. Dr. Beaufort is watching me, holding the arms of her chair a little too tightly.

But if I run, where will that get me? For all I know, they’ll sendtwo men sprinting after me with a straitjacket. Even if I get away, they’ll call Pete, and he might try to hide Stella from me. I need to leave secretly and be well away before they discover my absence. I must be cunning, play meek and obedient.

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