Page 66 of Clever Little Thing

With a shock, I see Stella is standing in her bedroom window, looking out into the garden, so very still that I haven’t noticed her. Can she see me? Is she waiting, watching for something? From this angle, she seems even bigger, even wider. A standing stone that has stood for five thousand years and will stand until the end of time.

She is the child Pete wanted now, a child I don’t understand. What if I can never get rid of Blanka? As I shiver outside my house, I realize that I can walk away right now. I can leave Stella to him. I can leave Luna too. She isn’t bonded to me yet. I can go now. I can be done with this. I can stop trying to find out what Blanka wants. I could take a train to another city, and then— But my imagination falters. I can’t envision a life without Stella. Even if she never comes out of this, I can’t leave her. My breasts prickle: my milk, at last.

•••

I may as well pump at the hospital while I work out what to do next. Then they’ll have my milk to feed to Luna. I call an Uber and arrive at the hospital by eight, where I collect my wallet and keys from the front desk. Pete calls, and I let it go to voicemail. He calls twice more. Then my phone dings with one text after another.

Where are you???

I’m really worried about you. Are you OK?

The Cottage has people searching the grounds.

Please call me. I need to know you’re safe.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was his top concern. I can’t bring myself to message him. But I don’t want employees at the Cottage tospend half the day searching for me, so I leave a quick message, informing them I’m fine. They can pass on the good news to Pete.

In the NICU, Luna’s little squashed face is all pink, as if she’s holding her breath. She’s asleep as usual. There are a couple of other mothers in the ward, whispering to the nurses about how many ounces their babies have gained and when they can come out of the incubator. Luna lies with arms and legs flung wide, as if sprawled on the grass on a summer’s day. I open the porthole to her incubator and brush her cheek with my finger. She has no idea how vulnerable she is, and that makes me want to protect her.

Once out of the NICU, I sit on a chair in the corridor to make a plan. I’m still wearing the white uniform from the Cottage, and have no other clothes. I have no family members to turn to, no idea where to go now. Find a hotel?

I’ll call Pete, I think stupidly. Then I remember with a jolt.

I get a message from Emmy:U ok?

I snort. Pete obviously enlisted her in the search for me. I text back:Why are you asking?If she asks where I am, I’ll know she is trying to track me down. But she shoots back:Need to talk ASAP. It’s about Pete.

What about him?

Something he did.

Kia? I already know.

Kia?? I don’t know any Kia. When can we meet?

I’ll come to you,I write.

Hope you don’t mind mess!Emmy responds, though I know herhouse is perfect, because it serves as the @LittleHiccups stage set. She follows this with a winking Father Christmas emoji, and I remember with wonder that it is still the Christmas holidays.

•••

Emmy’s house isn’t exactly messy, but it’s far from perfect: crumpled Christmas wrapping paper is still strewn across the living room floor. She waves a hand at it. “I had the girls for Christmas, then Nick took them on Boxing Day, and I haven’t had the energy to clear up.”

I’m confused. “Where did he take them?”

Emmy isn’t her usual perfect self either: baggy cardigan, glasses instead of contacts. She pulls her sleeves over her hands. “You haven’t heard? Nick and I are splitting up. He’s a colossal dick.”

“I’m so sorry. Are you OK?”

“I’m so tired of people asking me that. Do you want a drink?” She leads me into the kitchen, where a roasting tray sticky with meat juice sits on the draining board and a sour odor hangs in the air. “Sorry about the smell, the dishwasher isn’t working.” It’s barely lunchtime, but Emmy finds a half-full bottle of wine and waves it in my direction. “Wait, are you breastfeeding?”

“I can manage half a glass.” I forgot to pump at hospital, and I need to do so soon. Although, I now realize, my pump is at the Cottage. “Did you have something to tell me about Pete?”

Emmy fills two glasses to the brim, and we sit at her kitchen table. She pushes aside a pink plastic bowl containing a pacifier in a pool of milk, and a box of Unicorn Froot Loops. “Don’t judge me, OK?” she says.

I want to point out that she had no qualms about judging me back when she booted me out of FOMHS. But I need her to get to the point, so I just smile.

She says, “Listen, I will understand if you never want to speak to me again.”

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