Page 63 of Clever Little Thing

I sit, replace the egg, and watch her exhale. I was wrong about Dr. Beaufort being a mother, but I think my guess about her being fairly new to this was spot-on. She must be a novice, because if she’d had many patients, she would know that moms separated from their children don’t want to cradle eggs, they want to throw things. A real therapist would never place a bowl of projectiles within reach of a patient.

“Perhaps I’m not seeing clearly,” I say. “I just gave birth. It’s been less than a year since I lost my mother. I need to stop worrying about Stella.” I continue, repeating various things she’s said to me in our sessions, but she acts like I’ve had a major breakthrough.

“This is a huge step forward,” she says, beaming.

I go to a restorative yoga class and spend the rest of the day in my room, staring out the window. Eventually, I get a text from Pete:Can’t make it down there today. Talk tomorrow?

Great!!! Feeling so much more relaxed!I type. Person-in-lotus-position emoji, heart, heart.

I have dinner in the dining room with the other moms, about ten of us, plus Kelly, the cheery young woman who is obviously there to keep an eye on us. Our white pajamas look out of place in the Georgian dining room, with its marble fireplace and plaster ceiling roses. We serve ourselves from a sideboard buffet of kale salad studded with pomegranate seeds and quinoa with roasted vegetables.

Some moms came to the Cottage with their babies. These arenow tucked up in bed—babies are not allowed at dinner—but these moms cluster together at one end of the table and chatter about sleep schedules and breastfeeding difficulties. The moms who came here without their babies pick at their quinoa. We’re second-class citizens who can’t be trusted with our offspring. Chapped Hands from the lounge is here, and she launches back into her story, announcing to the table that her husband’s laissez-faire attitude to hand hygiene is endangering her twins.

When I heard Chapped Hands yesterday, I thought she sounded crazy, but as I listen to her talk now, I realize that she doesn’t sound much crazier than most of the moms I know. Most of those mothers are afraid. Being a mother is frightening. Emmy is afraid of Lulu touching a dead bird or eating the wrong thing. Every mother goes a little bit crazy in her own particular way.

I almost envy other moms though. All they have to do is let go, stop protecting. Let Lulu eat gluten and discover that it’s not always healthy, but sometimes it’s worth it so you can have a slice of birthday cake with everyone else. Even Chapped Hands—all she has to do is stop her obsessive handwashing. Let her boys play in the sandbox and catch colds. Let them eat dropped toast, even when it lands jammy-side down. She’ll realize that they don’t get sick—in fact, they’ll be stronger.

If I can save Stella, I vow that I will stop cutting up her fruit. I’ll make her go to the group swimming lessons, even though she doesn’t like the noise. I will not protect her from ordinary difficulties and disasters.

But the danger threatening her now is one I can’t let her fight alone.

I go up to my room, and Kelly knocks and asks if I want anything.

“I’m about ready for bed,” I say, yawning elaborately.

“Are you sure? It’s only half seven.” Kelly frowns.

I smile, making sure it goes all the way to my eyes. I need her to leave me in peace. “I must still be recovering from the birth.”

“Some milk before you turn in?” says Kelly.

“Are you going to offer a bedtime story too?”

She laughs politely. “It’s not in a bottle! It’s golden milk, it’s got turmeric and a big squeeze of honey. I have it myself every night.”

“Wonderful,” I say. More turmeric.

When Kelly brings the mug, I ask if I’ll see her again before morning. “If I need something,” I continue, not wanting to arouse suspicion.

“Not to worry, my love, I’ll pop in around nine and bring every mom an essential-oil burner. Valerian and whatnot to promote deep rest.”

Translation: I check on all the moms to make sure they’re not trying to off themselves.

“I can take it now,” I say. “I’ll be dead to the world by nine.”

Kelly brightens. “One less room for me to visit.” She returns with a ceramic oil burner and matches for the tealight inside.

Once she’s gone, the decorative pillows come in handy for making a somnolent mound under the bedclothes. I open the window. It’s dark outside now, and very cold. My room is one flight up, but wisteria climbs up a trellis outside. The trousers they gave me don’t have any pockets, so I have to hold my phone.

I finger the cashmere throw draped over the chair by the window, longing to cocoon myself in it. I’m scared. Even after twonights here, my body is still exhausted from giving birth. But I push the chair out of the way and suck in deep breaths of the night air. The cold is bracing. I heave a leg over the windowsill and search for a foothold on the trellis.

Because it’s winter, the wisteria is mostly dry stems and a thick trunk. If I put one foot on the trunk and one foot on the trellis, I don’t need to trust my full weight to the trellis. I feel with my foot for the next foothold. I hold on to the wisteria. I find the next foothold and wince at the pressure on my stitches. I cling to the wisteria for a moment, thinking maybe they’ll come apart, my insides will start to fall out, but the pain subsides. A splinter enters the pad of my left thumb, but it doesn’t hurt. I feel it, but it doesn’t hurt.

The next time I put my foot on the wisteria, the branch gives way, and I slip, grazing my bare forearm, and plunge to the gravel. My legs crumple, and then I’m on the ground, my phone flying. I lie there for a moment, cheek on the gravel; then I hear footsteps, and I sprint round the side of the house and press myself against it. Shaking, I heave myself to my feet. My ankle hurts, but I can walk fine. Just a tiny sprain. The front door opens. Someone takes a few steps into the dark, sighs, and goes back inside.

I brush gravel off my chin. I’m lucky: there’s a gibbous moon casting enough light to see by. Miraculously, I find my phone. The screen is cracked, but it switches on, and then immediately dies. Probably the cold. I stick it inside my nursing bra to warm up. I’ll find somewhere I can charge it. I set off down the driveway towards the gates, swinging my arms to keep warm, my breath smoking. It’s only a quarter of a mile to the gates, but they are shut.

I could try to find someone and scream until they open them,but then they’ll call Pete. I could try to climb over the stone wall, but it’s eight feet high, and after my ankle sprain, and with my right hand still bandaged from the broken glass at Irina’s, I don’t want to risk any more climbing.

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