Who Loves You Best (16 page)

“They haven’t had MMR yet. This was just their third dose of DTP. Neither of them have had any reaction to the first two.”

I didn’t know that. I even went with them to their last appointment and I’ve no idea what vaccinations the doctor gave my babies.

Ever since the twins were born, all I’ve done is wish them away.
Please stop crying, so I can get some sleep. Can you take them, Jenna, I have to work
. How could sleep or work be more important than spending time with my children? It’s
not as if this pregnancy was unwanted or unplanned. I
chose
to have a baby. I love the twins. What’s wrong with me, that I spend all my time trying to escape them?

I deserve to lose a child. It’s karma. I wished one of them dead, and now—

“Where’s the damn ambulance?” I pace towards the window. “It’s taking too long. I think we should drive her to the hospital ourselves—”

“We have to wait for the ambulance, Clare; we can’t risk getting stuck in traffic.”

“She could have died, while I was off getting my hair done. I should have been here. I didn’t even hear the phone—”

“She’s not dying, Clare,” Jenna says firmly. “I know this is hard, but you need to calm down. She’s going to be fine.”

“And you
know
that, do you?” I shout.

“Yes,” Jenna says firmly.

She’s pale, but composed. I force myself to take my cue from her.

“I can hear sirens,” Jenna says suddenly.

As the ambulance pulls up outside, I pick up Rowan and we run down the front steps squeezing between parked cars with the babies held aloft like precious bundles above floodwaters. Jenna passes Poppy to the paramedics, who whisk her into the back of the ambulance out of sight.

I don’t even notice Marc running towards me until he grabs my arm.

“Clare! What the hell is happening?”

“It’s Poppy,” I say, shaking him off. “She’s sick, we don’t know what’s wrong with her, we’ve got to get her to the
hospital—thank God you’re home; you can look after Rowan. He seems fine now, but if he starts to—”

“No!” Marc roars. “For God’s sake, Clare,
Jenna
can stay home and look after Rowan! Poppy’s my daughter, too! I’m coming with you!”

I don’t have time to argue. I give Rowan to Jenna, and clamber into the back of the ambulance. My heart constricts at the sight of my precious baby on the stretcher, a miniature oxygen mask already strapped to her pale face. It actually
hurts
my chest. I can’t lose her. I can’t. I close my eyes and pray to what I hope is a forgiving God. I’ll be a better mother, I’ll spend every minute with them. Please don’t take her.

One of the paramedics reaches across me to shut the door. “Sir,” he tells Marc, “if you wouldn’t mind following behind in your car—”

“Like hell,” Marc snarls, and forces his way in after me.

I’m sick with fear, but the paramedic smiles pleasantly at me, as if we’re off on a sight-seeing tour. His zip catches on a blanket; he swears mildly as he nips his finger freeing it. A phone number is scrawled in ink on the back of his freckled hand.

I watch him pull out a clipboard and laboriously start to fill in details. His pen runs out, and he scratches it in the margin, then shakes it several times, and tries again. It still won’t write, so he begins a painfully slow search of his pockets for another pen. I want to scream at him to hurry,
hurry!
My baby could be dying, and he’s looking for a pen!

Finally, he finds one tucked into the seat pocket beside him, and starts to ask me questions. Is she on medication?
Any allergies? Any history of seizures? I tell him about the vaccinations, wishing Jenna was here. I don’t know if Poppy’s been off her food the last few days. I don’t know if her nappies have been normal recently. I don’t know what normal
is
.

“I don’t know,” I say again, close to tears, when he asks me how long Poppy’s lips have been cracked like this. I hadn’t even noticed.
How could I not have noticed?

“Why don’t you know?” Marc demands, suddenly.

“I’m sorry. Jenna didn’t mention—”

“You’re her mother!
You
should know!”

We arrive at Accident & Emergency, and I answer the same questions again for the triage nurse. Poppy is whisked to a cubicle, and once more I go through the same question-and-answer routine with the junior doctor who examines her. By the fifth time of repetition, to another more senior doctor and then a pediatric consult, I’m struggling to hide my frustration. I don’t want to upset anyone. I want them to think I’m a good mother. I want them to approve of me, even though my five-month-old daughter is lying semiconscious on the bed with—how did I not notice this before?—small but definite bruises on her neck and arms.

It’s Marc who erupts again, leaping up from his metal chair and kicking it across the cubicle. “Enough with the fucking questions!” he yells. “When is somebody going to
do
something?”

“Marc,” I soothe, glancing nervously towards the cluster of doctors outside the curtains, “I’m sure they’re doing their best—”

“Don’t you read the damn newspapers?” he shouts.
“I’m not having my daughter turn into another damn statistic! This bunch of quacks needs to get off their sweet asses and figure out what’s wrong with her, or there’s gonna be a few more patients around here!”

Fury boils in my chest. How does this stupid, macho posturing help? Marc should be calming
me
down, reassuring me and telling me everything’s going to be OK. Instead, he’s behaving like a frightened teenager and adding to the chaos and confusion. If I have to look after him, who is left to look after me?

I tug his arm. “Marc, please. You’re making things worse.”

“Worse? How can they be any fucking
worse?”

One of the doctors detaches from the group. “Mr. Elias. Mrs. Elias,” he says firmly. “We can’t treat your daughter until we know what’s wrong with her, so we’re doing some tests to find out. Believe me, we want to help her get better as much as you do—”

“She’s got a fucking name!” Marc bellows. “She’s called Poppy!
Poppy!”

“What tests?” I ask.

“Everything we can think of until we come up with an answer. I realize this is a very difficult time, Mrs. Elias, but if you could try to bear with us,” he adds, as a nurse gently takes my shoulder. “We just need to get a few more details from you. Don’t worry, we’ll come and get you as soon as we know anything. Mr. Elias, you can stay with me.”

I look uncertainly at Marc. “Go on,” he snaps. “I’ll look after her.”

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” the nurse asks, leading me
to a small, private waiting room with worn brown and orange carpet tiles, and hard, utilitarian plastic seats. Torn posters peeling from the walls exhort vigilance against meningitis and flu.

“No. Thank you,” I add politely.

The questions are the same, but this time, there’s a subtext I can’t quite read. It’s almost as if she’s trying to catch me out.

“So,” she says finally, “your daughter was with your nanny today, is that right?”

“Jenna,” I supplement.

“Jenna. How long has she been with you?”

“Since the twins were eight weeks old, so about three months.”

“And you haven’t had any problems with her?”

“What sort of problems?”

The nurse taps her pen against her notepad. “Anything unusual you might have noticed about her behavior. Mood swings, emotional outbursts, that sort of thing.”

“No—”

“Drinking? Drugs?”

“Of course not! Look, what is—”

“Any sign of cutting or self-harming? Bulimia, anorexia, anything like that?”

I push away the image of the faded scars crisscrossing Jenna’s arms. “No, nothing. She’s wonderful; the twins adore her. I checked all her references. I’d trust her with my life.” My voice rises. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Just routine, Mrs. Elias. Nothing to get upset about. So,
apart from the nanny, Jenna, only you and your husband have had access to your daughter?”

“Yes. Well, Marc’s at work most of the time, he only really sees them on weekends—”

“I see.” She scribbles something else down on her pad, and gets to her feet. “Are you sure I can’t get you that cup of tea?”

“Please, can I just see Poppy now?”

“Let me find out how she’s doing. Someone will be in to see you shortly.”

I shred a tissue in my lap. I know what the nurse was getting at; I read the papers. It’s called Munchausen’s by Proxy: When someone gets attention through a sick child. They think Poppy’s ill because someone is deliberately making her sick. It’s got to be the mother or the nanny, that’s what they’re thinking.

Jenna would never hurt the twins, and obviously I didn’t.

I’ve been so tired recently—so worn down—sometimes I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Supposing I had … an
impulse …

The door opens. I throw myself into Marc’s arms, desperate for reassurance. He strokes my hair awkwardly, and then holds me away from him. “Come on, Clare. Pull yourself together. This isn’t going to help anyone.”

The senior doctor who spoke to us before follows Marc into the room. He gestures to us to sit down, but doesn’t take a seat himself.
Dr. Gardner
is embroidered in navy thread over his left breast.

“Your daughter’s doing much better,” he says, without preamble. “She’s regained consciousness, though we’re keeping her sedated for the moment. Obviously we’re admitting her to Intensive Care for the time being. She’s on an IV drip, and she’s being closely monitored. As soon as we find out anything more, we’ll let you know.”

“So what happened? Did she have a fit or something?” Marc demands.

“We don’t think so. She was extremely dehydrated, which can—”

“Dehydrated?” I ask in surprise.

“It’s when there’s an insufficient volume of water to keep the body—”

“Yes, I know what it means,” I say tightly. “How can she be dehydrated? She drinks plenty of milk; she loves water and juice. Is something wrong with her kidneys? Is she not processing liquid properly?”

“That’s what we’re trying to establish,” Dr. Gardner says smoothly.

“Is she going to be OK?”

“We’re doing our best to—”

“What about long-term effects? Is she going to—”

“Mrs. Elias, we really don’t know any more than we’ve already told you,” he says, slightly impatiently. “I understand your anxiety, but we have to wait and see. The good news is that she’s responding well to treatment so far.”

I stand up. “Can we see her now?”

“Yes, of course. If you’d like to wait here, someone will take you up to the NICU in just a moment. Your daughter is out of immediate danger for the moment. You and your
husband can return home when you’ve seen her and we’ll call you as soon as we—”

“I’m not leaving,” I say stubbornly.

“Of course. Well. If you’ll excuse me.”

We wait in tense silence until the same nurse returns and escorts us up to the NICU. I grip the rails of the tiny bed containing our daughter, more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper numbly. “Is it the vaccinations? Remember all those children who got sick after they had the MMR jab—maybe Rowan’s going to get sick, too—”

“I thought you said he was fine?”

“Yes, but Poppy was fine, too, until this afternoon.” I’m sobbing. “Oh, Marc. Look at her. She’s so tiny and helpless.”

Finally, he reaches out to me. He looks like a lost, scared child himself. I grip his outstretched hand across the bed, my heart aching. This stupid fuss about money has been needlessly driving us apart for weeks. I know he didn’t mean any harm. He was just trying to be a good husband and father, to provide for his family. Set against what we stand to lose now, what on earth does it matter?

The nurse leads us back to the viewing gallery overlooking the NICU. I press my face to the glass, watching doctors prod and poke my baby with their needles and tubes.

“I know about the mortgage,” I say quietly, without turning around.

I feel, rather than hear, his sharp intake of breath.

“I’ve known for a few weeks,” I continue. “And about
the money you ‘borrowed’ from PetalPushers. I’m guessing you needed it to clear some sort of deal that went wrong.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Marc says hoarsely. “I tried.”

“I know. It’s my fault, too. I’ve been too busy and too angry to listen.”

“I didn’t mean to go behind your back, Clare. I kept trying to work up courage to come to you, but—”

“How much do you owe?”

“I’ve had a couple of good trades,” he says quickly. “It’s below a million now. I’m sure I can make the rest back if—”

“Close the bet,” I say.

“But if I close it, we’ll lose the rest!”

“Then I’ll go to Coares, and liquidate my portfolio. If I clear the second mortgage, and pay off the rest of what you owe, we can just about manage. It’s going to be tight, but if needs be,” I grimace, “I’ll talk to Davina. We’ll get through this, Marc. It’s only money.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

I turn around, and look him in the eye for the first time. “Promise me you’ll never,
ever
put us all at risk like this again. If you need to gamble, go and buy a lottery ticket.”

“Of course, I promise,
never—
”

“No more lies, Marc. Don’t ever touch my company again.”

“I swear.”

I’m aware I sound like a controlling bitch, but I need him to understand. I have to be able to trust him. I can’t keep cleaning up his messes.

“Stay away from Felix, Hamish, all of them. They don’t
have families to think about. Maybe you should think about finding a different job, something a bit more reliable. A bit safer.”

“But I love what I do—”

“It’s too tempting. You can’t handle it, Marc.”

Marc nods tightly. “Clare, I’m so sorry. It all got so out of hand, I didn’t know what to do. I thought you’d leave me if you found out.”

“Am I really that much of an ogre?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” Marc mumbles.

He sounds like a small boy. The thought occurs to me: Do I really want to be married to a child?